The sun is slipping past its zenith. In another thirty minutes or so, it will clear the balcony above Marcia’s and shine on her ‘guest.’ She feels vaguely sick, and it might be because she is, at a deep intrinsic level, very sick. And it might be because of all that Dare has told her.
“So you are a vampire,” she says.
“We like to be called Night Elves,” says Dare. He’s sitting on the only other piece of furniture on her balcony, a fold-out chair that has a rubber lattice. He’s too big for it, and his spotless Armani suit doesn’t fit the cheapness of the chair any better. “Vampire conjures too many images of predators …”
“ … and you’re more parasites.”
“We prefer the term ‘symbiote,’” Dare says, grimacing.
Marcia narrows her eyes. “You haven’t exactly explained how you’re symbiotic.” He’d said that vampires require mammalian blood for survival, but not enough to be harmful to the host, unless the host is a very small creature, like a mouse. He’d also said, to thrive and be healthy, they need human blood. Not very much, he had assured her, and not even consistently —whatever nutrient they need from human blood they apparently can store for a long time. But without access to human blood, they eventually become infertile, ill, and often so depressed that they die. “Are gone” were the words he used to describe it. Still … “Symbiotic implies some benefit to the host species. Not harming the host isn’t the same thing.”
Dare’s face goes blank for a moment. “I am not at liberty to divulge the benefit.” He smiles tightly, and gazes out at the parking lot across the street from her apartment. It might be Marcia’s imagination, but she thinks he looks sad.
“You can’t turn into mist,” she says.
He shakes his head. “Though it would be convenient.”
“You don’t convert anyone you bite into a vampire.”
He shakes his head.
Marcia huffs a soft laugh. “I always thought that wouldn’t work. The predator-prey relationship would never be balanced.”
“We prefer the term sym––we’re parasites,” he amends at Marcia’s sharp glance. “But it works the same way.”
Marcia looks at her knees; she’s still wearing her pajamas. “And you aren’t stronger than a human, faster, or able to enthrall us. And blood drawing is a consensual thing. Vampires feel a bond between themselves and their hosts and so wouldn’t want to jeopardize it?”
He’s quiet a moment, and then he says, “That all holds true …” He bows his head and steeples his fingers. “ … for most of us.”
Marcia raises her eyes. He meets her gaze. “All magical creatures: Night Elves, Light Elves, Dark Elves, Fire Ettins, Vanir, Jotunn, Aesir and the Dwarves … they all possess some innate magic they can do without thinking. For Fire Ettins, it is the manipulation of fire; for all elves of all kinds, that innate ability is … usually … immortality.”
Marcia leans her head back on her chair. The word itself has weight. And then she bites back a laugh. Forget forever; she’d take just three years.
Dare goes on, “For the Vanir, Aesir, and the rest, the innate ability is more individual. For some, it may be controlling fire or ice, great strength, or longevity, or they might be particularly good at some craft or trade. But all magical creatures, if they learn to harness magic, can learn to do all these things—be strong, control fire, be faster, be charming …”
“No turning into bats, though?” Marcia asks impulsively. She’s beginning to feel light-headed.
He smiles. “It would be fun, but no.”
Marcia’s brow furrows, and she picks at her pajamas. They’re too big. She’s lost so much weight in the last few months. “In our myths, vampires are—”
“Sadistic and evil?” Dare supplies.
Marcia’s breath catches, and she turns to face him.
Meeting her gaze, he says, “There is some basis in that.”
Marcia sits up very tall in her chair.
Dare sighs. “There are very few vampires strong enough to walk through the realms. Moreover, it has been illegal for us to do so for nearly a thousand years. The only ones that have come—”
It’s Marcia’s turn to sigh. “Lawbreakers … powerful lawbreakers.” When Alicia was an infant, she’d become obsessed with all news of kidnappings and pedophilia. The network news people love to say, “it could be anyone.” That is technically true, but Marcia had discovered that it is a hell of a lot more likely to be a certain type of person: someone who breaks the law is at the top of that list. A vampire that broke the law to get to Earth was unlikely to be a vampire who respected the laws of humans.
“I think …” Dare says, softly. “I think that certain members of my species … who were used to being able not to care nor to love … they sought to kill their hosts so they could loosen that bond.”
Marcia’s eyes blur. There is a perfectly good word to describe humans like that.
He winces. “I only mention this because I want to be completely honest with you.”
Grabbing her side, Marcia’s brow furrows. There is a gaping hole in his story. “Your prince was about to bond with my daughter.”
Dare snorts. “No, he’s rash, but even he wasn’t about to crack a vein with someone he’d just met.”
“Then what was he—”
Dare shoots her a look that says, really?
Marcia sags in her chair. “Ah, just some innocent hanky-panky …” She glares at him. “With a sixteen-year-old.”
“In his defense, she … ahhh … misrepresented her age and he has very little experience with humans. A sixteen-year-old vampire … ” He holds out a hand as though to indicate knee-high. “You may have noticed the prince was quite … upset … by what transpired.”
Sadly, Marcia can believe Cindy “misrepresented” her age, and she had noticed the way the prince had turned green. She can also believe all the rest of it, and still not find his species particularly … evil. No, she doesn’t find them evil at all. She can readily believe a few bad apples could be responsible for all the heinous crimes attributed to a whole race. It hadn’t taken many Conquistadors to wipe out the Aztecs. She sighs. Not that the Aztecs were angels, either. She gulps. And there is a vocal, violent minority of humans calling for a reclosing of the realms and the extermination of any magical creatures that might wind up trapped here.
She turns her gaze out to the parking lot across the street, which is almost empty, since it’s Sunday. “So how do you keep the strong vamp—Night Elves away from Earth?” Marcia asks.
Dare stiffens in a way that seems almost defensive, but then he rubs his forehead. “We actually have been studying your technology ... We believe that we wouldn’t have to send anyone through—well, except for a modest support staff, and the odd procession of dignitaries. You have machines now that would allow blood to be transported without chilling or chemical additives.” Head bowing, he nods, as though to himself. “It is … ” He sighs. “It will be fine.” There is something in his voice, something resigned. But her mind is getting too fuzzy to ask, and so she asks the question at the forefront of her thoughts. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
“So you don’t talk,” Dare says. Too soon for her to draw away, he reaches over and takes her hand. His fingers are dry and cool. “It is a fluke that you realize the nature of Night Elves; and, if humans know, it will make things more difficult.”
Marcia stares down at their entwined hands, too tired to pull away, and it isn’t just her illness. It’s also from lying. She works in an oncology department—only as their web designer—but she knows enough about cancer to realize that her recent symptoms had warned of something very bad. The scans she had just confirmed it. Now she has to tell her children and her family about what’s really going on … she has a meeting with a therapist … right after her next oncology appointment. She’ll ask her … She feels tears biting at the edge of her eyes. She’s frightened of holding it in that long, frightened of giving it away, too.
“Don’t hide it, Dare,” she says, staring down at his hands. They are large, heavy, and masculine; and by comparison her own hands look frail, small, and very old. She seldom notices how wrinkled the skin around her joints has become during her half century-and-change on the planet, or how visible her veins are, but next to Dare’s magical youth she can’t help but notice. She remembers Alicia asking if she feels well, and Joshua’s anger at Cindy “making” her take out the trash. “Something will give you away in the end, and lying will make it worse.”
He takes her hand in both of his own, and turns it over. She hears him exhale. “How would I even go about that?”
She’s slouching in her chair, overwhelmed by life—and him—and this. She glances at him. For most of the conversation, he’s maintained an air of self-assuredness that belied the age he looks. But now he does look all of twenty-eight or so, and Marcia feels older than his … centuries? Millennia?
She takes a deep breath, her head clearing. She’s worked at an oncology department as their web designer—which really means designer, coder, and copy editor. She knows how to soften medical terminology, make it easier to understand and accept. It occurs to her that maybe maturity is based on experience, not years.
She tells him what she would say. When she’s done, she feels exceptionally light. She supposes that, if you’re going to die, helping save an entire race as one of your final deeds isn’t a bad way to go.
“You think, framing it as an inheritable disease, like hemophilia, and our people as in great need of … transfusions … that humans will find this acceptable?” Dare asks, squeezing her fingers lightly. At some point in the conversation, he’d leaned closer.
“You’re in need of blood,” Marcia says. “Something we give voluntarily, and offering to trade it for tellurium and lithium, things we don’t have and need for our new magic power converters and batteries. It will work out.” Bless human industrialism and greed, it might just save a race.
She glances over at him. He’s leaning sideways in his chair, sunlight covering one side of his face. During their conversation, he’d pulled a pair of aviator glasses out of his pocket and put them on. In the hand not holding hers, he is clutching a small tube that advertises itself as Titanium Dioxide Sunscreen for Baby’s Sensitive Skin.
“You don’t look well,” she says.
He waves vaguely beyond the balcony with the hand that holds the tube. “Perhaps a bit too much sun.” He holds the vial up to his nose. “Although this ointment is amazing.”
“Let’s get inside,” Marcia says, jumping up from her chair. She waits for the tide of nausea she expects to pass—but it doesn’t even come. Not letting go of her hand, Dare slowly gets to his feet. As she leads him into the living room, he stumbles on the track for the balcony door.
“Why don’t you lie down?” Marcia says. “I’ll call you a cab.” Perhaps seeing him so feeble and in obvious need gives her energy, because as he flops on the couch and she bustles about, she doesn’t feel tired at all.
A few minutes later, she’s downstairs waiting for the cab with him. He looks so awful she suggests a hospital, but he waves it off with a mumbled, “It will pass.”
The cab is just arriving, when she suddenly recalls how resigned he’d seemed when they’d discussed blood banks. “You don’t really want to use blood banks … you find it a bit …” She doesn’t know what the word is. Distasteful doesn’t seem right. The word she wants is sad, or maybe lonely, but she doesn’t know why it fits.
For the first time since they left the balcony, he smiles. “What can I say? I’m a romantic.”
Before she can ask him to explain, he’s stumbling out the door, into the sunlight, to the waiting cab, clutching his side. Marcia’s still pondering it when she reenters the apartment.
“Some fairy tale,” Cindy says, staring at her shoe.
“See, no such thing as fairy tales,” Alicia says resignedly.
Joshua says, “We’re still stuck with you, too! Loser.”
“Joshua,” Marcia growls in warning. She gives her eldest daughter a covert little nod.
Chapter 3
Marcia stands just outside the official residence of the Night Elves. A dwarven woman stands before her. The woman’s head only comes up to her chin. Her face is childlike, round with enormous eyes. But she’s broader than Marcia, and the track suit she wears does nothing to disguise that every inch of her is muscle.
“I’m here to see Dare!” Marcia says, stamping her foot.
The dwarven lady blinks up at her. “You call him Dare?” she says, backing up, wide eyes going even wider.
Seizing the opportunity, Marcia storms past her.
“Diamonds, who is that?” she hears Dare say, his voice oddly … whiny. “Make them go away!”
“Madam,” the dwarf, presumably Diamonds says, grabbing Marcia’s wrist with such force she spins around. “He’s not well, leave him alone.”
With a move she learned in self-defense classes she took with her children, Marcia twists her wrist away and shouts, “Dare, I need to talk to you!”
“Marcia?” says Dare.
“Madam,” Diamonds says. “I’ve been gentle with you, but—”
“Let her in,” Dare says, and she can’t tell if he sounds resigned or devious.
Without hesitating, Marcia strides in the direction of his voice, and finds herself in a living room with blinds closed to the afternoon light. He’s wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, and fat fluffy red socks that look like Elmo might have been sacrificed in order to make them. It’s about 2 p.m., she has a personal day, the kids are safely at school—she’s come straight from her oncology appointment. Her doctor’s words are ringing in her head. “I don’t understand it, Marcia. I think it must have been a glitch with the last scans … or … or … a miracle.” His brow had furrowed. “There have been some odd spontaneous remissions since the realms opened—Mayor Rogers has asked to keep track of them. But those are usually blood cancers and I’m not sure this counts. How do you feel?”
She feels great, which is the problem. “Dare, why did you do it? What do you want?” she demands.
“Lovely to see you, too,” he says, throwing a hand over his eyes. “Leave me alone, I’m sleepy.”
“You made me better!” Marcia exclaims.
He sniffs and replies petulantly, “Made you better? Why, I never had any idea you were sick.” There is a sing-song quality to his voice. He’s lying. She can feel it in every inch of her body.
“Why did you do it?” Marcia demands. “Do you intend to blackmail me? Is this some sort of vampiric extortion? Do you think I might be in your debt? Because, no way, Mr. Bloodsucker.” Is he after one of her children? That always happens in fairy tales, but she won’t give any of them away. Not even Cindy, who’d called her a black widow this morning.
He sits up quickly. “If I wanted you to be in my debt, there would have been a contract signed in blood before I healed you.” He sniffs. “Don’t accuse me of incompetence.”
Marcia puts her hands on her hips, and her eyes narrow. “You did make me better.”
Flopping back down on the couch, he turns his back to her and curls up in a fetal position … as much as a tall man can on a skinny couch. “Did not.” He raises a hand and waves it with a shoo-shoo motion. “Now go away.”
“I still have questions for you!” Marcia says.
He sighs. “Oh, bright sunny summer days,” he mutters, grabbing a pillow and pressing his face into it.
She blinks.
“Well?” he says. “Are you going to ask? Get it over with. I want to go back to sleep.” The last comes out distinctly whiney.
“You have children!” she says remembering that without human blood vampires are malnourished and eventually infertile. “You’ve drunk human blood.” And without the benefit of a blood bank, so directly from the vein.
He rolls over so he’s in the fetal position, but facing her. His eyes are glinting, and she’s not
sure if it’s magic or anger. “Yes, Marcia. Before the realms were closed, I lived here and I drank human blood.” His nostrils flare, and she feels cold dread settling on her. She raises her hands, suddenly not wanting him to finish, but finds herself unable to ask him to stop.
“I was even married to the human woman in question. She was burned at the stake for being a witch,” Dare continues, his eyes definitely flashing. “I went home with the closing of the realms, married a vampire in a similar situation, and we had five lovely children.”
“Oh …” says Marcia.
His jaw hardens. “But after our fifth … and then the misca—” He takes a deep breath and rolls onto his back. “She was one of those who became … ill. She is … gone.”
“Oh,” Marcia says. She swallows and walks over to him, as though pulled by a string. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, and throws his arm over his eyes. “It’s all … a very long time ago.” For the first time she notices that there is a light sheen on his face. His hair, tucked behind his pointed ears, looks like it needs to be washed, and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks so unwell … she feels something twist in her gut that isn’t disease.
“Why did you help me?” she whispers, putting a hand to her mouth.
He sniffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Unconsciously, she draws her hand down her throat. His eyes, peeking beneath his arm, follow it. She sees his tongue dart out for just an instant, and then his eyes snap to hers. She knows what he was just thinking, and she knows he knows she knows. She just doesn’t know what to do … should she apologize? Or him? Pretend she didn’t see?
Curling tight into a ball, Dare screams, “Guards, she has a stake!”
Marcia’s eyes go wide. Before she can form a coherent thought, much less a sentence, she’s being hauled up and over the heads of seven dwarves. As she’s carried away on her back, she can see Dare’s back, and his Elmo-sock clad feet, poking out from under his robe.
Next thing she knows, she’s being thrown out onto the stoop. “How dare you think of hurting Uncle Dare!” Diamonds says.
Once Upon A Curse: 17 Dark Faerie Tales Page 9
