Jane Goes Batty jb-2

by Michael Thomas Ford

  Suddenly she felt herself jerked backward. “Quickly,” Byron hissed.

  That answers that question, Jane thought as she hurried after Byron. Lilith had reached the doorway and was looking down the hall in their direction. She bared her teeth, barked once, and scampered toward Jane and Byron.

  Byron reached for the door, but just as he did there came a knocking from the other side. Walter, responding to it, emerged into the hallway, and he and Lilith advanced toward the door—and Jane and Byron.

  Jane once again felt herself jerked sideways, this time toward the staircase leading to the second floor. They reached it just as Lilith came sliding to a stop, her feet slipping on the bare wood of the floor. She collided with the bottom step and gave a bark of frustration, looking up at the retreating figures of Jane and Byron.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Walter asked the little dog, picking her up as he went to open the door.

  Lilith whined and growled, but Walter held her tightly. Jane and Byron continued up the stairs, pausing on the second-floor landing and looking over the banister.

  “You might have told me that dogs can see us,” Jane said to Byron.

  “It slipped my mind,” Byron said.

  “Lovely,” said Jane. “And who—or what—else can see us?”

  “Cats, of course,” Byron answered. “Most birds. Mice. Actually, rodents of all kinds. Goats.”

  “Goats?” said Jane. “How odd.”

  “I didn’t make the rules,” Byron replied.

  Their conversation ceased as Walter opened the door and they looked to see who had thwarted their escape. Jane was expecting to see a UPS delivery person, or perhaps a neighbor. She was unprepared for the sight of Beverly Shrop.

  “Good morning!” Beverly said brightly. “Is Miriam in?”

  Walter, also seemingly taken aback, replied, “Yes, she is. One moment please.”

  Walter returned to the parlor, and a moment later Miriam came out. Lilith was at her heels and immediately began sniffing the steps and growling.

  “Quiet,” Miriam said to the dog. “You know this one.” She looked at Beverly. “Why are you standing out there?”

  “He didn’t invite me in,” Beverly replied. “You know I can’t enter unless—”

  “Of course,” said Miriam. “I’d forgotten that your abilities are diminished.”

  Beverly smiled nervously. “It’s part of the arrangement,” she said.

  “I am aware of the arrangement,” said Miriam. “Not that I approve of it.”

  Beverly glanced down at Lilith, who had not turned her attention away from the stairs. “She seems to have found something,” she remarked.

  Miriam looked back at the dog. “It’s probably the stench of that woman,” she said. “She did spend a great deal of time here. The scent lingers.”

  Beverly, ignoring the insult, said, “I just came by to ask what you would like done with Tavish Osborn.”

  “Nothing at present,” said Miriam. “Are you still in his favor?”

  Beverly nodded. “He suspects nothing,” she said. “He’s so vain, I don’t think he notices anyone but himself anyway.”

  Jane felt Byron stiffen beside her. She felt for his hand and held it tightly, afraid he might bolt down the stairs and throttle the Shrop woman. Not that it would be a bad thing, she thought. Who was Beverly Shrop, and how had she come to be acquainted with Walter’s mother? Equally important, who was Walter’s mother? Nothing was making any sense.

  “He may still be useful to us,” Miriam said. “He can’t be allowed to go on, of course, but none of their kind can.”

  Beverly looked as if she’d been struck, but said nothing.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” Miriam said with a tone of false apology. “I wasn’t referring to you.”

  Beverly nodded. “I should be going,” she said. “Give my regards to your son.”

  Miriam said nothing, shutting the door and turning to go back to the parlor. She noticed Lilith still pawing at the steps, and picked the dog up. Lilith’s ears perked up and she barked loudly, her nose sniffing the air.

  “Calm down,” Miriam said. “You’re just excited from sniffing out the Fairfax woman this morning. I only wish I could have gone with you to see what exactly she was up to.”

  Miriam disappeared, still talking to Lilith. Byron tugged at Jane’s hand and the two of them descended the stairs. This time no one interrupted their exit from the house, and minutes later they were sitting in Byron’s car, which they had parked one street over to lessen the chance of Walter or someone else who might recognize it seeing it. Both Jane and Byron had rematerialized, and they looked at each other with a mixture of relief and puzzlement.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Jane said carefully. “But from that conversation I gather that Walter’s mother wants to do us harm.”

  Byron nodded. “It would appear so,” he said.

  “And Beverly Shrop is aiding her in some manner,” Jane continued.

  “Miriam Ellenberg is a hunter,” said Byron. “And Beverly Shrop is her eyes and ears. She also happens to be a vampire.”

  “What?” Jane said, surprised.

  “Weren’t you listening?” asked Byron. “Didn’t you see that she couldn’t enter the house because Walter hadn’t invited her in?”

  “I thought she was just being unusually polite,” Jane said.

  “And didn’t you hear her talk about her diminished powers and an arrangement?”

  “I was preoccupied with trying to stay invisible,” Jane admitted.

  “Which you did rather well, by the way,” said Byron. “Congratulations. Turning Chloe does seem to have upped your powers. At any rate, yes, Beverly Shrop is a vampire.”

  “Did you know this before?”

  “No,” Byron replied. “But if she’s been diminished, then I wouldn’t have sensed her, as her powers are likely very weak.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Jane told him.

  “Miriam is a hunter,” Byron said, his voice filled with barely concealed disgust. “Surely you know about the hunters.”

  “I’ve heard of them, of course,” said Jane. “But I always assumed they were a legend, or that they’d died out long ago.”

  “They’re not a legend, and they haven’t died out,” Byron told her. “Their ranks have thinned, but they still seek us out.” He sighed deeply. “I haven’t encountered one since I toured with ABBA in the seventies.”

  “ABBA?” said Jane. “What were you doing touring with ABBA?”

  “I was their head of security,” Byron answered. “They’d gotten some threats and needed someone they could trust.”

  “ABBA are vampires?” said Jane.

  Byron nodded. “Why do you think they look so young? Anyway, a hunter posing as a journalist with Rolling Stone tried to get to them. In Copenhagen he got into Björn and Agnetha’s room and would have staked them if I hadn’t stopped him.”

  “I had no idea,” Jane said.

  “Oh, the hunters are crafty,” Byron continued. “You know, of course, that Abraham Lincoln was a hunter.”

  “You mean the book is true?” said Jane. “Good heavens. Anyone else I would know?”

  Byron nodded. “There are dozens throughout history,” he said. “Cleopatra. Guy Fawkes. Brigham Young. Princess Diana.”

  “Not Diana!” Jane exclaimed. “Oh, and I did love her so.”

  “Of course, most of them are just ordinary people,” said Byron. “Those are only some of the more high-profile ones.”

  “How in the world did Walter’s mother become involved with them?” Jane wondered.

  “New members are always recruited by current members,” Byron said. “Someone had to invite her.”

  Jane doubted she would ever know the answer to that question. “You said that Beverly has made some kind of arrangement with Miriam,” she said. “What did you mean exactly?”

  “Occasionally a vampire who is captured will make a deal,” Byron said. �
�Continued existence in exchange for helping the hunters find other vampires.”

  “That’s a bit traitorous,” Jane remarked.

  “Generally their fangs are removed,” said Byron. “Because they can’t feed normally, their powers grow weak. They subsist on the bare minimum of blood required to keep them alive, and that blood has to be given to them by their human masters.”

  “It sounds like slavery,” Jane said.

  Byron shook his head. “The traitors have a choice,” he said. “No one forces them to betray us.”

  “How long do you think Beverly has known about us?” Jane asked.

  “It’s difficult to say,” said Byron. “My guess is not terribly long. Otherwise there would have been hunters before Miriam Ellenberg.”

  “I can’t believe that Walter’s mother is a vampire hunter!” Jane said. “It seems a bit too coincidental that when I finally decide to attempt a relationship with a man his mother turns out to be part of some secret society dedicated to eradicating my kind from the world. Don’t you think?”

  Byron looked at her and grinned. “Not really,” he said. “After all, we’re talking about you. You don’t exactly have the best of luck when it comes to men.”

  “True,” Jane agreed. “Still, this seems excessive, even for me.”

  “Forget about your failed love life for a moment,” said Byron. “We have to decide what we’re going to do.”

  “Do you have any ideas?” Jane asked.

  “We have to fight back,” said Byron.

  “Fight back?” Jane said. “How? There are only two of us. Who knows whom else Miriam has on her side.”

  “There are not just two of us,” said Byron. “Besides ourselves we have Ted and Ned. That makes four. Five if you include Chloe.”

  “Which I don’t,” Jane said. “She was just turned. How much use can she be? And only Ted is a vampire. Or Ned. Anyway, how exactly are we going to fight back? I’m not killing anyone. Especially Walter’s mother. That would be beyond the pale.”

  “That woman would have no qualms about killing you,” Byron reminded her. “She’d chop off your head as soon as look at you.”

  “Pleasant,” Jane sniped. “Thank you.”

  “Well, it’s true,” said Byron. “She’s your enemy now, Walter or no Walter, and enemies must be destroyed. Besides, you had no problem killing Our Gloomy Friend.”

  “Why does everyone keep bringing that up?” Jane said. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I just sort of …”

  “Pushed her into a fire,” said Byron, helpfully completing the thought.

  Jane huffed. “I’m not killing Miriam,” she said firmly. “And neither are you.”

  Byron opened his mouth and started to speak.

  “No, Ned isn’t killing her. Or Ted. And before you even think it, Chloe isn’t going anywhere near her.”

  Byron looked at his watch. “Speaking of Chloe, we should be getting back to her,” he said. “We can worry about this little problem later.”

  They drove to Byron’s house without speaking. Jane knew that the issue of what to do about Walter’s mother and Beverly Shrop could not be ignored forever, or even for much longer. But she didn’t want to think about it. There were no scenarios in which things ended well. Especially for me, she thought as they pulled into Byron’s driveway.

  The front door was open. Exchanging looks, Jane and Byron got out of the car and dashed across the lawn. Once inside, they went quickly up the stairs and down the hall to the guest bedroom.

  It was empty.

  Chapter 16

  Jane felt only slightly guilty about leaving Byron to deal with the Chloe situation. After all, it was he who had forced Jane to turn the girl. She never would have done it on her own.

  But really, you ought to be angry with Ted … or Ned, she told herself. It’s his fault the girl needed to be turned at all.

  This was true, and Jane planned on giving the young man—whichever one it was—a stern talking-to. But first she had another odious task to perform. She had agreed to meet Jessica Abernathy for lunch to discuss the new book. Foolishly she’d thought she might be able to churn out twenty or thirty pages to give to her editor as proof that she was working on something, but she had written nothing. Nor did she have any idea what she might want to write.

  I suppose I could just feed on her, Jane thought as she walked down the sidewalk toward the restaurant at which she’d told Jessica to meet her. It was not a place she liked, and she’d chosen it precisely for that reason. If the meeting with Jessica went poorly—as she fully expected it to—she would not feel any sense of loss that might later occur due to associating the restaurant with the experience. It was, Jane thought, rather clever of her.

  She more than half hoped that Jessica would have forgotten or by some miracle (or unfortunate tragedy requiring her immediate attention) have returned to New York. But there she was, sitting at a table in the rear of the restaurant. Jane almost overlooked her, as Jessica was sitting with another woman. The woman was quite short and uncommonly wide, with hair dyed candy-apple red, and Jane had no idea who she was. The two women were talking animatedly as Jane approached the table.

  “Hello,” Jane said pleasantly. “I hope I’m not late.”

  “Just a few minutes,” said Jessica, failing to stand or otherwise greet Jane.

  Jane, who knew full well that she was exactly on time, bristled but said nothing. Instead she extended her hand to the strange woman. “I’m Jane Fairfax,” she said.

  The woman beamed. “I know,” she replied. “I love your books.”

  “Book,” Jessica said. She gave Jane a curt smile. “There’s just the one.”

  The woman laughed. “I’m sure there are more on the way,” she told Jane.

  Jane pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thank you.” She paused expectantly, hoping someone would tell her the woman’s name. When no one did she added, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  “This is Posey Frost,” Jessica said, her tone more than suggesting that Jane ought to already know this.

  Jane regarded the woman beside her. “Really?” she said. “Posey Frost of the Vivienne Minx novels?”

  The woman nodded and giggled again. “I know,” she said. “I’m not what you expected.”

  This was an understatement. Jane had always imagined the author of the Vivienne Minx novels to be young and sultry, someone who would be comfortable wearing only stiletto heels and diamond earrings as she lounged on her black leather couch sipping champagne. Never had she imagined the very ordinary woman who was now picking pieces from her dinner roll and popping them into her mouth.

  “No,” Jane said. “It’s just that—”

  “It’s all right,” Posey interrupted, patting Jane’s hand. “I have looked in a mirror before.”

  Jane was unsure how to respond. Posey Frost seemed quite comfortable with herself. Still, it seemed rude to agree with her. Jane decided to avoid the subject altogether. “Are you here for the festival, Posey?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Posey. “I don’t do any public appearances. My publisher doesn’t want to spoil the fantasy for my readers. When the books first got popular they thought about hiring an actress to play me at readings and whatnot, but then they decided it would generate more interest if people didn’t know anything about me. Also, they would have to get a new actress for every book, because who would want to make a career out of pretending to be Posey Frost? Oh, and you can call me Shirley. Posey isn’t my real name.”

  “Does it bother you that your readers don’t know who you really are?” Jane asked. She couldn’t help but compare Shirley’s situation to her own, and she was curious to hear how Shirley felt about her own anonymity.

  “Not at all,” Shirley said as she dabbed butter on a roll. “My own family doesn’t know. Well, Harvey does. That’s my husband. But no one else. Not even the kids. They think we got all our money from my Uncle Horace when he died.” She laughed. “Horace wa
s a drunk and had about three dollars in the bank, but we told the kids he’d put everything into bonds during World War I.”

  “What do they think you do all day when you’re writing?”

  “I don’t write during the day,” Shirley told her. “I do regular mom stuff—clean the house, bake cookies, chauffeur the kids to soccer and piano lessons. I get an hour or two here and there, but mostly I write at night.”

  Jane was shocked. “So they’ve never read one of your books?”

  “Tara—my thirteen-year-old—thinks the Vivienne Minx novels are, and I quote, ‘fast-food fiction.’ She likes Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, and Banana Yoshimoto. Ryan is sixteen, and he’s more interested in baseball than books. Harvey read the first book, but it wasn’t his thing. He’s a Tom Clancy kind of guy.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a waiter, who took their drink orders and went away again. Jane wanted very much to question Shirley further, but she felt she’d already pried enough. “So you’re not here for the festival,” she said. “Just for fun, then?”

  “I’m here for the movie,” Shirley told her.

  “The movie?” said Jane.

  Shirley nodded. “They’ve asked me to do some rewrites on the script. Well, they asked Posey to do them. I guess they want to sex it up a little.”

  Jane, confused, didn’t understand what Shirley was saying. Then it hit her. “You mean my movie?” she said. “Constance?”

  “That’s right,” said Shirley. A worried look crossed her face, and her eyes darted to Jessica and then quickly back to Jane. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  Jane shook her head and looked meaningfully at Jessica, who was examining the menu in her hand. “No,” Jane said. “No one did.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Shirley. “I thought you knew. Jessica said you were too busy working on the new novel to do it, so she recommended me.”

  Jessica set the menu down. “I worked with Shirley on the first Vivienne Minx novel,” she said quickly, as if that explained everything.

  “Of course, I’m still not Posey Frost,” Shirley said. “We’re telling the director that I’m Posey’s assistant, and that Posey can’t come out of the hotel because she’s afraid of paparazzi finding her.”