"You're comfortable knowing that your forefathers were murdering henchmen for my forefathers—and foremothers?” Vesper asked.
"Comfortable? No. Curious as Hell? Yes. I want to know why my father kept that part of his life a secret. If you hadn't tracked me down, I'd have never known I owned beachfront property—and I would have never met you."
"I think your father broke ties with the kin after they fled the beach in the nineteen forties. He would have been a young man then—and a third-or fourth-generation Paladin."
"Related to the Paladin who lost his hand in the kitchen?” Jerrod asked.
"Of course."
"I'd love to know why father feared the ocean to greatly that he wouldn't come within a few miles of a shoreline,” Jerrod said.
"Trust your memories, Jerrod. I'm sure you'll find the answers in your past as it is unveiled and revealed to you,” Vesper replied.
Jerrod shifted his weight on the leather bench-style seat. “I've seen my own hand, in a different body of course, in a recent waking dream, putting a torch to a wreck. I had a wife, who died in childbirth. I had a son who lived. I was the clan's warden."
Vesper turned her head. “Do you know what that means?"
"Treasure keeper."
"For more than just silk and gold. The warden would have found suitable meal-time companions for the kin in the days after the fires died out. When the lighthouse was built."
"Companions or victims?” Jerrod asked.
"Yes."
"Which, Vesper?” Jerrod asked.
"If I tell you victims, the topic will lean toward vampirism again. I'm not sure you're ready to know the truth."
"I need to know everything. I'm writing a damned book, after all."
Vesper patted Jerrod's thigh. “You wanna wrestle me for the information?"
"Now's as good a time as any to start the narrative, Vesper,” Jerrod replied.
"Promise me you won't judge me?” Vesper asked.
Jerrod nodded.
Vesper took a deep breath. “When the clan was cursed, their diet—our diet—changed. History has labeled the kin as vampires. Though it is not blood we need to survive, blood can suffice."
"Need? Present tense?” Jerrod interrupted. “You're speaking as though there are active Mooncussers left along a beach somewhere."
"I'm here."
Jerrod patted her hand. “No offense intended. You do not seem very vampiric to me."
Vesper hesitated, her words hanging at the edge of her tongue. “You are a true Paladin. We don't take Paladins to dinner, if you get my meaning."
Jerrod depressed the brake pedal. “Excuse me?"
Vesper shot Jerrod a hard, cold glance. “Do you want to know the truth? The truth about the kin? About why I need to open a bed-and-breakfast?"
"Yes, I do.” Do I? Or do I want to screw her in absolute denial and blind passion? No. “Yes, I want to know the truth. Damn it. I've had this niggling feeling ever since arriving here that..."
"You've been here before?” Vesper asked.
"Yes,” he replied.
"Those are the memories, Jerrod. In time, you'll remember everything.” Vesper paused, desperately wanting to continue, but afraid to speak aloud that which she'd harbored in safety and silence for a generation. “The curse is in me, Jerrod. Like an extra strand of DNA, it's woven into the very fabric of my life. And symbiotically, it's in you, too."
"Curses only work if they are a part of your belief system,” Jerrod replied.
"If only that were true. The curse afflicting my kin is real—as real as a hereditary birth defect. It is a birth defect. Like a diabetic, we have certain needs that our bodies cannot manufacture properly."
"So, the curse is not wizardry, per se, it is an actual illness? Like porphyria? That's interesting."
"There are supernatural elements to the illness, so, it is both, though it is not porphyria,” Vesper replied.
"Supernatural elements?” Jerrod questioned.
"My dietary needs cannot be met in the same manner as yours. I need to consume energy. Sexual energy. Or blood. That's where the vampire mythos comes in."
Jerrod laughed. “Well, that explains it."
"Explains what?” Vesper asked. She felt the flush of embarrassment redden her cheeks. She had never spoken to anyone about her condition before. What was there to laugh about?
"Why we've been screwing nonstop. It's not me. It's any port in the storm with an open bar."
Vesper startled at the comment. That isn't true. Lord, is that true? All right—maybe there's a smidgen of truth there. I was horny from feeding off Maria. God damn! But I like Jerrod! I really, really like him. He's a Paladin! “No ... I mean, no, Jerrod. That's not true. I don't have sexual relations simply to feed. I made love with you because I wanted to. I want to! I don't often get the chance to be held. I really need—really want to be held. By you. Often."
"But you'll starve to death without sexual energy? I mean ... vampires thirst and wither if not fed."
"I'm not starving. I fed the other day."
"The pizza boy?” Jerrod asked. He released the brake and gave the car some gas.
"He was a snack. I fed recently, however. I'm not hungry."
Jerrod turned his head to look directly at Vesper. Hard to do when driving an unfamiliar road in an antique car without power steering. “I understand the push to open your bed-and-breakfast now. And why you couldn't hire locally. I am the ultimate maintenance man, huh?"
"I'm tired of taking my meals via speed dial. It's getting harder and harder to find a decent meal, for that matter. Innocence is fleeting at best, and people are so desensitized to sexuality in this day and age that it takes the actual act itself for them to expend a surge of arousal energy. And I've always been opposed to serial sexuality. Even as a young woman I balked at the thought of having to flash a wrecked sailor some ankle and cleavage to get him excited just so that I could draw in his greedy sexual appetites. Back then I used to weep that I didn't want to end up an old whore just to survive. If I open the manor to newlyweds and the occasional singles’ weekend, heavy, tasty sexual energy will fill the air like a room freshener spray, and I'll be able to feed by breathing. Then, maybe, I can begin to lead a normal life."
"What's normal, exactly?” Jerrod asked.
"A husband, or at least a committed partner. Children."
"In my experience, family units have been quite unusual,” Jerrod replied. “Plus that, if I'm to take what you say at face value, would not your children be born with the defect? The curse?"
Vesper laughed. “Honey, you have no idea what unusual or abnormal is until you've been raised in a family of land pirates."
"That seems a bit selfish,” Jerrod replied. “Having children you know will be born with a birth defect."
"My desire to have children is no different from say, a woman who has diabetes. The risks are the same. Lifestyles must be adapted."
Jerrod chuckled, thinking of a movie he'd seen recently where a woman stomped her foot to illustrate her desire to have a child. “Is your biological clock ticking?"
"I believe it is, yes. But don't worry, Jerrod—I'm not looking to you to be a sperm donor or anything."
"Just your evil henchman?"
"That works for me,” Vesper replied. “I've waited a long time for a Paladin to return to the beach. You are a godsend."
Jerrod put the brakes on and shifted the car into park. “How old are you, Vesper?"
"Don't be freaked, all right?” Vesper placed her hand on Jerrod's leg. “I was born in eighteen sixty-four."
"You are immortal?"
Vesper sighed. “Not exactly."
"You tell me you've been living for one hundred-fifty years, and you're not immortal?"
"I can starve to death. And I do age—just very, very slowly. And I can be killed. Mother said that we Shadow Lovers are our own worst enemy and that our helpless appetites will eventually attack from within. It means that though we are
fairly immune to the sufferings of birth, disease, suffering and old age, that our very presence taints the land and makes our very home our enemy. That's why my family left the beach—they didn't want to saturate the land too quickly with our poison. I've had sixty years of relative peace because I'm the only diner at the top of the local food chain. Eventually, the townies are going to come for me, à la villagers storming the castle."
"Shadow Lovers?" Jerrod asked. “God, I really should have brought my tape recorder. Will you repeat all this later? I have a terrible memory, and it's all damned fine fodder for my book. Angry villagers? Lions, tigers and bears, oh, my!"
Vesper feigned a slap on Jerrod's shoulder. “Don't tease me."
"Hey, Vesper—you started this. You're the one who started spilling your secrets. I'm trying to look at this from the eyes of a writer instead of judging you and driving you to the nearest mental health professional,” Jerrod snapped.
"I'm not crazy,” Vesper whispered.
"But you are a Shadow Lover—whatever the Hell that is."
She nodded.
"I believe you. I have no experience with this—that I can recall—so please, what's a Shadow Lover?” Jerrod asked.
"We wrecked a ship in eighteen seventy-seven. The captain wasn't human, and we pissed him off, but he was willing to forgive us if we followed his orders. We didn't follow his directions, and were cursed when his ship was torched. It was in the smoke. The curse came in the smoke. After that we became creatures that go ‘bump!’ in the night. Incubi. Succubae. Shadow Lovers is the name of our breed because we feed in the background on that which should only be shared between consenting adults, not stolen and consumed. We take many forms and have only one need."
"To feed on the sexual energy of mortals,” Jerrod guessed.
"That and greasy bacon and eggs. Both parts of me need to eat."
Jerrod increased his speed. ‘Yes, of course. We wouldn't want your fangs to come out, now would we?"
Vesper patted Jerrod's leg. “I brushed this morning. My fangs are clean."
"Do you feel guilty over making the good souls of Marshes Coomb your personal drive-through window Happy Meals?” Jerrod asked.
"I wasn't born a Shadow Lover, Jerrod. I remember my life before the curse. What I am now, what I have become ... I feel remorse, yes. I do what I must to survive."
"I want to get my facts straight. Don't get angry, but I'm going to talk out loud a little here. All right? It's something they taught me in rehab. Kind of a way to lock in new information."
"As you wish, Jerrod. I'm not going anywhere.” Her black eyes flashed. “I won't think you're crazy for talking to yourself."
"Keep those high beams to yourself, Vesper. I see a stormy sea behind the eyeliner and mascara.” Jerrod paused. “You were born in eighteen sixty-four to a family of land pirates. Your basic, historical mob of God-fearing thieves."
Vesper nodded. “Correct."
"In eighteen seventy-seven, the Mooncussers wrecked the ship of a vampire who put the, figuratively speaking, bite on your family. For the next seventy years you all hung out here on the beach, doing what it is you needed to do to stay alive. Some of you starved to death. Your mother told you that your biggest threat comes from within."
Vesper pursed her lips. “Yes. Rather succinctly put without romance or flourish, but yes."
"In the forties, your family left the beach."
Vesper nodded.
Jerrod continued. “And now, because the natives are getting restless, you're going to run a B and B so that you can hide in plain sight like you used to."
"Yes."
"And to effectively run your operation and invite people to the beach en masse as opposed to one at a time via UPS or pizza delivery, you need a Paladin. Someone to burn your wrecks, hide evidence and..."
Vesper finished Jerrod's sentence. “Share the wealth."
"A Paladin. Someone who knows who you are and what needs to be done and will make sure everything runs smoothly. An overseer. An event coordinator,” Jerrod said.
"I've got an opening. Want the job?” Vesper asked.
"There's a work of fiction in that there offer, darlin'. Erotic, romantic fiction. I may need to use a pen name—who'd buy a romance novel about Dracula and Renfrew written by a man?"
"You make it sound like it would be a gay vampire epic when it's really more about the Lady Pirate and her stalwart protector. Call it Sleeping with the Mooncusser's Daughter.” Vesper paused. “When the story line changes to Frankenstein's Monster, we're in trouble, however."
Jerrod laughed. “I'd rather do it than write it. Sleeping with the Mooncusser's Daughter. Works for me."
"Thank God for that,” Vesper replied. She placed her hand on Jerrod's leg. “Thank you for understanding."
"I see my coffee-table book being a best-seller. The truth is stranger than fiction and will make a better book in the long run. I came here open-minded—and I mean really open-minded, so I think I believe you, Vesper. I believe you."
"You really believe me?” she asked. “You're not just placating me? Keeping the crazy woman happy?"
"I believe you,” Jerrod replied. “I do."
"Why?"
"Because for the first time in months, I can remember all the words to ‘Witchy Woman.’”
That was not anywhere near the kind of reply she'd been expecting. “And that's significant, how?"
Jerrod replied without turning his head. “When I'm with you I feel whole again. It's been a long time since I've felt connected to my past—or even my present. Look, I was just thinking about this. I came to the beach with a blank slate. Being around you is helping fill in those blanks—and I like it. I like you."
"I like you, too, Jerrod. But it isn't me. It's the beach. The place. It has a way about it. I bet your memories will return like an incoming tide. Then, we'll light the fires again."
"The bonfire of the Mooncussers."
"A Mooncusser and a Paladin. Just like the old days. We'll draw them in. Feed them. Give them shelter. Pamper them. Rob them blind while they thank us for the privilege."
"Spoken like a true hotelier,” Jerrod replied.
"Technically, I'm licensed as a rooming house offering half-board—bed, breakfast and dinner. So that would make me a ‘landlady’ according to county ordinance."
"Yes,” Jerrod agreed. “You are the land-pirate lady, all right. And I am your evil henchman.” He squinted and leaned closer to the windshield. “What's that up ahead?” Jerrod shifted into drive.
Vesper strained to make out the movement in the reeds and cattails flanking the road. “Ah, orange vests. Road crew. Probably making sure the culverts under the roadway aren't clogged or something."
The car left the pea-gravel road and slipped onto the asphalt main roadway. A half-dozen men in orange vests and wader boots wandered to the roadside, standing at grim attention as the car drove slowly by. With hollow eyes and lips locked in sour grimace, and hands holding long, pointed poles, the workmen looked more like a phalanx of soldiers than a motley road crew.
"They're looking at us, Vesper,” Jerrod whispered.
"It's the car,” Vesper replied. She wanted to look away, but could not. There was nowhere she could avert her gaze that did not meet the empty eyes of a worker.
"They're not looking at the car, Vesper. They're looking at you. Us.” Jerrod nodded politely as he passed slowly by a worker with face like a leather saddlebag.
"Jerrod,” Vesper began.
He knew. “There's more, isn't there?"
One of the workers lifted his shovel defiantly at the car. “Yeah. I think they're starting to remember me. I had a driver the other night who kind of clued me in to that fact. The storyline is shifting to Frankenstein. Seriously."
"The peasants are revolting,” Jerrod whispered. He stepped on the gas to get away from the orange-vested road crew with their dour faces.
"I've subjugated too many of them for too long. One of them has developed,
for lack of a better word, a severe allergic reaction to my embrace, and he is spreading that reaction. The level of toxicity in the local populace has risen enough to where they kind of remember me. And not in a good way. The itch is lasting longer."
"Itch?"
"When a vampire bites you, what happens?” Vesper asked.
"You die or become a vampire, if memory serves."
"No. Not at first. True, you can be killed with one bite, drained of life. However, the victim contracts a mysterious illness ... a fever. Light sensitivity. Unquenchable thirst. That's the itch. The little part of a Shadow Lover left behind after feeding. It serves to keep those who feed us, wanting us, thereby perpetuating the curse. The itch is all that remains. They forget what happened, but have a tickle here or there ... and they're not sure what bit them."
"You've sucked the life out of them,” Jerrod replied.
"If I don't stop feeding at the trough of Marshes Coomb immediately, it will be too late. They'll burn down the mansion and lynch me, Jerrod. I know these people—intimately. They still talk about the witch hunts of the sixteen nineties alongside the war in Iraq. It's pretty scary standing in the shopping line hearing the ladies discuss peine forte et dure like they're talking about a new recipe."
Jerrod translated the phrase. “A hard and terrible punishment?"
"Death by crushing. Around these parts confessions were extracted from accused witches by board and stone. The accursed was tied down to a stone block and secured by chains. Then a heavy door—most likely pulled off a church or crypt—was placed atop him or her, and stones were piled upon that until the weight of the board. The stones crushed the truth out of the accused."
"Lovely. And you think they're going to pick up a nice sturdy door for you at the Lowe's in Greenville, then pay you a social call?” Jerrod asked.
"The town keeps its board and stones in the museum for grade-schoolers to look at and write reports about. It is a sick, twisted little town. That's why I need to open the B and B. I just hope it's not too late."
"Well, we'll have to remedy this little problem, won't we?” Jerrod said. “I'm game if you are."
"Thank you, Jerrod. I appreciate your understanding of my drama."
Mooncusser Cove Page 10
