Immortal Obsession

by Denise K. Rago

  With her hand on the door of the historic building, she turned to go home and then thought better of it.

  I have to know the truth.

  “Can I help you?” Quipped a burly police office seated at a counter behind a Plexi-glass window.

  “Yes, Detective Ross, please.”

  “Is he expecting you?” Officer Rizzo asked, getting up. Amanda stared into steely blue eyes surrounded by a fleshy face.

  “He was handling the investigation of my brother’s murder last July.”

  “Lady, we got lots of murders here. What’s the name?” “Perretti. Amanda Perretti. My brother’s name was Ryan.” Without being asked, she held up her picture ID from the Met.

  She watched him pick up a black phone. She checked her watch: seven o’clock on a Friday night. It was doubtful he was in, but something had compelled her to stop by.

  “Come on in.” The glass door clicked open and Amanda entered the busy front desk area of the station. “Follow me.”

  She followed him down a narrow, dimly lit hallway, past a row of empty desks. He stopped at the last door on the right. Will he remember me? she wondered, taking a deep breath. Though they had spoken on the phone numerous times, she had met Ross only twice. Once when he questioned her in the hospital, and once in a coffee shop near her apartment. Rizzo knocked gently and opened the door for her. She slipped through the door into the office. The first thing that struck her was the darkness. Ross was sitting at his desk, feet up, sprinkled in long shadows cast from the desk lamp. She followed his legs down to his feet toward the shadows. Someone else is here, she sensed, shutting the door behind her. He’s not alone.

  “Ms. Perretti—” He swung his legs off the desk, coming towards her. He looked comfortable in a pair of black jeans, and a T-shirt His hair was short and gelled. He looked less like a police officer and more like a GQ model. He came around the desk and extended his hand as if he were trying to prevent her from coming any farther into the room.

  “Hi, Detective. I wasn’t sure if you would remember me.” She shook his hand. “I took a chance you might be in.” She scanned the room, thinking it odd that he would sit in almost total darkness. It was such a contrast to the outer precinct, with its glaring fluorescent lights. She walked slowly toward him, eyeing the chair right in front of his desk.

  “If this is a bad time, I can come back. I just got off work and I was wondering if there was anything new with my brother Ryan’s murder …”

  Something caught her eye as the shadows parted, as if releasing him reluctantly. He was taller than she remembered, probably 6’4” and reed thin, with dark, piercing eyes. Amanda clutched her purse as if the reality of his presence would knock her over. His wavy blonde hair flowed to his waist over a dark leather coat.

  “Hello.” He nodded, his deep voice holding her spellbound.

  Amanda felt the floor shift and her body flush as she stared into his bottomless eyes. Thoughts filled her head, random, disconnected images of Paris, the French Revolution and lots of blood.

  “Ms. Perretti, this is Christian.”

  “Hi.” She thought she replied then realized she was holding her breath. She was transfixed, unable to look away, still not certain if he were a hallucination. A rush of adrenaline surged through her as his gaze hit something ethereal. It felt as though he could see into her soul.

  “She works at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” Ross muttered hesitantly.

  ”Did you ever catch Lucien?” Amanda could not help but ask, riveted to his face, glad of the darkness. It’s really him.

  “Excuse me?” He whispered, his dark eyes darting nervously. His accent was French and thick.

  “I remember you in the tunnel.”

  Amanda thought it took courage to say it aloud, not caring if either of them thought she was crazy.

  “I doubt our paths have crossed.” He smiled, quickly glancing at Ross. “You have business with the detective. I’d better go.”

  “You were brave, taking his head and saving my life.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Mademoiselle,” he whispered.

  “Ms. Perretti, please sit down. Let me take your coat,” Detective Ross interrupted, gesturing toward a chair for her. Amanda could not move; she stood rooted to the spot.

  “I have been looking for you for the past six months.” The image of a large gray wolf running across a snow-covered landscape suddenly floated into her head. “No one believed me, but here you are. Detective, this is the man—”

  “I must be going, Amanda.”

  Ross gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. “What can I do for you, Ms. Perretti?”

  Christian forced a smile and strode toward the door in one graceful movement, his great coat flowing behind him. He was gone before she noticed the office door open and close.

  “Wait.” She called after him and ran down the hallway toward the front desk, but paused when she realized he was not in front of her. There was no way he could have left the building that fast. She turned and headed back down the hallway toward Ross’s office. Maybe there was another exit.

  Nothing. Where did he go?

  Still wearing her coat, she reentered the detective’s office to find Ross sitting behind his desk. Out of breath, she finally sat down.

  “I know what I saw and I swear he was the man in the tunnel. He had some kind of knife and he …” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Please just tell me his last name, give me his address or a phone number.”

  “The best I can do is to give him your phone number. Whether he contacts you is his business.” Ross shrugged. “Amanda, we have pursued all the leads, but we have nothing right now. There were no witnesses to corroborate your story. You were lying on the grass outside the tunnel, away from the murder scene. We can’t explain how you got there.”

  “You don’t understand. I need to speak to him.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Please, Detective, he’s the key. The only thing that has kept me going is the thought that he’s out there.”

  “Ryan’s killer will be found.” Ross sat back in his chair.

  “He was a homeless drug addict. He can’t be your priority. Please, Detective.”

  “I am doing my best, Ms. Perretti.”

  “Someone slit my brother’s throat and left him to bleed to death. I would be dead now if not for that man…. Christian.”

  Amanda thought it strange that she suddenly had a name for the beautiful stranger. She had almost turned back yet something had told her to come here tonight. She knew Ross was lying, though why, she had no idea. The two were obviously acquaintances, but what was he protecting?

  Amanda remembered Ross being there when she awoke in the ER. He had questioned her repeatedly. He told her about the couple from England who had stumbled upon both she and Ryan. Her description of Ryan’s murder, including monsters with fangs and men wielding machetes, seemed to be the stuff of horror movies and nightmares, explained to her as a delusion, shock brought on by seeing her brother murdered so violently.

  When she had asked the police why she was still alive, they had no answers, only conjecture that the couple had scared the murderer away before he could get to her. There was no motive in her brother’s death. The fifty dollars she had given him earlier was still in his front pocket.

  “Let me pull the report. Perhaps there’s some new development.” Ross stood up. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  Once alone Amanda stood up to slip off her heavy woolen coat when she accidentally stepped on something. Bending down, she retrieved a matchbook from behind the leg of her chair. Did he drop these or were they left here? She turned it over repeatedly under the desk lamp. At first it looked blank and then a gray silhouette of a wolf’s face stared back at her. In tiny red letters, the words Bleeker Street loomed up at her. As she replayed the conversation with Christian over in her mind, a stunning realization hit her.

  He used my first name. How did he know my first name?

/>   She shoved the book of matches in her coat pocket and sat down just as Ross returned, carrying the file with him. While Ross talked at her, she pretended to listen. Beneath the coat draped across her lap, she texted Bethany, making plans to go down to the Grey Wolf tonight. It almost felt impossible that they finally met up. He felt like a dream, yet here he was, a living, breathing man.

  She clutched the matchbox, determined to see him again.

  If he’s there, I’ll find him, she thought, determined not to give up just yet.

  Chapter Seven

  CHRISTIAN LOVED WALKING in the falling snow. It was too early to go down to the Grey Wolf, and he needed to clear his head. Running into Amanda Perretti had rattled him. Although he could not discern whether it was carelessness or fate that had brought them together, he knew that being that close to her was too dangerous. He crossed the Great Lawn and headed to his favorite spot, Bethesda Terrace. Central Park had been a popular hunting ground for his kind since the turn of the century. Derelicts, drug addicts, runaways, and other assorted misfits were easy prey and never missed.

  The cool steel of the machete against his back reminded him that it had been six months since the attack on Ryan and still nothing. Christian knew they would come again. It was just a question of when. Since Lucien had escaped him and returned to Paris, it would not be him this time. Someone unfamiliar, a bloodsucker he did not recognize, would try to take Amanda; the only one left.

  He stopped on the steps of the terrace overlooking Bethesda Fountain and the Boathouse. The solitude was comforting, the view forever breathtaking, especially in the almost full moonlight. Leaning against the stone wall, he listened to the distant traffic. With fewer mortals here and more hours of darkness, he felt as if he owned the park. Christian admired the architecture; the cast iron art nouveau lamp posts looked beautiful in the falling snow.

  He usually came here alone. He was sometimes able to cajole Michel into joining him, but that usually meant the payback of a shopping spree on Madison Avenue or down in the East Village. This was his oasis, a place that never lost its allure. He would sit on the ornately carved stone steps of the terrace and stare down at Bethesda Fountain, marveling at its beauty in the moonlight, staring into the dark water while the mortal world passed by just as it always had done.

  The Upper East Side and Central Park reminded him of the Paris he had left behind centuries ago. All this beauty, he thought, and no one to share it with me. On the rare occasion that he allowed himself to feel his own isolation, it overwhelmed him. The last woman he loved had died over two hundred years ago. Christian had cut off the part of himself that needed to love and receive it in return, although he remembered that he had once been a human being with fears, needs, and pain in his life. He had hungers beyond blood, and although there had been other women, his happiest and most painful memories lingered with Josette Delacore. I am pitiful, he thought, and so very alone. If only I could be more like Michel, who just beds them and leaves them.

  “Come on, mon ami, just one more time?” Michel pleaded, dismounting in the courtyard of Christian’s manor house one hot summer evening and handing the reins of his horse to one of the faceless servants who approached him.

  “I told you, Michel, I’m not interested in whoring tonight,” Christian explained, waiting for his friend near the well. He splashed water from the bucket onto his face, and then wiped the sweat from his eyes and took a long drink. “I am marrying Leila this fall, remember? I told you, no more.” He took off his linen shirt and dropped it in the dirt before pouring water down his thin chest.

  Michel watched him in silence.

  “Ah, that feels good,” Christian sighed, pouring a ladle of water down his back as the dirt pooled at his feet. He had just finished helping his father in the blazing June sun. All he wanted to do was eat dinner and go to bed. He spilled more water onto his blistered feet. In typical fashion, Michel had ridden up, dressed for a night of drinking and carousing with the local prostitutes.

  “You have your whole life to be married to my sister.” He reminded Christian. “How can you bed one woman for the rest of your life?”

  “I am marrying her, not you,” Christian scowled. He surveyed the one-story estate with the mansard roof that was his home. Despite the talk of riots in Paris, he still loved his country.

  “This is hell, my friend. Paris is where we should go, before we are too old to enjoy ourselves.”

  Christian gazed at Michel, dressed in his finest cotton trousers, his white linen shirt, and a light green frock coat, frayed at the cuffs. His long dark hair hung loose around his shoulders, framing his high cheekbones and light green eyes. He was the most beautiful man Christian had ever seen, almost identical looking to his older sister. Perhaps he would end up in Paris after all. He was more suited to a life of carousing than to a life in the countryside.

  “Come on.” Michel picked Christian’s shirt up off the ground and tossed it at him. “You have your whole life to be a married man. Just for this summer stay a wild young man with me.”

  He though it odd that Michel suggested they contact Gabrielle. Michel had so easily fallen under her spell all those centuries ago when they were just young men. I guess it is only fitting that he still believes she cares about us. Christian had tried to forget her. Despite not trusting her, the three of them would forever remain connected by blood.

  The snow fell harder, reminding him of the night his life changed forever. They had met Gabrielle the previous summer at the chateau of friends. He and Michel had seen her mingling with the crowd, weaving from guest to guest. Neither of them had recognized the beautiful woman, laughing and talking, her dark eyes smiling. She wore a purple silk dress that shimmered in the candlelight, complimenting her pale skin. Her shiny black hair was piled high on her head. Eventually she made her way over to them.

  After making polite conversation, Michel had convinced her to come home with them both. Christian fondly remembered the three of them fornicating until dawn, when he and Michel passed out from sheer exhaustion. If only it had ended that night, Christian thought, still staring down at the fountain. She came to them night after night until they became more than a ménage a trois. They were inseparable as summer turned to fall and then to winter.

  Why is it that the most profound events in our lives creep up on us without warning, Christian thought, remembering the March night when his life changed forever. It had started as a typical day on their estate in Meudon, France. Christian and his brother, Guillaume, lived alone with their father. Their mother had died when Christian was a child, taken by the pox.

  Christian walked down the long set of steps to Bethesda Fountain, tracing his footsteps in the snow, and thought back to his only ever fight with Michel. He had given Michel an ultimatum—had forced him to decide between their lifelong friendship and the woman Christian feared was coming between them. He felt it should end, but Michel would not hear of it, and so Christian had cut him off, swearing only to see Michel when he had made his decision.

  Christian was out in the stables with his prized black mare, Starlight. He generally did his best thinking while working. Despite the cold, he found himself in the stables bailing hay and cleaning out Starlight’s stall. He was humming to himself when something made him turn around. Michel and Gabrielle stood framed in the doorway. Something about their posture, their hesitancy, alarmed Christian. He grabbed a lantern and slowly came toward them, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “What are you doing here? I told you not to come back until—” He began, staring into the dark eyes of his best friend. Gabrielle remained expressionless; her face flushed as it usually was after the three of them made love together.

  Michel spoke, but his voice seemed distant, as if his lips were not moving. The sound was coming from somewhere far away. “I came to say goodbye my friend.”

  Michel’s words made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Something in his beautiful face terrified Christian. His skin looked lik
e alabaster and his light green eyes were dark and vacuous.

  “So, you have chosen her I see.” Christian fought tears. “I suppose years of friendship means nothing to you.”

  He studied Michel’s eyes for some response and found none.

  “We can have each other, Christian, and Gabrielle too. We three can be together forever.”

  “What have you done to him?” Christian shone the lantern close to her face. Rage filled him at the thought of this woman taking control of his closest companion. As if sensing his anger, Gabrielle stepped behind Michel.

  “Tell him, Michel. Tell him what I am and what you have chosen to become.” She pulled him closer.

  “What have you done, Michel?” He tried to shake his friend, but Michel felt like a rock and would not budge. He smelled of blood and dirt, as if he had been sleeping on the forest floor.

  “Gabrielle is a vampire, Christian,” Michel explained in a voice barely above a whisper. “And I have chosen to … join her.”

  For a moment, no one spoke or moved.

  “You are what?” Christian asked, backing away and making the sign of the cross as he mumbled prayers.

  “I have chosen eternity. I will live beyond this stinking, dirty place.”

  He reached out for Christian, who fell backwards and almost dropped the lantern.

  “We can barely survive the taxes the king levees on us. Look at you, Christian, so young and handsome, but soon you will die and for what? I have chosen the God of immortality.”

  “You are talking crazy, Michel. Louis is our king. This is our home.”

  “I love you dearly, my friend. You too can have the gift Gabrielle has given me. Think of it, Christian. We can live beyond this place. I am free, my friend, free through a gift beyond our imagination. We can be time travelers, together forever!”