I pushed myself back into the chair. My eyes widened in disbelief and vexation. Had I spoken out loud and not realized it? Was this man some sort of psychic? Had it been his voice in my head that had told me to remain calm?
“You are right; this is not simply a solid wooden block. There is very little known about its creator”—Rocerres turned the box upside down—“but he etched a signature and date onto the bottom of each of his creations that has surfaced over the centuries: ‘J. Favreau, 1583.’”
I leaned in closer, nearly falling from the chair in my excitement. The name meant nothing to me, but I had always been mad for mysteries. I could already picture myself pulling at threadlike clues, driving myself to the brink until I unraveled the history of this box, its previous owners and supposedly enigmatic creator. I reached with my hand as if to relieve Rocerres of the box.
“Just a moment,” Rocerres scolded. “There is a trick to this box, as with all of Favreau’s creations. Each one was designed with a unique release mechanism. That will be part of your fun, or total frustration: figuring out how to open this box. Many have tried, which explains the wear on the sides. Legend tells us that those who could not figure out how to open these little mysteries were driven completely mad.”
“Tell me, now. What else do you know about Favreau?”
For me, this was like Christmas, had I ever celebrated it. I’d come from a family of godless intellectuals. They spurned religious holidays, viewing all dogmas with the same amusement and interest with which most contemporary people viewed the Greeks and their pantheon of gods. I, on the other hand, was willing to believe that gods and devils existed. I was unconvinced that Rocerres himself was not some sort of otherworldly being.
“Honestly,” Rocerres said, his voice deeper and more penetrating, “I know little of Favreau. Most of what I do know is unsubstantiated legend and is fraught with contradiction and implausibility. It’s told that he was a favorite guest of Catherine de Medici, but also rumored that he was intimate with her daughter, Margaret de Valois, who was exiled from Paris in 1583 for promiscuity by her husband and king of France, Henri the Fourth, and her brother, Henri the Third. What I hold in my hand now is said to have belonged to Margaret, or Queen Margot, as she was known.”
“You sound as if you know all of this for a fact,” I braved.
“I know only what scholars and legends tell me. I also know the value of this little trinket,” he said, putting a strange, almost bitter emphasis on the last word. “I know that if you can find a buyer, take nothing less than a half million.”
My heart raced at the figure. I would not have to worry about my financial situation for quite some time. Then again, that seductive little box in Rocerres’ hand seemed to call to me. I saw it clearly in my head; the little treasure resting upon a velvet pillow as part of my private collection. As if I could ever afford it, I thought to myself, forgetting that Rocerres seemed to have telepathic abilities. As if on cue, this exquisite man spoke.
“If you decide that you need to use this box for yourself, I ask only one thing.” Again his words left me taken aback. “Make sure that when you are finished with the box, you pass it on to someone who needs it.”
Utterly confused by what he suggested, I sat forward and said, “I don’t understand.”
Rocerres stood. I gazed up at him. He smiled at me, bemused. He set the box on the chair where he’d been sitting moments ago, plucked the satchel from the floor, and swiftly made his way to the door.
“Pardon my sudden departure, but I really must move on to my next appointment. I’ll check in with you soon. Don’t let the mysteries of the box take up too much of your time. It really will drive you mad.”
Chapter Three
The air absolutely crackled in Rocerres’ wake as he left. The room seemed dull without his presence, until the box caught my eye again. I gingerly lifted it from the chair, as if I might spring it open and release some evil into the air the way Pandora had done in the myth. The small details were truly astounding. The craftsmanship involved in carving such smooth and delicate lines was nearly beyond my comprehension. The fact that the design was intact stumped me when I turned the box to look at the deep wear on its sides.
I took the “trinket,” as Rocerres had called it, to my desk and flicked on the bright halogen desk lamp. I pulled a silver-handled magnifying glass from the top left drawer and searched for a seam along the side of the box. Under magnification, I could see that there was indeed a seam that precisely followed one line of the grain. As I rotated the box, I heard the tiny clink of metal against wood inside. I squelched my excited urge just to pull on the box. It was obvious that hadn’t worked for the many who had tried to open it before me. Instead, I would turn to the wonders of modern technology to see if I could drum up some possible explanations or, at the very least, some clues to its maker or perhaps the box itself.
My eyes watered. I stretched my arms above my head and stared at the computer screen and then down at the sparse notes I’d scribbled on a legal pad. After hours of searching the Internet, I had unearthed a few bits of information. A search for “Favreau” had yielded only family trees and numerous Web sites referring to actors with the same surname. There had been only one lead from that search: an entry in a book titled Toy Makers of Europe, dated 1789. Unfortunately, the book seemed to be located solely in the Library of the Arcane, in Boston. I made a note to call the library in the morning. Of course there were tons of sites referring to Margaret de Valois and her mother, Catherine de Medici. One mention of Favreau did surface in conjunction with Margaret. They had both attended a soiree in Paris, according to an original list of invitees that was being sold in an antique shop in New York. It seemed that I had my work cut out for me.
I turned off my computer and took up the box once more. I turned it over in my hands and studied the name and date on the bottom. As I did so, my finger slid over the top of the box, feeling the fine edges. As I brought the box closer to my eyes to look at Favreau’s name and date, a click sounded within the box. I set the box faceup on the desk. I had inadvertently found the release mechanism. The letter “V” had been depressed, allowing the box to open.
My heart raced as I grabbed the corners of the box. It was tempting to let it sit on my desk until morning. I feared disappointment. I feared that the container would be more interesting than its contents. I took a deep breath, lifted the cover from the box, and set it aside. Inside, resting on deep crimson velvet, sat a necklace. A gem the color of blood was set into a small, shining silver disk that resembled a coin. The disk was attached to a glittering silver chain with no clasp.
My heart slowed and sank. I knew that I shouldn’t have been disappointed. I was looking at a necklace that more than likely had been made for Margaret de Valois, former queen of France.
Open your eyes, Roland, I thought, this piece is museum-worthy.
I retrieved the magnifying glass and bent closer to the sparkling red gem. Too dark to be a ruby, it was probably a garnet. As I studied it, I lifted my hand to remove it from the box. As I did so, I thought I heard a deep groan. I whipped around and peered at the room. I half expected to see Rocerres lurking in the dark corners by the door. I stared into the hallway…I saw no movement. Satisfied that it was the old house settling on its foundation, I returned to my scrutiny of the necklace. I reached out to touch it again.
A tingling sensation rushed up my arm as my fingers nearly grazed the top facet of the gem. I pulled away. I thought I heard laughter this time, but realized it was inside my head. The drapes over the window billowed inward. I leaped back from the desk, standing and whirling around as if something were about to attack. I shook my head vigorously, trying to shake off my anxiety. I looked at the clock. It was late. I put the lid back on the box and decided to go to bed.
I stripped down to my boxer shorts and climbed under the sheet. The cool night air brought in the slight scent of flowers from below the balcony. I could barely hear the quiet lapping
of the river against the rocks on the bank. I began to fade.
I felt it before my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room around me. Two white hands had pulled the sheet from my chest. The contrast between the hands and my tanned skin was alarming. I could see no other features of the intruder, only the fingers with their long nails working their way up over the small ridges of my abdomen. My own hands clenched the edges of the bed as I fully realized what was happening. Someone else was here with me.
I couldn’t move. I saw no shackles or fetters, but I felt them. I could move my head, but when I tried to speak, no words issued from my lips. My heart pounded, and a thin film of nervous sweat broke out on my skin. I didn’t want to be restrained, and the presence in the room terrified me.
The long white fingers were topped with unusually shining nails, resembling carefully cut pieces of glass. When the tips of the fingers touched my stomach, an alarming sensation swept over my skin. I fought against it, refusing to recognize it as pleasurable.
The hands began to caress me, as if the being was trying to calm me. I felt as if the bed beneath me were slipping away. I tried to turn my body away from the hands; they pressed down on me with greater force.
No, I thought.
Yes, a voice hissed inside me.
I was astounded.
The hands inched their way up to my chest and came to rest over my heart. I whimpered internally, but was flooded with inexplicable warmth. My head shot back in response, and I heard mocking laughter in my head. An image flashed through my mind, much the same way it had happened during my last session of lovemaking with Kyle. This time, however, I was in a softly lit garden, sprawled upon a bed of flowers. A man was on top of me, and I welcomed his weight. His hands ran the length of my arms, and I felt hot breath on my neck.
The beautiful image was cut short as I was reminded of where I really was. The hands had moved from my heart. The left hand cradled my head and turned it to the left, exposing the softest part of my neck. I felt the veins and arteries pulsing, as if offering to be cut and drained. The right hand gripped my neck; the thumb forced under my jaw, pushing my head back until I was looking at the wall behind the bed. A mysterious weight lay over my body. I was breathing so fast, I thought I would explode. The being’s skin felt like smooth marble. I thought I would be crushed. Again I was whisked away to a fantasy garden; blood red petals rained down from impossibly tall trees. I found myself begging for mercy, then for something else. I wanted this creature to take me away.
“Tell me that you want this, Roland,” a deep voice said aloud.
In my heart of hearts I wanted to say no, but I felt the word “yes” forming on my tongue—yet I could say nothing.
I pushed my neck toward the creature until I felt its lips, soft lips that grazed my skin. I writhed against the weight, forcing myself harder against the lips. The mouth opened and covered my pulsing vein. I was in the garden, not in my bedroom. Something sharp touched my skin. I groaned as I felt fangs sink into me. My eyes widened. I couldn’t breathe. Tears welled up.
I was crushed against the being, and the shackles and fetters fell away. My body was rising in the air with the creature. It was an exotic sensation. Instead of feeling fear and resistance, I was giving in to its will. I still saw no part of the creature except the hands, which fell away from my head and gripped my back. I was cradled in its arms as it drew away my blood and my spirit. A smile formed on my lips.
Roland, you’re dying, said the part of me that was still in reality.
Finally, I was able to scream.
As my voice resounded throughout the room, I shot up in the bed. The room was flooded with light, and the bed was completely soaked in sweat. I felt a dull ache in my chest. My heart raced. I collapsed on the bed and sobbed. I didn’t know why, but I felt cheated. It was as if some glorious treasure had been offered to me and I’d refused it.
I tried to convince myself that it had been a dream. I’d just had a lucid dream. I thought it was somehow connected to the box resting on my desk in the next room. I threw the sheets aside and let my bare feet hit the cool wood floor. I looked around the corner into my office. The box, seemingly innocent, remained closed and unmoved on the desk. I laughed at myself. Had I let my imagination run wild?
I took a shower, made a dark brew of coffee, and settled at my desk. The box seemed to stare at me. I lifted it from the desk and placed it inside the top drawer. As I did so, I would have sworn that the box projected a feeling of betrayal toward me. I slammed the drawer shut. I reached behind me and lifted the last folio of erotica from the pile of books.
I had only four more etchings to go through before I finished appraising Mr. Tarry’s collection. I stopped short at the second to last. I could barely believe my eyes when I stared at the piece. Two men appeared to be arguing. They were in some sort of parlor. One of the men was standing imperiously over the other, who looked as if he’d been pushed back on the settee beneath him. His shirt was undone, and one hand was draped over the back of the settee. It was what was in his hand that astounded me. He was holding a small box.
I whipped out my magnifying glass for a closer look. The box was identical to the one in my desk drawer, except that, instead of a letter “V,” the box in the etching was adorned with the letter “K.” I swore I heard the object in my desk rattling, as if begging to be released.
I was obviously still disturbed by my dream from the night before; my imagination pumped up. I opened the desk drawer. The box seemed to stare back at me. It was wedged between the side of the drawer and my business checkbook. I didn’t want to believe that there was really anything supernatural about the box. I didn’t want to think that it had any influence over me or my dreams.
I pushed the folio off to the side of the desk. I didn’t care that a few of the etchings fell to the floor with a sound like a disgruntled whisper. I centered the box on the desk and assured myself that I was the one making it seem to possess importance. It did not have its own volition. I removed the lid and withdrew the necklace without a wince, refusing to give it the power that I felt it wanted. The chain snaked over my hand and brushed the hair on my arm as I lifted it. The gem caught the sunlight. I closed my eyes, and for a split second a woman’s face flashed through my mind.
“What the hell?” I said aloud.
I stood up from my desk and strode into the bedroom, holding the necklace aloft as if it would rear and strike out at me any second. I stood in the dim shaft of light filtered by the drapes, and looked in the mirror. My white shirt was unbuttoned to my midriff. The necklace would look handsome hanging between my pecs.
Wouldn’t it be too girlish? I wondered.
“Put it on,” a deep voice said.
I almost lost my balance as I twirled around. It seemed the voice had come from everywhere at once. I was shaking and breathing hard, and I felt as though my hands were guided by an unseen force. I felt something around my wrists, but when I gazed at them, nothing was there. I wanted to cry; I wanted to rebel. Instead, I faced the mirror and myself. I gritted my teeth, unwilling to be played like some marionette.
My eyelids slammed down, and for a second I was someone else. I was not a man and I was not alive; I was not dead, either. I opened my eyes, and I was confused. My surroundings looked unfamiliar for a minute, and I burned from head to toe as if I had a fever, yet when I exhaled, steam shot from my mouth.
It’s the end of summer, I thought.
I watched my reflected hands lift the necklace above my head. Then I felt the gem graze my forehead as my hands lowered the chain around my neck. The stone fell over my Adam’s apple, then over the divot below, across the pronounced collarbone, coming to rest on my sternum, which was framed by the muscular chest I’d barely worked to achieve. Then…the world fell apart.
Chapter Four
For a moment I was standing in a double exposure. Two realities overlapped. I could still see the furnishings and paintings of my own house, but they were faded and s
lowly morphing into something resembling eighteenth-century France. It wasn’t long before the new reality took hold completely, and I was standing in a parlor whose windows overlooked the twinkling lights of a city.
This can’t be real, I told myself.
But my surroundings didn’t flicker as they would in a fantasy. I tugged on the necklace, then touched my chest. I turned slowly and gazed upon an ornately carved mantel over a fireplace. My eyes fell greedily on the bookcases lining the far wall, filled with leather-bound volumes. The jacquard-upholstered chairs filled me with childish delight. My insides were a cauldron of glee and fright. In a way, this was what I wanted. I’d always dreamed of traveling back in time to see objects that I admired in their original setting.
I was not alone. In this strange place that was out of time, I could sense the very movement of molecules and displacement of air. I didn’t know if he had always been there or if he had simply materialized, but across the room from me stood another being. I knew in my heart of hearts that this was the same creature who had invaded my dreams the previous night. I recognized the white hands with the slender fingers. The being smiled at me. He knew I recognized him.
He had dark, sumptuous hair and sullen green eyes. He moved toward me, but it seemed as if it were the room that moved around him, bringing him only a foot from me. He had the same delicious smell that Mr. Rocerres had possessed. He didn’t speak at first but merely looked at me. I felt heat and light pierce my mind. I felt his presence inside my head. His mouth turned upward in a lusty smile. He closed his eyes and drew my own scent into him. He sighed as he exhaled. I couldn’t move and couldn’t resist him.
“Finally,” he began, “a man after my own heart.”
His voice was rapturous. I felt my eyebrows rise in anticipation of more words, more of him. My impulses felt sexual in nature but altogether different and indescribable. I had a dark need to be completely drained. I wanted to serve him, not love him.
Midnight Thirsts: Erotic Tales of the Vampire Page 17
