The Bride of Casa Dracula

by Marta Acosta

  “Oz, I’m sorry. I guess I got carried away.”

  “It’s okay. They’ll be gone soon.” And as he spoke, the bruises began fading.

  But I knew that I’d probably hurt him. I hated that I still wasn’t able to gauge my strength. I hated hurting him. “I’m sorry,” I said again “I’ll be more careful.”

  He reached over and helped me up. “I don’t want you to have to be careful with me, babe. Let me finish up a few things and we’ll go out.”

  “You’ve got more work?”

  “It’ll take thirty minutes, tops. Wouldn’t you be happier if you had something to really focus on? You seemed on track when you were getting your teaching credentials.”

  I’d thought I wanted to be a teacher. I’d thought I’d just waltz into a classroom and begin yammering about the books I loved. But I’d been disheartened by the complicated process of getting teaching credentials and the bureaucracy that regulated teaching. “Oswald, the horticultural landscape department was right next to the graduate ed program. It was a message to me.”

  “You don’t believe in omens.”

  “I do when they’re convenient.” Before we headed into another excruciating discussion about Why Milagro Should Have a Practical Career Plan, I said, “Okay, I’ll occupy myself while you finish your work. Then we’ll take a sudsy bath and then we’ll go out.”

  “That works for me.”

  While Oswald pulled case files out of his briefcase, I wrapped myself in a thick terry hotel robe and pulled a new composition book from my suitcase. On the black-and-white speckled cover I wrote, “Nancy’s Theory of Style.” I spent the next half hour scribbling down everything I’d ever learned from Nancy, beginning with her axiom that taste is not style.

  We did take a bath, but somehow we never left the hotel suite. Later, as we curled up in bed, I said, “I’ll be glad when I can finally be done with the Council. Poor Sam’s been negotiating with them forever, even with Ian supporting us.”

  Oswald’s body tensed and then he said, “Goddamn Ian Ducharme.”

  I rolled on top of him so I could look right at him. “When are you going to stop being jealous? When we’re married with kids, are you still going to assume Ian wants to seduce me away?”

  “I don’t know. Whose kids are they?”

  “Ha ha and ha. You want jealous? Talk to me sometime when I’m thinking about your hands on some naked woman.”

  “Not woman. Patient. Naked patient.”

  “A technicality. If I ever thought you were interested in another woman…,” I said. That dark, dense, sad place in my chest tightened and tugged, threatening to pull other things into it.

  “You’re the one I love,” Oswald said and pulled me to him.

  I hid my face in his shoulder and held him tight, but not too tight.

  The next morning, after we’d had breakfast, I packed my things and we checked out of the hotel. My flight was in the evening, so I was having a girl’s day in the City. I left my suitcase at the hotel and stood with Oswald out on the street while the valet got his car.

  He put his arm around my waist. “Have fun, but be careful.”

  “I’m signing papers with a bunch of stodgy administrators.” He still looked worried so I added, “I’ll be careful, Oswald.” I took my engagement ring off my finger and handed it to him, saying, “You keep this safe for me.”

  I waved good-bye as he drove off, and then I window-shopped on the way to my salon for a haircut and mani-pedi. While I waited for my appointment, I chose a red-purple nail lacquer that was the same shade as blood in a vial. The hair stylist trimmed my hair but kept it long.

  Mercedes’s club was a pleasant walk from the salon. On the way there, I stopped in a corner grocery and bought ham, cheese, pickles, and French rolls. The club was on a run-down block, but new businesses were moving in. The club’s plain black exterior had been repainted and there was a new discreet sign in red neon that said My Dive. The doorman wasn’t on duty yet, and the girl at the ticket booth unlocked the door for me.

  The interior still smelled of fresh paint. Thick, new, dark blue velvet drapes hung on the stage, and new tables and chairs circled the dance floor. The dressing rooms and Mercedes’s office were behind the stage.

  My friend was at her desk, in a Juanita and Her Rat-Dogs T-shirt and Levi’s. She wore her hair in dreadlocks for practicality, and her pretty cocoa complexion had a sprinkling of darker freckles across her nose.

  “Hola, mi amiga,” I said. “I brought sandwich fixings.”

  “Excellent,” she said. She took the grocery bag from me to the credenza, where she had a panini press. “This city is supposed to be a food capital, but I can’t get a decent Cuban sandwich.”

  “I remember when you used to use an iron to make them,” I said as she layered meat with slices of pickle on the rolls.

  “Those were good. Gabriel told me they’re nervous about your meeting with the Council.”

  Mercedes was the only person who knew about my relationship with the vampires. She’d become friends with the Grant family and connected with Gabriel on a computer-hacker level.

  “I’m just smiling and signing papers. I’m going to see my friend Toodles on my trip.”

  “Toodles,” Mercedes said. “One of those trust-fund, rich-girl nicknames. I know a few places you should go for good Cuban food and music.”

  “Toodles already has our whole visit planned. But maybe you and I could take a trip together and you could show me all the best clubs.”

  “Sure, why not? If it won’t interfere with your…what is it you do, exactly?” Mercedes had inherited her parents’ immigrant work ethic and thought writing wasn’t a real job.

  “I just got the commission to ghostwrite the memoir of a world-renowned academic. I can’t say anything about it, however, because of a confidentiality clause.” I told her about registering for wedding gifts at the ritzy department store.

  “You’re not expecting me to shop there, are you?”

  “Oh, please. I have a catalog for the Womyn’s Sexual Health Collective and they have a gift registry. Oswald keeps going to the page with the pink fur handcuffs. I don’t know if he wants them for him or for me.”

  “Too personal, mujer,” Mercedes said. “I’m getting you a blender. Not just any blender, but the Margaritanator 3000.”

  “That’s exactly what I want! You’re psychic.”

  “Yeah, that and Gabriel told me you destroyed another one,” she said. “The Margaritanator 3000 is for commercial use, and even you won’t be able to kill it.”

  We enjoyed our toasty sandwiches and talked about music for the wedding. While we thought Juanita and Her Rat-Dogs were fantastic, Mercedes suggested bands that had a broader appeal.

  As I was leaving, my amiga gave me a big abrazo and said, “Anything comes up, you know my number.”

  I kissed her cheek and said, “I had it tattooed on my colita in case I ever get hit by a truck and get amnesia.”

  I took the red-eye flight out, leaving late in the evening and arriving in early morning. When I went to the baggage carousel, I spotted my green zebra case the moment it came out and grabbed it up while others jostled to identify their boring black luggage.

  Oswald had booked a room for me at his favorite hotel, a posh place smack in the heart of things, and insisted on paying for it. I could ponder my discomfort with our vastly different economic circumstances while I soaked in the marble Jacuzzi.

  Navigating the subway in a big city made me feel cosmopolitan and capable. When I got out on the street, I studied all the stylish women so I’d know what to buy when I went shopping with Toodles, who was meeting me at the hotel. Guiding my rolling bag through the crowd was challenging, especially since I kept staring up at the tall buildings and signs and trendy urbanites instead of looking where I was going.

  The boutique hotel had a Deco glass awning, and the doorman tipped his hat as I wheeled my bag into the carpeted lobby, which was as hushed as a mona
stery.

  The middle-aged clerk at the front desk smiled pleasantly and said, “Good morning. May I help you?”

  “Hello. I have a reservation and an early check-in.”

  “Certainly. Under what name?”

  “De Los Santos, Milagro.”

  But he couldn’t find a reservation under my name or Oswald’s. I produced my confirmation information to no avail.

  “That reservation was canceled,” the clerk said and told me that no rooms were available.

  The concierge was called over to help. When the situation was explained, she gave me her card and said, “If you can’t find anything else, come back late tonight, after eleven. We hold a few rooms for emergencies. Tell the on-duty clerk that I sent you. We can give you a room at half off.”

  I didn’t mind waiting for that kind of discount. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” The concierge offered to let me leave my bag in their luggage room. After I gave my bag to the luggage attendant, I turned and saw a preppy young woman coming toward me. “Toodles!”

  “Milagro!”

  We hugged and stepped back to look at each other. I remembered Nancy’s remark when I saw the pearl necklace at the open collar of Toodles’s blue pinstripe blouse. She wore navy corduroys and brown flats, and her curly brown hair was pulled back. Toodles seemed plain initially, but her sweet expression and plump body became very pretty with familiarity.

  “Do you want to go up to your room?” she said.

  “My reservation got canceled somehow.”

  “Oooh, noo! My brother and his messy friends are crashing at my place, but I’ll kick them out.”

  “Don’t do that! The concierge said I could get a room here after eleven, so I’ll do that. I don’t want to waste any of our time together.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m totally sure.”

  “Goood! I’ve got a whole day planned and reservations at an amazing restaurant after your meeting.”

  I’d told Toodles that I had a meeting at 6 P.M. with my fiancй’s relatives and implied that it was about a pre-nup, knowing she’d be too polite to pry.

  We raced from monuments and landmarks, to department stores, to museums. We had so much to do that we ate lunch at a hot dog stand. I kept seeing things that I’d seen in movies and on television, so my experience was one of mingled recognition and wonder.

  Toodles and I were sitting in a dark old bar that had been frequented by writers we’d studied at F.U. I told her about Nancy’s new career. “You’ll see her in action at the wedding. She’s developing something called Nancy’s Theory of Style, a rigorous, analytical approach to fashion.”

  Toodles’s laugh turned into a very unladylike belch. She covered her mouth and looked surprised. “Oh, dear. My stomach is feeling a bit ooky.” She rushed off to the ladies’ room.

  Her face was flushed and glistening when she came out ten minutes later. “I feel terrible that I’m ruining your day.”

  “You feel terrible because you’re sick. I’ve had an incredible day and now I’m going to get you home.” I ushered her out to the street. A cab was just dropping off someone and I grabbed it for her.

  As I handed her in, she said, “You’ve got to use the restaurant reservation. Promise! I’ll be better by tomorrow.”

  I had just enough time to catch the subway back to the hotel. I gave the luggage attendant my ticket, collected my bag, and went to the ladies’ room in the lobby. I’d had a lot of experience using toilet stalls as dressing rooms and knew just how to twist and turn to get into a structured black jacket and hip-skimming skirt. I swapped my flat shoes for peep-toe heels that showed off my pedicure.

  I brushed out my hair and as I was redoing my face, I spotted the red stone ring in my makeup case. That one small item was the finishing touch my outfit needed.

  five

  bear with me

  I ’d planned on checking my case back into the luggage room but a horde of tourists was monopolizing the clerk’s time. I pulled my bag out to the street, and one of the wheels got caught in a grating and froze into place, forcing me to drag the bag behind me. I caught a cab, and we inched forward in heavy, noisy traffic. Thirty minutes and less than a mile later, the cabbie pulled up to an older skyscraper.

  The security guard in the lobby checked my ID and then directed me to the twenty-fifth floor. I hauled my bag into the elevator and smiled when I saw a plaque for Presidential Properties. The vampires who had immigrated to America adopted presidents’ names to camouflage their origins, and every one I’d ever met had been wild for real estate.

  The doors opened to a starkly elegant lobby with white-and-black marble floors and amber walls. White marble columns framed doorways, and the minimalist furniture was black and chrome. Three huge abstract paintings hung on the walls. I dragged my case to the reception desk.

  An elderly woman with gold-rimmed glasses sat there, and her engraved green-glass nameplate read Mrs. Smith. I was reasonably sure that there hadn’t been a president named Smith, so I guessed that she was a Normal.

  She glanced at my badge and snapped, “You’re five minutes late. The committee is waiting.”

  Don’t poke the bear, I thought. “I’m sorry for the delay. Traffic was insane.”

  “The conference room is downstairs.” She stared at my bag and said, “You may put that in that closet.”

  I dragged my case to the closet, and then followed Mrs. Smith to the elevator. When it arrived and we got in, she pushed the button marked B2, the second level of the basement. She held a ring of keys and jingled them as we rode down.

  The elevator opened into a gloomy room lined with hissing and clanking machinery. Pendant lamps cast anemic circles of light. Mrs. Smith led me down a narrow aisle.

  She unlocked a door at the end of the room, and once I had gone through, she locked it behind us. We walked through a storeroom to another door. She unlocked this one, too, and again waited for me to pass through before locking it behind us.

  We were in a dank, narrow hallway that was even more dimly lighted than the rooms we’d just walked through. We walked and walked and I realized that this was not a hallway but a tunnel. I felt a rumbling and guessed the subway was nearby. At the end of the tunnel was an old-fashioned cage elevator.

  We got in and the gate closed with a loud clank. Mrs. Smith turned the crank handle to the right and we slowly and creakily descended until the elevator stopped with a heavy thud.

  Mrs. Smith opened the gate and I stepped out. We were in a cavern. Glittering chandeliers illuminated an area like a stage. Beyond their glow, the cavern was pitch black. An enormous carpet in rich shades of scarlet lay on the brick floor. The cavern had a fantastic arched and tiled ceiling, and there were arches over the large wooden doors on a far wall.

  A massive table of white-veined red marble was centered on the carpet. Six men sat at the table. They had the generic anonymity of prosperous businessmen: dark suits, graying hair, and regular features. In front of each was a bottle of mineral water, a glass, and a small carafe of deep red liquid.

  The man at the head of the table stood and said, “Welcome, Miss De Los Santos.” His face was calm, his hazel eyes were sharp as a ferret’s. He had a narrow nose and a dimpled chin that gave his face character.

  “Hello.” Despite the astonishing setting, my eyes kept going to the dark liquid, and the man saw that.

  He turned to my escort. “Thank you, Mrs. Smith.”

  She nodded her head and I heard her footsteps retreating, and then the creaking of the elevator as it rose.

  The man said, “Please take a seat, Miss De Los Santos.”

  I sat at the empty chair in front of the last setting of beverages and willed myself to be patient. Cranberry juice had controlled, but not sated, my thirst. I looked around the table at the other men. A few stared at me as if I were a prize bug and they were amateur entomologists, eager to stab a pin through me for a display. Others seemed annoyed at having to be there.

  �
��Miss De Los Santos, we have received the Grant family’s petitions to grant you rights within our community, but we would like to review the details with you personally.” He clearly pronounced every r.

  “And you are?” I asked.

  “I’m Mr. Nixon.” He saw my expression and said, “It really is my name,” but I didn’t believe him.

  I picked up the carafe and smelled it. It had a strange aroma, not human, but not like the blood of any animal I’d tasted before.

  “It’s llama, Miss De Los Santos, since we learned that you won an award for a story about a llama.”

  Not that damn llama again. But the thick liquid had a fresh, sweet, copper scent that made my mouth water. “How thoughtful.” I poured a teaspoon of blood in my glass and filled it with water. The taste was a little odd, grassy like lamb, with a not unpleasant stronger note. It was definitely better than emu. It warmed me and I instantly felt more alert. “What is this place?”

  A man who’d been eyeing me with fascination explained that it had been built when the first subway had been built, over 150 years ago. “If anyone noticed the additional construction, they forgot about it. Or died.”

  I suspected that the doors led out to subway lines and other exit passages. This was where the vamps would come in an emergency. I felt a twinge of sympathy for a people who always had to worry about their safety. I said, “Sam Grant told me that I would be signing the agreement that we already reviewed.”

  “Yes, you will,” said Mr. Nixon. “But first we’d like to hear your story in your own words. Let’s start at the beginning. How did you first meet Oswald Grant?”

  Don’t poke the bear, I thought, and I recited a brief version of my experiences: my initial infection; kidnapping by a crazed ex-beau; and my more recent encounter with a rogue vampire and the extremist Project for a New Vampire Century.

  Nixon said, “You’ve got an ally in Ian Ducharme, but that’s to be expected considering your special relationship.”

  “He did save my life after that attack. But if you are referring to our friendship, we don’t even keep in touch. If you mean more, you are mistaken.”