by Radclyffe
At first glance, he looks like a retired corporate executive. Instead, he’s the best-dressed homeless man in America. His coarse salt-and-pepper hair is combed straight back, his beard is impeccably trimmed, his shoes are shined so bright they could blind you, and his tie is always knotted in a perfect Windsor. Every time I see him, he’s decked out in a blazer, a crisp white cotton shirt, a corduroy vest, and cream-colored linen dress pants.
It took me a month of Saturdays (and a couple of Mondays) to realize that Franklin didn’t wear a suit every day but the same suit. On closer inspection, I could see how thin the soles of his shoes were and how the nap of his tweed blazer had worn through in some places.
One day after he finished playing a medley of Johnny Mercer tunes, I asked him his story. He told me over a cup of coffee.
Instead of a retired corporate exec, he’s a former life insurance salesman. The kind that peddled policies door-to-door and returned to collect the premiums each month. He and his wife (the former Helen Beasley from Alpharetta) were married for thirty-six years before she died suddenly. He was lost without her. He very quickly lost everything else. His car was first to go, the house he and Helen had lived in was last. In two short years, all that remained were his memories—and his dreams.
As a child, he wanted to become a musician when he grew up, but his father had refused to hear it, pushing him toward a career with less uncertainty. After Helen died, he used his last $20.00 to buy a dented saxophone, an unsteady music stand, and a sheaf of sheet music from a local pawnshop. With nothing but time on his hands and no one to share his time with, he painstakingly honed the talent he had let lie dormant for forty years.
His house on West Thirty-Eighth Street is now a distant memory. After changing hands a couple of times and doing a brief stint as a crack house, it currently belongs to a developer who plans to convert it into a Civil War–themed B&B. Ah, gentrification. Got to love it.
Franklin presently calls a much different place home. He lives in one of the dozens of tunnels burrowed under picturesque Forsyth Park.
It’s a well-kept secret, but most of the historic district rests atop a series of subterranean passageways stretching from the northeast corner of Forsyth Park to Drayton Street. Unlike the crowded subway tunnels underneath New York City, however, few people are brave enough to live in an area once known as the Dead House. Franklin is one of the courageous few.
I found his “home” by accident. It wasn’t like he invited me to his place for dinner. I was tracking a wily vamp who was trying to give me the slip when I suddenly found myself in Franklin’s living room.
“I would offer you a drink,” he said drolly just before I turned the vamp into a pile of ash, “but you seem to be a little busy right now.”
Thanks to that unexpected encounter, Franklin’s the only person who knows my secret. A secret he has sworn to take to the grave. Hopefully neither of us will be heading to our final resting places anytime soon.
I toss a ten-dollar bill into his sax case and place a large cup of French roast at his feet. He nods his thanks for both contributions. A large crowd has gathered to watch him play. Ever vigilant, I scan their faces for signs of trouble. No one seems squirrelly or out of place. I tell myself to relax, but downtime is a luxury I can’t afford. Franklin sits next to me after he finishes his set.
“Sienna Jones is in town,” he says under his breath.
I nearly choke on my triple espresso. “Are you sure?”
He nods. “I’ve seen her.”
“How does she look?”
He looks at me strangely but doesn’t ask why I want to know. My query makes me sound as if I’m asking about an old friend. Sienna’s anything but. “Does she look like I described her to you or has she changed her appearance to throw me off her trail?”
Franklin blows on the steam rising from his coffee cup. “She looks like any other bloodsucker: dangerous.”
Sienna Jones could best be called the one who got away. She’s the oldest and most powerful vampire I’ve ever tracked. The only one I’ve had in my sights who has managed to survive the encounter.
I’m six foot one with the agility of a gymnast and the leg and upper body strength of a weightlifter. I’ve mastered every martial art from aikido to zipota. Even I wouldn’t want to meet me in a dark alley. The last time Sienna and I crossed paths, however, I was lucky to come away in one piece.
She was born five hundred years ago in a small village on what is now the Welsh coast. My records indicate she was turned shortly after her thirty-fifth birthday, when the bloom of youth had blossomed into full-fledged beauty. She immigrated to the New World four hundred years ago. She has lived in the Caribbean for most of that time. Her family owns sugar cane plantations in Cuba, Haiti, and the Dominican Republic, the bounty of which has made her a very rich woman.
She relocates every twenty years or so whenever the whole lack of aging thing raises a red flag or two for suspicious humans, but she always resurfaces—usually masquerading as some other member of her extended family. How many long-lost Joneses can there be? On second thought, don’t answer that.
“If Sienna’s in Savannah, she’s out of her territory. What is she doing here?”
My grip tightens around the recycled paper cup in my hands. “Looking for me.”
The last time we met was on her stomping grounds. Now she has made her way to mine.
“How does it feel?” she asked me on that fateful day. “How does it feel being the hunted instead of the hunter?”
I didn’t have an answer for her then, but I’d better come up with one soon or my days above ground could be numbered.
*
As night falls, I dress for battle. I pull my shoulder-length hair away from my face and tie it into a sleek ponytail. I pair my form-fitting black pants with a charcoal gray tank top. I strap a sharpened stake to each thigh, a silver dirk to each ankle. The supple leather of my calf-high boots matches my jacket. More sharp objects line the jacket’s modified interior.
As a final touch, I drape a crucifix around my neck. The cross, a graduation present of sorts from the hunter who mentored me to be her replacement before she retired ten years ago, is for show. The weapons most definitely are not.
The holiday makes it possible for me to hide in plain sight. I leave my loft and join the hordes of people clogging Bay Street, the main thoroughfare through downtown. The sidewalks are overflowing. So are the bars.
My first stop is Churchill’s, the English-style pub favored by local Anglophiles and British expats. I spot more Guy Fawkeses and Margaret Thatchers than I can shake a Pimm’s at, but I don’t see Sienna.
On River Street, where buskers, art galleries, and seafood restaurants compete for tourist dollars, I bump shoulders with a man wearing high heels, fishnet stockings, a curly black wig, black bikini briefs, and a silk teddy.
“Sorry,” he says, wobbling precariously on the ancient cobblestones.
Why do straight guys always feel the need to dress in drag on Halloween? Some things should be left to the experts. “Nice outfit.”
“Thanks.” He runs a hand over his waxed chest and gym-toned pecs. “Going my way?”
“Not even close.” The way I’m dressed, I must look like I’m on my way to a costume party instead of a confrontation. Mr. Rocky Horror probably thinks I’m trying to look like Lara Croft or a distaff Indiana Jones. If only he knew.
I walk into Kevin Barry’s Irish Pub and order a Killian’s. The bartender hands it to me in a plastic to-go cup. I sip the red-tinted lager as I walk the length of River Street. When I double back, my to-go cup is as empty as my search.
“If I were a vampire,” I ask myself as I watch a breakdancing troupe defy the laws of gravity, “where would I go for an early evening snack?”
Then it hits me. I would go where the living and the dead rub elbows as if they were old friends. I take the elevator up to Bay Street, locate my car in the parking garage on Whitaker, and drive out to Bonavent
ure, the centuries-old cemetery that morphed into a tourist attraction after John Berendt mentioned it in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, the true-crime novel that spawned a cottage industry. Even though Bonaventure’s gates close to the public at five each afternoon, the place is going to be so busy tonight hungry vamps will have to line up for admission like the lunch crowd outside the Lady and Sons.
I park my car next to a tricked-out hearse from a local ghost tour and, like the many after-hours visitors that arrived before me, climb the jagged wrought iron fence. Once safely on the ground, I begin my patrol of the cemetery’s 160 acres. Flickering candles spotlight couples having romantic picnics, rebellious teenagers competing to see how much trouble they can get into, and adventure seekers hoping to make contact with someone from the other side.
Savannah is widely considered to be one of the most haunted cities in America. Most of the ghost stories are romantic but harmless—tales of lost loves and mischievous spirits. The other yarns have a harder edge. Stories of drunken revelers kidnapped and forced into years of servitude at sea. Tales of the series of catacombs under Forsyth Park stacked top to bottom with skeletons. Rumors of vampires turning both the willing and the unsuspecting into human pincushions. Contrary to popular opinion, the rumors are true.
I head deeper into the cemetery, leaving the picnickers and the tourists behind. Concrete and marble monuments erected to honor the lives of the famous and the unknown surround me. I walk with my hands on my stakes. They offer me both safety and reassurance. This part of the cemetery is quiet. Too quiet. The lack of noise puts me on edge. Then a muffled scream shatters the silence.
Crouching low to make myself as small a target as possible, I move toward the sound. Two figures—one male, one female—are locked in hand-to-hand combat on an elaborately carved monument. The figure on top lifts his head and lunges toward the neck of the other. His sharp, pointed teeth practically glow in the dark.
The woman screams again. The man cries out.
Gripping a stake with both hands, I prepare to strike.
“God, Stanley,” she gasps, gathering the scattered components of her Bride of Frankenstein costume, “it’s never been this good before.”
“I know.” He spits out a pair of plastic vampire teeth as he fights to catch his breath. “We should play dress-up more often.”
Shaking my head at the close call, I shrink back into the shadows and allow the lovers to continue their whispered conversation.
“Mia’s right. If I mistake two people making love for a life-and-death struggle, I do need to get laid.”
As soon as I let my guard down, Sienna comes hurtling out of the darkness. She’s on me before I can react. I lose my grip on both stakes as we tumble through the dry leaves. My hands scrabble for the knives strapped to my boots. She reaches them first and tosses them aside. Then she tears off my leather jacket, leaving me defenseless.
Her lean body, as smooth and as cold as marble, presses mine into the dirt. She leans forward, the tendrils of her wavy black hair stroking my cheek. Her full lips curve into a smile. Her elongated canines glisten in the moonlight. Her dark eyes issue a challenge as they stare into mine.
“Are you looking for me?”
*
The last time we met, I found myself in a similar position: at her mercy.
I’d tracked her in Punta Cana, the resort-heavy town on the Dominican Republic’s east coast, after the hunter there called me for help.
“I have a vampire who walks in the daylight,” Novius said, fear dripping from his voice.
He had reason to be afraid. A day walker is a rarity among creatures of the night—and a sign of how powerful Sienna had become. A vampire’s greatest weakness had become her strength. How was that possible? And were there others like her?
“She has been living amongst us for years without incident,” Novius said after I traveled to a land filled with white sand beaches and sunburned tourists. “A few months ago, bodies began to turn up. Dozens of people began to go missing.”
“She has to be stopped,” I said. “If she creates an army of vamps like her, they could take over the world. Every human in it would immediately be added to the endangered species list.”
Novius volunteered to use himself as bait, giving me the honor of making the kill. We lured Sienna to a bustling free market in Bavaro.
“Escúchame, señora, please come into my shop for just one minute. I have T-shirts, photo albums. You would like some Cuban cigars? How about some Mama Juana?”
Ignoring the pleas of Dominican- and Haitian-accented merchants imploring me to buy some of their overpriced tchotchkes or a bottle of the local cure-all, I followed Novius and Sienna at a safe remove. Not safe enough. I lost sight of both after an especially aggressive shopkeeper pulled me aside to demonstrate how I could pull a gaudy oil painting off the frame and roll it up to fit in my luggage during the flight home.
“Real oil painting, not water. What’s your best price?”
“Free.”
Eschewing stealth, I ran through the curtained stalls like a bull in a china shop. I returned to the center of the market with no sign of Sienna or Novius. Then, like tonight, she was on me.
Moving faster than the human eye could see, she dragged me into an alley redolent of fresh urine and stale cigarettes. Like now, my weapons were useless against her. Instead of by force, she held me by will. I stood slack-jawed, hypnotized by her power—and her undeniable beauty.
“Where’s Novius?” I asked when I finally found my voice.
Her left hand gripped my throat. Her right quickly disarmed me. “He is sleeping,” she said with a cruel smile.
“As you should be. Isn’t it past your bedtime? I could tuck you in if you like.”
Her smile turned playful. But there was nothing mirthful about the pain her fingers inflicted as they dug into my throat. “How does it feel, Alexandra?” She lifted me off the ground with no effort whatsoever. I wrapped my legs around her waist in a futile attempt to ease the pressure on my neck. “How does it feel being the hunted instead of the hunter?”
“How do you know my name?” I rasped, expecting at any moment to hear the sound of my hyoid bone snapping in two. I clawed at her arm. The muscles felt like banded steel.
She slowly lowered me to the ground. “Because I have been tracking you much more successfully than you’ve been tracking me.” Her accent was an intriguing blend of Welsh and Spanish. She leaned so close I could smell the almond-scented lotion on her porcelain skin. Even in the warm sunlight, her flesh was cool to the touch. Yet my body was on fire. “Leave me in peace, hunter. I am not the one you seek.”
“Then tell me who is.”
“Like you, I also count vampires among my enemies. But only a select few, not the entire race. Surely you don’t expect me to betray one of my own. Rest assured justice will be served in this matter, but it will be served by my kind, not yours.”
I shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”
She studied my face as if she were committing it to memory. “You have proven yourself to be quite a worthy adversary, hunter.” Her eyes flickered with an emotion I couldn’t read. Her bright pink tongue licked the side of my neck. Her fangs grazed my skin. Gently pierced it. She leaned back to show me the red rubies of my blood resting on the tip of her tongue. Her tongue slowly receded into her mouth. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets as she tasted my essence. “Deliciosa. Fresca. Caliente.”
Her words were a mockery of the hand-painted advertisement that adorned the adjacent wall. Instead of delicious, fresh, and cold like the Presidente beer being sold in the corner bar, my blood was delicious, fresh, and hot.
She released me. My hands flew to my neck. My throat felt raw inside and out. I took a deep breath of the thick, fetid air.
“Go now, hunter,” she said, launching herself into the cloudless sky. Her voice lingered in my head long after she disappeared from view. “You are much too sexy to kill.”
*<
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She rends my shirt with a razor-sharp nail. She licks the valley between my breasts. Then she presses her face to my chest and inhales deeply.
“I can smell your fear, hunter. Are you afraid of me or how I make you feel?”
When she moves against me, I have to fight to keep my hips from returning the pressure. I counter her question with one of my own.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came for you. Try as I might, I can’t deny the heat that passed between us when last we met.” She licks her full lips. “I haven’t felt such desire in centuries.”
I offer a weak protest. “You…enthralled me.”
She takes offense to my comment. Baring her fangs, she hisses her displeasure. “I did nothing of the kind. Such parlor tricks are limited to callow novitiates and lazy elders. I am neither callow nor lazy.” Her voice softens. “What you felt…What I felt was real. I have searched for hundreds of years for someone like you.”
“Someone sworn to kill you?”
She loosens her grip on my wrists. I flex my fingers as circulation slowly returns.
“Someone I can treat as my equal. Who knew I would find what I sought in a human?”
“Lucky me.”
I free one of my hands. Grab a fistful of her lustrous black hair. Using the added leverage, I pull her off me and roll her onto her back. I drag my battered body to my knees and straddle her. Her eyes widen in surprise but she doesn’t resist. She fixes her gaze on the cross around my neck. Contrary to the old wives’ tale, the talisman of the faithful has no effect on her, adverse or otherwise. I slide a hand down her firm flank until I find her center. She undulates against my palm. Her nails dig into my thighs. A groan issues from her parted lips.
“You came for me?” I ask rhetorically. “What took you so long?”
Her fingers untie the leather cord around my ponytail and snake into my hair. She pulls me to her. Our mouths meet in a bruising kiss. Her teeth nip at my lower lip. Her tongue flicks at the twin drops of blood that form. I bare my neck. She puts her mouth on me but doesn’t break the skin.
