Things That Go Bump In The Night II

by Lani Aames

  When she finished the meal, Claude suggested moving into the office. They brought the rest of the wine along. Eloise switched on the computer and inserted the disk she'd brought with her. "Do you have any ideas about the middle?" she asked, loading her file of unfinished plot notes. "Middles are always the hard part. Varney will try to seduce Flora, of course."

  "Of course." Claude pulled up a chair beside the desk, so close that Eloise could feel his breath ruffling the fine hairs on her arms. His nostrils flared as if sampling her scent. "When I call on the Bannerworths, I pay particular attention to the innocent Flora. She doesn't recognize me, naturally."

  "Sure, it has to work that way. You'll have to appear in heavy makeup, with huge fangs, in the first bedroom scene, so the audience can believe she doesn't know it's you." She typed a note to that effect. "But she still feels uneasy. Something about you strikes a chord. I mean something about the vampire," she hastily corrected.

  "Does it? What kind of chord?" He gave her a teasing half-smile.

  "She's nervous, but fascinated. It's a 'dove mesmerized by a snake' kind of thing." Feeling her face grow hot under his eyes, Eloise focused on the computer screen.

  "And Varney knows exactly how she reacts, no matter how hard she tries to disguise it," said Claude, edging still closer. "He gloats over her fascination."

  "How does he know?"

  "What? Have you forgotten vampires can read emotions? He senses every feeling that flashes through her mind. He knows that underneath her fear, she craves his touch." He lowered his voice to a silken purr.

  "He does, huh? Who made this rule about vampires reading emotions?" She flicked a brief glance at him, then took a gulp of wine to distract herself from the new blush she felt creeping over her skin.

  Claude shrugged. "Stands to reason. It goes along with their hypnotic power of mind control. They have to read it to control it, you know."

  "Right." She forced a shaky giggle to deflect her own thoughts from the way he seemed able to creep into them and control them. "Mind control and emotion reading. Check." She typed the phrases. "No bat transformation, I hope? That's not in the book."

  "Then let's skip it, by all means. He doesn't need wings to seduce Flora."

  "Seduce? I thought he was trying to terrify her."

  "Ah, but once he meets her in a less tumultuous situation, he changes his mind. Her wide, innocent eyes ensnare him." Claude captured Eloise's eyes, making her feel like a shard of metal in the grip of a magnet. "He can't resist the aroma of her blood and the liquid pulsation of her heart." His lips grazed her hair, and he inhaled as if savoring its aroma. He placed one finger on the hollow of her throat. "He lures her into his web under the very eyes of her father, brother, and jealous suitor. He's determined to own the house and make her his bride as well."

  Eloise felt her pulse throb under his fingertip. "But he doesn't," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. "He doesn't possess Flora in the end."

  "Quite right." Claude retreated to lean against the desk at arm's length from her. "According to your outline, you plan to use the double heroine device. The other girl, Clara, will be the expendable one."

  She laughed, glad for the break in the tension. "That's such a crude way to put it. I'd rather think of Clara as the red shirt, like a Star Trek security guard."

  "Varney turns to her as a consolation prize when Flora's family learns how to protect her from vampires," said Claude. "He's lonely for the embrace of a beautiful woman."

  Eloise's skin prickled under his penetrating gaze. "Vampires get lonely?"

  "Of course. The blood is the life, as they say. Not just food, but total fulfillment. When Flora rejects Varney, he needs a substitute."

  She broke away from his stare and focused on the computer screen. "But he gets carried away with Clara—"

  "And accidentally transforms her—"

  "She rises from the grave and starts preying on the innocent—"

  "So the vampire-hunting fanatics invade her resting place and drive a stake through her—"

  "Which awakens Varney to the true horror of his existence. Realizing he'll never find peace, he decides to commit suicide in the crater of Vesuvius," Eloise finished.

  "The graveyard scene should incorporate all the familiar details from the vintage vampire films. Torch-bearing peasants and the lot. The writhing undead corpse spouting fountains of blood."

  "Sure, and vampire hunters loaded down with crosses, garlic, and holy water."

  Claude folded his arms and declaimed, "Garlic in a basket for the vampire in the casket, and a holy water flagon to keep her cape a-draggin'."

  Eloise gave him an incredulous stare.

  "I'll need a few minutes of rehearsal," he said, "if you want a better Danny Kaye parody than that. Holy water flask for the undead-splashing task?"

  She shook her head. "You stick to performing the lines, and let somebody else write them."

  Brandishing the wine bottle, he said, "Empty. Would you like some more?"

  She finished typing her notes and stood up. She felt lightheaded and a little wobbly. "Maybe just one glass."

  In the kitchen, she leaned against the center island and sliced an apple while he opened another bottle of wine. With the length of time that had passed since her not-so-filling dinner, maybe she needed some ballast in her stomach. The paring knife slipped and gashed her left thumb. Her arm jerked, banging her elbow on the counter. She yelped in pain.

  Claude zipped over to her. "Are you all right? Let me see." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the cut, while he massaged her elbow. Instantly, warmth erased the pain in the joint, spread in concentric circles, and radiated up her arm. She felt his tongue lick the wound before he started sucking it. The sting from the knife blade vanished, replaced by an electric tingle that made the skin prickle all over her body. Only half aware of what she was doing, she closed her eyes and leaned on Claude's chest.

  He removed his mouth and stepped back, holding her hand lightly. Dismayed by the sudden interruption of the dreamy contentment that had enveloped her, she stared up at him.

  "There, it's stopped bleeding," he said. His breathing sounded as labored as hers. "Why don't we sit outside awhile?"

  Why hadn't he taken the embrace any further? Heck of a time for him to develop scruples on the subject, she thought.

  Carrying their glasses, the bottle of wine, and Eloise's apple, they descended to the patio exit. "This should be safe enough," Claude said as he pulled up a deck chair for her, "even if someone's watching the house." They sat in the dark under overhanging eaves, where any observer would have to get exactly the right angle to see them at all. Because the predawn fog was still hours away, they had a glorious view of the star-sprinkled sky and the ocean bisected by a ribbon of moonlight. A cool breeze ruffled her hair.

  "Who could be watching? Didn't you say nobody knows about this house?" She munched on apple slices while he filled the goblets. His fingers brushed hers when he handed her the glass. Flinching away from the contact, she splashed wine over the rim. Blushing, she wiped her hand on her jeans. The flush of warmth on her face and neck crept down her chest all the way to her stomach and thighs.

  "I said it hasn't been publicized. It's hardly top secret. The stalker, if you want to call him that, could find the place if he tried hard enough. I'm hoping he won't manage to."

  "I still think you're overreacting. After all, you're the one he's out to get, not me. If anything, he seemed to be warning me, not threatening." She took a bite of apple and a sip of wine, a light, semi-sweet Riesling that harmonized well with the taste of the fruit. "How long do you expect me to stay here, anyway?"

  "I wouldn't mind having you stay indefinitely." He lifted her hand, planted a light tongue-flick of a kiss on it, then quickly released it.

  When she glanced up, startled, she thought she saw a glint of red reflected in his eyes. Since he instantly looked away, she couldn't double-check. It had to be an optical illusion. Oh, boy, maybe t
hat cabernet was stronger than I thought. "As much as I'd enjoy a life of luxury as a prisoner in your castle by the sea," she said with an attempt at a light touch, "I do have my own life and work to get back to." Doubtless that word "indefinitely" meant nothing, anyway. The man was an actor, expert at charming people with empty phrases.

  "So you do. Our script, for one thing."

  "You seem pretty sure it'll get filmed," she ventured, hoping she didn't sound pushy for trying to pin him down.

  "It will. The backers I mentioned owe me a favor."

  "Do you plan to direct as well as produce and star?"

  He laughed. "Deliver me from that! No, I have a director in mind, one who'll stick to my intentions for the tone of the thing."

  "Such as not making Varney one of those spineless undead whining about his cursed existence," she teased, recalling what Claude had said on their first meeting.

  "We'll have to tread a fine line, giving him a plausible motivation for suicide without turning him into just that."

  "Well, I think it has to inspire him to a change of heart, when he takes the risk of fleeing to the Bannerworths, and Flora hides him from the mob," she said.

  "Redeemed by the love of a good woman?" he said with a wry smile. He rested his fingers lightly on her wrist, as if counting her pulse. It sped up accordingly.

  "Not love." The word made Eloise's head buzz like a nest of hornets. He didn't mean a thing by it. He was only making conversation about a pulp horror novel. "She thinks of him more as a friend, since he stopped pressuring them to sell the house and showed her where to find the secret cache of jewels to pay off the family's debt."

  "Oh, yes, I almost forgot about the hidden treasure."

  "After she helps him escape through the secret passage—"

  "There's a secret passage, too?" Laughter tinged the question.

  "Sure, you can't have a Gothic mansion and a hidden treasure without a secret passage," said Eloise. "Then he sneaks to the home of the local vicar and confesses his evil past. The vicar assures Varney he's not beyond forgiveness, and he decides the only way to redeem himself is by seeking the true death."

  "Romantic fiction aside, do you believe a vampire can be redeemed?" said Claude in an oddly serious tone.

  "Theoretically, if they existed?" She shrugged. "If they had consciousness, instead of being demon-animated corpses, they would have free will, too. So they could choose goodness. And if God made everything, He must have made vampires for a reason, if only to remind us ordinary human beings that we're not the rulers of the universe. So I'd think He would accept a vampire who repented."

  "Well, when you put it that way, it's only fair. The trouble with the usual scenario is that your average vampire in search of redemption wants to be 'cured'. If a supernatural predator decides to mend his ways and stop ripping the occasional victim to shreds, why should the package have to include renouncing all those 'creature of the night' fringe benefits?"

  "Like immortality and assorted super-powers? Good point."

  "And invading the bedchambers of nubile maidens." With a fingernail, he traced a circle on the back of her hand. It seared like a lambent flame.

  "Definitely an important perk." She tried to maintain a light tone, though she had trouble catching her breath.

  "Next time, let's write a script about a vampire or some other dark-prowling predator who doesn't have to get cremated in a volcano," Claude said. "Here's to creatures of the night."

  She raised her glass to clink with his. "I'll drink to that." Her nerves fizzed with delight at the hint of a "next time."

  They finished the bottle in silence except for stray remarks now and then. When she stood up, Eloise felt a pleasant floating sensation but no actual drowsiness, after sleeping more than half the day. As a writer, she liked to keep a late schedule whenever she could, anyway. Nighttime held fewer distractions, such as the afternoon and early evening plague of telemarketers, not to mention friends who mistook "working at home" for doing nothing.

  "Would you care to watch a movie?" Claude said as they went inside, his hand under her elbow to guide her. "Unless you're too tired? Maybe you'd rather go to bed."

  She felt a quiver in the pit of her stomach. Go to bed and dream of his hands, his mouth, his body covering hers? She eased her arm out of his gentle clasp, hoping he didn't notice how shaky her balance still was. "No, not at all. Do you have tapes of your own films?"

  "Living near Los Angeles, you must know actors' egos better than that. Of course I do. Maybe you'd like to see the director's cut of the first Count Orloff opus?"

  She agreed. They spent most of what remained of the night watching that video and its sequel. To her vague disappointment, Claude stayed on his side of the couch throughout both movies. True, she wasn't eager to face the decision of whether to maintain a dignified shield or melt into his arms. On the other hand, she didn't relish the implication that he'd lost interest in her body. Did his occasional sharp glance at her during the delectably romantic moments in the films mean he guessed how the scenes affected her? Could he somehow sense the flutter in her stomach, the pulsation between her legs, the trickle of wetness when he seemed about to move toward her, and the letdown she felt when he returned his attention to the TV?

  At the door of her room, she thought for a second that he wanted to revive the spark between them. His hands alighted on her upper arms, moving up and down the bare flesh in a distracted manner he seemed hardly aware of. He bent over her, his mouth hovering near hers. She parted her lips and waited. Emitting a long sigh, he kissed her cheek and drew back. A knot of frustration coiled low in her abdomen.

  "Why don't you work up a few more pages of dialogue?" he said in a husky voice better suited to sensuality than business. "I'll be interested to see how you visualize those conversations between Varney and Flora."

  "Okay," she murmured, involuntarily swaying toward him. "If you'll read the lines with me to check how it sounds."

  "With pleasure." He let go of her so abruptly that she almost stumbled. "Sleep well, cherie." His voice caressed her. He spoiled the impression, though, by adding, "And remember, after you get up, stay inside the house."

  "Will you cool it with the ominous prohibitions? You make me feel like Bluebeard's bride!" She retreated into the bedroom, closing the door with a firm click that didn't quite rate as a slam.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day, she again woke before Claude. She remembered a note in his publicity bio that his career had started in legitimate theater. That experience must have given him a permanent fondness for keeping late hours. After breakfast, she tackled the pivotal character-changing scenes she and Claude had discussed. Hours flew by while she typed page after page of dialogue. She had no trouble putting seductive speeches in Varney's mouth when she visualized him as Claude.

  Dream on, girl, she cautioned herself. Any day now you'll have to go home and turn back into a pumpkin. She couldn't fool herself that Claude's flattery and seduction meant anything to him beyond a temporary diversion. Judging from the way he'd behaved the night before, he must have already regretted their intimacies at the con. No doubt her unconscious mind approved, because she'd had no erotic dreams this time. Her nipples puckered at the memory of that vivid dream the previous night. She crossed her arms over her breasts to stifle the feeling.

  By five o'clock, though, she fidgeted with restlessness that made hash of her concentration. Given Claude's obvious resolution to keep distance between them, what gave him the right to forbid her to leave the house? She would take a walk on the beach if she darn well pleased. Especially since the day was almost over, and he still showed no signs of emerging from his cave.

  Snatching an apple from the kitchen, she stomped out the patio door and down the steps to the beach. She scuffed through the sand to the seaweed-strewn rocks at the edge of the water and crunched her way through the fruit. By the time she buried the core, the exercise and sea air had cooled her temper a little. So what if Claude saw
her as a writer instead of a sex object? Wasn't that what she'd originally preferred? And if he had a controlling streak, she could live with that for another day or two. If he delivered orders, she didn't have to obey them. The important thing was that the check, figuratively speaking, was in the mail.

  Just as she considered going inside, a white shape caught her eye. A man walking across the beach toward her. He must have descended the steps while she'd been looking the other way. When he got closer, she saw that he wore a white suit, a straw hat, and, of all things, white gloves. Tall—well, at five feet four, she thought of most men as tall—with untidy, dark hair, he looked scarecrow-thin even in a jacket with padded shoulders.

  He strolled right up to her and tipped his hat like a gentleman in an old movie. Now she could see that he had a neatly trimmed mustache, which, along with the suit and hat, gave him a barbershop-quartet appearance, somewhat spoiled by the sunglasses he also wore. "Miss Kern?" he said.

  "Do I know you?"

  "No, but I've been looking for you. I'm deeply concerned that you're staying in Claude Darvell's house." His suave tone held no hint of a threat.

  Nevertheless, her heart accelerated. She folded her arms and took a step backward. "You're the one who called me the other night. What do you want?"

  He spread his hands. "Only to help you. You are in danger as long as you're within his reach."

  "Sorry, I don't find vague threats very convincing." Could she evade him and run for the house? He stood between her and the stairs. If she tried to dash around him, he could probably catch her in seconds with those long legs.

  "Miss Kern, are you a Christian?"

  She gaped at him. Was he a religious fanatic as well as a crazed stalker? "Well, yes, I belong to a church." Next, she expected, he would ask if she were saved. That always struck her as an intrusively personal question, along the lines of, "Do you love your husband?"

  Instead, he asked, "Do you have a crucifix with you?"