by Ash, Lauren
Bruce remained silent.
“That’s it!” Nia pushed the window button, but nothing happened. “I’ll smash this window out with my bare fists. I know I can. I know I’m strong. I can feel it inside. I feel different. I know this.”
“Just relax. We’re almost there.” Bruce turned off the freeway, down the curling exit ramp through quiet, plush, rural streets.
“Johnny lives in Bellevue?” Nia asked, overloaded by the allure.
They drove down an isolated street, packed with mega-expensive waterfront homes.
“And he’s neighbors with Bill Gates?”
Bruce smiled. “Johnny’s is further down. And the ceremony isn’t there. It’s . . . well, we don’t need to get into that yet.”
Nia ogled the ring again and held it loosely on her index finger. It was a heavy sucker, and she wasn’t prepared to put it on quite yet—didn’t feel right about it for some unknown reason. It was a gut-niggling thing. She wanted to try it on and was certainly tempted to, thinking about Johnny again, the way he danced with her, held her, kissed—so intimate, like he loved her, had loved her forever—but I’ve never met him till that night. This makes no sense. The sex was so cold with him.
After checking in with a gate guard, the magic began. Through packed pines, down a slick, black road, they arrived at a home unlike any other in that part of the city. The mansion was built like a modern-day castle: dark-grey exterior, conical black spires on the four corners, green passion vine cascading over the very large archway . . . but not a single window in sight. It was set back a ways from Lake Washington, but still allowed for direct access to the water. The odd guard dressed in attack-black, surveying the grounds and the upper ramparts.
Nia clicked the ring back into its pretty box and exchanged her fancy of it for the fancy of the castle. She exited the car just as Bruce handed her a heavy, woolen blanket to hide her red lingerie.
“This way,” he said.
There were no words for her sense of wonder.
The large, heavy, black-iron portal doors slid open, as though weightless. A female butler in a feminine fitted tux set with a red bowtie showed them into the gothic heaven. It was a place for kings and queens. Red-crystal chandeliers illuminated the dark ensemble of red carpets, baroque-style arches, and black walls with a majestic center staircase that led up to the upper-level balcony.
Nia knew they were going up and away, and they did. Upon hitting the upper level and making a left down the red-candlelit hall, the butler offered Nia a gold chalice, expectantly placed on black-marble table with marble legs adorned in carved cherubs. Nia took the cup and drank, peering in at the dark liquid.
“Blood?” she asked.
The butler nodded.
“Drink,” Bruce insisted. “You must keep up, for the night ahead will be busy and you will be tested.”
“Tested? What now? I thought this was a done deal.” Nia drank and enjoyed the sweeter flavor, tinted with a hint of mint. “Refreshing.”
“I stay here. You go up with Florence; she’ll introduce you to your coffin room.”
The stairs spiraled up; Nia followed the blonde bombshell, realizing she hadn’t uttered a single word.
“Are we in one of the towers?” Nia asked, gripping the ring box in one hand and the chalice in the other.
Florence opened the heavy, red door with a single white calla lily carved dead center. It looked real. Nia stroked the smooth curves then entered to find the room filled with real calla lilies. She gasped. “How does Johnny know I love these?” She looked to Florence, who had disappeared off into a walk-in closet on the right. Nia flopped onto the silkiness of the bedding on the cherry-wood, four-poster bed. It was obviously centuries old; she could feel it speak. Memories of something flashed in her mind, something bad—pain. She jumped back up.”Where’s the coffin?”
Florence pointed to the large mirror that hung on the left side of the room.
“What, you don’t speak? What is it?” Nia asked, leery of the silence.
Florence shook her head no.
“Why not? Wait staff banned from talking?”
Florence shook her head no and looked down as if ashamed.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I guess I never thought that you were mute. I’m sorry if I offended you in any way.”
Florence nodded then signed something with her hands.
“Oh, I . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know ASL.” Nia shrugged palms open as they both stood in front of the large, silver, antique mirror. “I guess I’ll have to learn.”
Florence reached a hand out to her, took Nia’s hand and held it, then opened her mouth. Nia backed up in shock. “You have no tongue?”
Florence nodded and smiled sadly.
“Should I ask how that happened? I mean, you could write for me.”
Florence nodded no, then took Nia’s hand again this time cupping it in her own. Florence nodded and closed her eyes, then motioned for Nia to do the same.
A scene unraveled in Nia’s conscious, like she’d flashed back fifteen years. She saw a young, ethereal woman framed in long, sleek, white-blonde hair that just barely touched the white marble floor. The woman held a pair of scissors, inching slowly but surely toward her. Nia felt her arms tied, all the while drowning in an awful sense of fear and hatred.
Nia let go in shock and covered her face. “She cut out your tongue?”
Florence nodded again, the hurt in her hazel eyes.
“Because you broke her favorite vase? I just don’t get that. Who is this woman? That is so awful— You don’t ever need to worry about me doing something like that, okay?” Nia gave Florence a hug, feeling the middle-aged woman’s anguish and mortality. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Nia deeply felt Florence’s pain. This new ability to connect with others was strange, to say the least. In their embrace, Nia also knew that Florence hadn’t touched another person in many years. Why she had touched Nia just now, Nia wasn’t sure. They had instantly bonded.
Nia pointed back at the mirror. “Am I missing something?”
Florence smiled and pressed on the left side of the mirror. It swung open and another set of stairs led up into the top spire itself. The room was very small, and a coffin lay upon the floor—a single lily carved upon the silver lid. On the other side of the coffin, another set of stairs went straight down.
“Wow,” said Nia, bending for a closer look. “I don’t know about this . . . I don’t think I can sleep in there. I mean I know the routine. I’ve seen the movies. It’s just not me really, but that bed . . . can I sleep there?”
Florence gave her a serious look, nodding towards the shining casket.
“Seriously.”
Nodding yes and gesturing for Nia to follow, as she moved, Florence hurried back down the stairs into the walk-in closet. She could hear rustling and then Florence emerged with a massive, emerald-green, basque-styled gown with an emerald-beaded corset. The skirt flounced out in many layers of tulle.
It was enough to send Nia begging for a hot shower.
What am I doing? What am I doing? This isn’t real. I’m not a slave to the night. I’m just not. I’m not one of them. I don’t even know this Johnny, and I’m married to him just because I said yes, in a club, drunk out of my wits? We’re not married—not really. This whole thing is farce. I’m deranged. Of all the things I have done in my life . . . What’s wrong with me? This dress, this ring, everything. Oh my God—Johnny. What have you done to me? What are you doing to me?
“A bit of the wedding jitters?”
“I guess,” said Nia, watching the only constant in her world—the moon—and even it changed night to night. Maybe nothing was constant.
“It’s normal. Don’t fret.”
“I am fretting, if that’s what you want to call it, Bruce. You have me locked in this room in this unknown location with nothing, but what?—this odd circular window to glare out, and I just don’t really get what in t
he exact heavens in going on. I have to just walk down the aisle in front of a bunch of bloodsucking strangers?”
“Yes,” said Bruce. He had redressed in an all-black, Dupioni silk tux.
“You are one of them too. I didn’t notice before, but I do now in this awful, quiet room. You just fed too . . . while I was getting ready, right? Who was it? Some innocent?”
Bruce raised one serious-bushy, silver brow. “You are going to walk down that aisle. You know you want to.” He winked. “You’ve always known. You just don’t remember.”
“See, now you are playing games, messing with my mind. None of this is happening.” Nia closed her surly eyes, folded her arms, and leaned her head on the window glass. Her mind felt just as tight as her gothic hairdo—just one black strand left to escape over her ivory cheek. Still holding the emerald ring, she exhaled over the prison of the laced-up corset.
The iron door swung open.
“It’s time. Bring her.”
Surprised, Nia stared at the woman standing in the doorway. She had long, sleek, white-blonde hair that just barely touched the black-marble floor and wore a tight, black-crystal gown that hid all of her skin except her bursting décolletage. Nia’s dark heart sank at the sight of this stunning creature, remembering what she had done to Florence . . . and God knows what else.
The woman smiled at her warmly like she already knew Nia’s thoughts. “I am Emelle. I am your maid of honor. Bruce is the best man, if you hadn’t already figured that out.”
“I am Nia, if you haven’t already figured that out.” Nia dropped her hands on her hips
“Ah ah ahhhh . . .” Emelle chastised Nia, waving a long, black nail at her, then she snuck up behind Bruce and pressed her chest into his back. “We have a biter here. She’ll fit right in, won’t she, Bruce?” He took a step forward and away from Emelle, whose arms dropped to match the melancholy of her pouted, purple lips and sad, purple eyes. “He’s waiting. They are all waiting. We can make bosom acquaintances later, yes?”
Nia didn’t answer, but felt a sense of urgency which stuck her straight in the chest. “Let’s do this.”
The three stood in the doorway, Nia in the center, the other two holding her arms. The room ahead was long, narrow, and dark. Green swirls of light danced along the walls like the aurora borealis, and the original Pachelbel’s Canon D sang through theirs, into their hearts, pulling at all the empty, black souls who packed the rows. If it was only for a minute the crowd felt what it was to be human again, touched by violin and harpsichord kisses.
A single tear ran down Nia’s cheek when she saw Johnny in his all-emerald tux, standing front and center before the ebony, happy cherubs and calla-lilied alter. She knew right there and then in that single moment that she knew Johnny; she’d always known him. She still didn’t know why . . . just that this was the right thing to do—to walk down that aisle into the arms of the only man she’d ever loved.
My Nia.
His eyes flashed her that passionate green, and the ring warmed in her hand as if it had a mind of its own.
Come home to me, Nia. Marry me, my Nia. It’s always been you, for all eternity. As the stars grace the sky and the moon sings, join me now, my Nia. Sing with me forever. Walk with me this glorious night—a night of nights where two dark hearts join as one and escape the sun!
My Nia.
“Yes,” she whispered, splitting the crowd in her emerald gown, her train spraying behind her like a comet’s tail.
As the three reached the altar, the green swirl of lights moved to highlight the bride and groom, as if stuck in their own little galaxy.
A shadowed man stood before them—the red glow of some face hidden under a black, hooded cloak. His words boomed loud and clear as the music eased away, “Dearly departed, we are gathered here today under this Emerald Night. Even love and death lasts the ages. It doesn’t just abandon after mere mortal love. Love is timeless. It binds us all as we walk through this valley in the shadow of death. Answer me, fallen angels.”
Johnny and Nia held hands, gripping the magic ring between them.
“Johnny, do you take Nia to be your wedded wife, to flourish together after His ordinance in unholy matrimony? Do you promise to love her, to honor and cherish her, in joy and in sorrow, under the night and in death, and to be to her in all things a good husband as long as you both shall exist?”
“I do,” said Johnny.
“Nia, do you take Johnny to be your wedded husband, to flourish together after His ordinance in unholy matrimony? Do you promise to love him, to honor and cherish him, in joy and in sorrow, under the night and in death, and to be to him in all things a good wife as long as you both shall exist?”
“I do,” said Nia.
“Father in hell, You ordained marriage for Your fallen angels. We present to You Johnny and Nia, who come this day to be married. May the covenant of the love they make be blessed with true devotion.”
Lifting Nia’s hand and placing a single kiss upon it, Johnny slipped the large, emerald heart upon her left ring finger. He finally spoke, “Nia, my Nia, I love you, I always have—in eternity we dance.”
Emelle passed Nia Johnny’s band to do the same. It was a perfectly smooth platinum band with a one carat round emerald in the center, large fang prongs holding it in place.
Taking Johnny’s hand, Nia closed her eyes, and as she slid the ring on his finger, he allowed her one single memory.
It was another place, another time.
The crescent moon lowly lit the plush, humid garden. Nia and Johnny sat on the edge of an extravagant fountain with a naked statue of Amphitrite at the center, water springing forth from all around her.
“We will never drink of these waters again,” said Johnny, dressed all in black as always, slowly sliding his hand under the glow of the blue current.
“I will,” said Nia. “I want to be human again. I want to feel all there is to feel. I want to taste . . . a grape, a juicy piece of chocolate, bread upon butter, salt upon my tongue.” She felt the dawn of time weighing upon her lifeless body. There was more to eternity than this, and she knew it. “I will find a way. I will.”
“As long as you find your way back to me,” said Johnny.
Flashing back to the current moment, Nia focused in on her husband, the man she once knew. She pulled her hand back and away, tucked it tight in against her chest. “You brought me back to this? You brought me back to this world of death and pain and suffering? Why would you do this to me? You knew I didn’t want this life again.”
“I love you,” Johnny said. “I can’t bear to be without you another day.”
“You should have left me . . . you should have left me alone in my measly human existence!”
“You agreed twenty years. The twenty years is now over, and we are to be united.” Johnny moved toward her, but she backed away, searching the room for a way out.
As the lights spun, so did her mind. “It is too late. This is it. That was my twenty years; there is no going back now. I do love you, Johnny. I do. I’m just not ready for this life again.”
Voices whispered amongst the crowd, making plans, speaking of things to come. A few stood, preparing for the fight.
“You cannot go.” Johnny nodded to Bruce. “You are Queen. You can never leave.”
“And you can’t hold me hostage. I am Last Bitten. I have the power. I have the say.”
The crowd closed in as did Bruce, with Bruce at the lead. Emelle watched . . . she had waited years for this moment that was about to happen. Everything had been perfectly calculated. She waited for Johnny’s signal, anything to tell her that she was going to be his one-and-only.
“Last Bitten.” Johnny lowered his head, ran a hand through his spiky, black hair. “State your terms then. You only have twenty-four hours and then you’re mine. You will belong to me, to all of us.” Johnny’s words dowsed the crowd, which cheered and clapped under his statement. All except one—one bitter, purple-eyed female, who’d hoped for a
chance to kill.
“I want away from here, to be alone, to say goodbye to the ones I have come to know.”
“Who? Who would that be? You despise your human mother; your father has been absent; your friend is dead or will be. Who could you possibly say goodbye to? What did they offer you? Nothing! That is all they had to give. We can offer you more. I ask you not to leave on our wedding night. I have waited so long for this, my Nia. I love you, can’t you see that? I let you be on your own for all that time. You agreed to come back to us. Awful things were done to give you the human life you wanted, and now it’s time to return the city to its normal state.”
Nia fell to her knees crying. “I know, Johnny. I know. You let me be. You did give me that. Everything is a blur from before. I just don’t remember. I know that I was sad. That is what I feel. How could it be any different a second time around? Just kill me, then, if I have nothing to go back to. It’s too late anyway. I am just a vampire.”
“No, no . . . you cannot ask this. You cannot use your Last Bitten request just to die. Please don’t do this to me, please.” Johnny knelt down next to her and took her in his arms rocking back and forth. “Is it not enough that I love you? Is it not enough that I waited for you for twenty years? All this time my lonely heart has bled. You are all I have thought about. You have consumed me.”
“This is my request, and it’s too late now. You should have just let me go.”
Johnny fell back against the hard, unwelcome marble. He looked at Bruce; he looked at Emelle. They had nothing for him. The crowd inched closer as they all knew their place now in that wedding of weddings. The terms had been set. Nia would be put to death, and they would all make sure it happened. Emelle hid her smile, hid her happiness, and dragged Nia to the center of the room, where the green lights danced a dance of endings.
I’m being tested. Is this what Bruce hinted at in the car? What would I choose if it was revealed to me who I really was? Of all the memories Johnny could have picked and he picked that one. Is he in on it too? Is death the right choice, or should I reign as Queen—Queen of the Emerald Night?
