by Jan McDonald
Her face softened as she looked at him closely, the previous hours lost in the revelation that blotted all else from her mind, even her own pain. He was so much like her father, his namesake. His hair fell in the same dark waves that her father’s did. The resemblance was incredible, except for the hardness around the mouth. A gift from Greg, she thought.
“What’s wrong with you Nik? What do the doctors say?”
“What do you care? You gave that responsibility away when you gave me away. Anyway, by the look of you, you can’t help me.” He was sullen, remaining silent for several minutes, and then he carried on reluctantly, “Something hereditary. Some disease that you probably gave to me. Thanks.”
She went cold. He continued, his voice bitter with resentment.
“It’s a recessive gene – whatever that is – some doctor tried to explain it to me, but what it comes down to is that you or my father passed this on to me. Did you know that when you dumped me? Is that why you did it? Didn’t want the hassle of a sick child? Or was it just guilt?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No,” she whispered.
“I assume it’s from you and not my father? That’s if you know who my father is.”
Greg didn’t know about his son. She’d known back then what his reaction would have been, so she’d said nothing, not even when she’d been so ill. He wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with a baby; it would have got in the way of his career then, and now, at the top of his field, he would welcome it even less. Besides, she knew the boy’s sickness had come from her; it was all too familiar.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Then that makes you a whore as well as a bitch.”
She turned away from him, unable to hide the hurt, and desperate that he shouldn’t see it. Better he think her a slut than open that can of worms.
“They said it was probably because of the Greek blood. Oh yes, they knew that much about you. It’s all in my records. ”
She nodded. “Haemolytic anaemia is common among the people of the Mediterranean countries, especially Italy and Greece. I think what you have is something similar. And yes, I have it too.”
He stood quickly, and she frowned at his ability to move so freely with
his injuries. The resilience of youth, she thought.
“Then I guess I’m wasting my time. If you have it and can’t cure it, how the hell are you going to fix me up?”
“I can maybe help you cope with it and I believe there may be someone who can help us both. Come with me?”
“I’ve seen `em all; doctors and shrinks.”
She blanched and thought of Beckett. She should call him.
“Why?” she ventured.
“Because of how I used to get; prowling around all hours of the night, and dreams that would scare the crap out of Freddie Kruger.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He looked at her strangely. “Then you’ll also know what blood does to me?”
She nodded again.
“And what I had to do to quench the thirst?”
The horror in her eyes stopped him dead.
“What? Not been there yet? Of course you haven’t – that’s why you’re so bloody pale and thin. Oh, then you’ll enjoy hearing this. One night I went to a club with some friends of mine, a Goth club called Danse Macabre, and I met someone who showed me what I am. The club’s a place where people like us go to hang out, along with all the other punters like the Lifestylers, role players and Goths. Oh, and then there’s the wannabes.”
“I don’t understand you,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“Lifestylers are the ones that adopt the dress and posture of the romantic Gothic, like Byron. They live in the past. The role players are the losers that pretend they are something they’re not, playing at being vampires and slayers instead of getting a life. Then the wannabes – well they just live for the day when someone like me will come along and feed off them, hoping that they’ll get lucky and be turned into this living hell. The Goths are okay; they just adopt the dress and listen to the hard-core house music, using the clothes and the black makeup and music to express themselves. But there are others there too; some just like us, you know, the real ones.”
“Real ones?” Her mind was racing.
He threw his head back and laughed. The bitterness of it lodged deep inside her and she felt his anger and his pain. She had the urge to comfort him but not the right; she was a stranger to her son.
“You don’t know, do you? You really don’t. Look in the goddamn mirror. Apart from how thin you are, you don’t look above twenty-five, and how old are you? Thirty-five? Six? Thirty-seven? And the blood; think about that for a minute. You’re terrified of it because deep down inside you know you need it. You want it. What about the dark? Like what that does to you? No, I guess not, you’re terrified of what it does to you. And what about men? Now that’s an interesting one isn’t it? I’ll bet you’re an animal when you’re aroused. But I guess they don’t stay around too long.”
Kat clamped her hands over her ears; her eyes squeezed shut, desperate to block him out, as his intensity shook her again. She was pale, almost translucent, and her voice trembled.
“How dare you? How dare you? Get out. I can’t help you. God knows if anybody can. Go before I call the police.”
“I’m going, but this isn’t the last time you’ve seen me. I guarantee it.”
He stood directly in front of her and thumped on his chest. “Look at me. No broken ribs here, not even a bruise. Oh, and the nose is just fine. How’s that? Let me explain to you. Ultra-rapid healing is one of the advantages. Forget haemolytic or any other kind of anaemia. Do I have to spell it out? I’m a vampire. And so, Mother dearest, are you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Time slid backwards in her mind as she sat shivering in her kitchen, where even the warmth of the range did nothing to comfort her. Memories of a summer of love turned sour, swiftly followed by her sickness, and the heartbreak of parting with her child, all overwhelmed her. Numb to her surroundings, she sat motionless while the events of the night replayed in her mind, and random images of the past bled into the present as Nik strode down her path on an obvious high of rage and hunger.
Despite her efforts to control her thoughts, they spiralled in reverse to the time when her life had been changed forever...
She was nineteen and in medical school, her exams passed with credit, and she was dating the catch of a lifetime with the whole summer ahead of her.
I’m dating Greg Randall, she’d thought, everyone wants a piece of him and, out of all the others, he chose me. I can’t believe it. His family has money, he’s good looking, good in the sack, and he wants to spend the summer with me. There must be a god.
“Hippocrates was supposed to have died in Larissa,” Greg had said, “and your grandparents’ village isn’t that far from there, it’ll be fun. What do you say?”
He wanted her to go to Greece with him, backpacking their way through the central plain, away from the tourists. What the hell else would she say but yes?
She had insisted on using her savings to pay for her flight to Athens; they would stay in cheap rooms and hitchhike their way across the country. She would pay her own way, and the idea of slumming it obviously held a perverse appeal to Greg.
Their journey had been uneventful, except for Greg making a pass at the stewardess on the plane. Kat had forgiven him; he was very persuasive.
Two weeks into their trip, Greg had suggested that they make for Larissa; after all they were medical students and Larissa was where the father of medicine was supposed to have died.
“Where did you say your grandparents lived? Kastanavos? It must be small; it’s not even on the map.” He had his baby blonde head bent over a map, and she ran her fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. She already knew how he would respond and she wanted to take his mind away from thoughts of finding her roots. There was no logic behind it,
but she just knew that it was not a good idea. Probably just inverted snobbery, she thought, Greg’s from the elite; father and mother both barristers, living in what could only be described as a mansion. She didn’t want anything to spoil their trip, especially her humble origins. She nuzzled his neck.
Greg was nothing if not predictable. He threw the map aside and pulled her in close, his ice-blue eyes alive and shining with lust. Kissing him was like opening a door to another world, a world of excitement that always hinted at danger. She lost herself in him totally, reaching the plateaux and peaks of pleasure that he was so capable of taking her to, mindful of the fact that she was pleasing his ego as much as his body but she didn’t care as he took her beyond all that.
Afterwards, she wanted to tell him she loved him, but something intangible held the words in her throat.
He reached across her and made a grab at the map. “So, we’ll head for Larissa tomorrow,” he said.
Her misgivings grew wings and flew as her whole being filled with apprehension.
They had visited the site where Hippocrates was reputed to have expired, tramped around numerous archaeological sites, drunk copious amounts of local wine and now it was obvious that Greg was bored.
Bored with Greece, bored with slumming it and, she thought, bored with her. Not with her body maybe, but with who she was – or more likely, who she wasn’t. But then, she thought, Greg was the type of person to get bored easily.
The memories were still raw, even after nearly twenty years. In the warmth and safety of her kitchen, Kat closed her eyes, exhausted and undone.
The telephone rang, catapulting her back to the present. She let it ring until her answering machine kicked in automatically, and she heard Beckett’s voice.
“Kat? Kat if you’re there pick the phone up honey. It’s me, Beckett. “
She picked up the phone and held it to her ear but didn’t speak.
“Kat, is that you? Where the hell have you been, I’ve been worried sick. I’m coming over.”
“No,” she snapped.
“Kat, listen. I’m sorry if you think I let you down, please let me try and fix it? At least let me explain my reasons for sending you to Lane.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care about anything any more. Don’t waste your time on me Beckett. Find yourself another lost cause.”
“Kat, don’t do this.”
“Go away, Beckett. It’s too late.”
Her doorbell rang. She tossed the phone down and went to answer it, half hoping, half knowing, that it would be Lane and with that came a glimmer of hope for her, and for Nik.
Lane met her eyes with her a look that portrayed understanding, and behind that, a quiet authority. She gazed past her to the telephone on the chair.
“Let’s go and calm Beckett down,” she said, nodding towards the sitting room. “He’s a little tightly wound.”
Lane stepped inside the cottage and closed the door behind her, following Kat into the sitting room where she picked up the phone.
“Kat! Kat, are you still there?” Beckett’s voice was laden with panic.
“Relax Beckett, it’s me – I’ve just arrived. Just stay where you are for a while. Kat and I have some things to talk about. I’ll call you later.” She didn’t wait for his reply before she hung up on him.
Lane took in Kat’s haggard appearance. “Rough night?”
She nodded, unsure of why she trusted Lane yet knowing instinctively that she could, and that she should.
“Where did you go? Beckett and I looked all over for you. He’s very worried about you. We both are.”
“Save it for someone else. I’ll be okay.”
Lane frowned and shook her head. “You are going to need someone to trust sooner or later, so it may as well be sooner, and it may as well be me.”
Kat hesitated for a moment then she said in a subdued tone, “I saw my son last night.”
Lane’s expression didn’t alter and she remained silent.
Kat’s voice trembled. “He’s nineteen now. Oh God, I wish I hadn’t listened to them all – I wish I’d kept him; I could have managed somehow. I could have. Now it’s too late. He said his parents, his adoptive parents, had been killed in a road accident when he was five. You should have seen him; he was so angry and so hopeless. He’s sick, Lane. Sick like me, but it’s worse with him, he’s … confused. I don’t know … he seems psychotic.”
Lane raised an elegantly shaped eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
“Apart from the fact that he kidnapped me at knife-point, he’s delusional.”
“Delusional?”
“He actually believes he’s a vampire, for God’s sake! And he tried hard to convince me that I’m one too. That’s hardly sane, is it? Can you help him? Whatever it takes, please help him.”
“Do you have any alcohol anywhere?” Lane asked.
“What?” Kat was perplexed.
“Alcohol. Sherry ... whisky ... brandy?”
Kat frowned. “In the cupboard to your left.”
Lane grabbed the cheap bottle of brandy from the shelf where Beckett had left it the night before, and immediately poured two hefty measures into tumblers from the shelf below.
“Here, drink this.”
Kat shook her head. “No. No thanks. I told you I’ll be okay.”
“And I’m telling you that you are going to need this. Drink it. Or do I have to hold your nose?”
Kat shook her head. “You’re a strange one,” she said.
“I’ll take it as a compliment.” She nodded towards the glass. “Finish it.”
Kat drank it down and Lane promptly refilled the glass.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Kat demanded.
“Just drunk enough to help you cope with what I have to say.”
Kat looked grave but drank the brandy down warily, as Lane poured more into the empty glass. She could feel the warm spirit coursing through her body as Lane’s voice became softer, muffled, and a little distant.
Lane smiled warmly at Kat, she liked her and that wasn’t going to make what she had to say any easier. She laid her hand over Kat’s. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. Okay?”
Kat nodded and almost lost her balance.
“Good, I think you’re drunk enough, so here goes. Most myths and legends have their roots in truth. The older the myth, usually the truer it is in my experience. Vampires are no exception.”
Kat looked at Lane, her understanding lost again. “I’m sorry. What did you say? Vampires?”
Everything became surreal as Lane continued, “Vampires exist, and it is very likely from what you have told me that your son is one, though hopefully not beyond help. There are several different types of vampire; the Inheritors or the Born; as their name suggests, they are those who are born vampire. Then there is the Classic vampire, or Created; they are the ones who are turned, but they have to carry a recessive gene to enable this to happen. The Latents are the vampires who have the recessive gene but have not yet been turned, and finally, there are the Psi vampires; these vampires feed on energy not blood. I believe that you have been surviving this way – though only just, for several years without realising it. Of course there are also the Undead. They’re … well … they’re something else. Kat, I’m very sure that you’re a Latent vampire.
Kat stared at her in disbelief, shaking her head, unable to accept what she was hearing, feeling like Alice at the bottom of the rabbit-hole.
“Kat, do you understand what I am saying to you? I believe that you are a Latent vampire and are, in fact, on the verge of giving in to the lust for blood. If you feed, just once, then you will fulfil the blueprint of your DNA and become a vampire and I won’t be able to help you.”
Lane took the glass from Kat’s white knuckled grip and set it on the table.
“Kat, look at me. How old do you think I am? I look to be in my mid thirties, yes? In fact, I was born into the Florentine court in 1553 and my name is Leonora di Toled
o. I grew up in the care of my uncle and aunt, Eleanora and Cossimo de Medici while my own father was in Spain as commander in chief of the navy. While I was under his care, my uncle, shall we say, became too fond of me. He couldn’t bear the thought of me eventually leaving his court and so he married me off to his son, Don Pietro. He believed that he could make it all right by settling a massive dowry – around eighteen million in today’s terms – and several estates in Tuscany. He had in fact married me to a violent bully who delighted in beating me senseless. My dear husband was also more interested in squandering the Medici fortune on his whores than taking care of our estates. My life was made more bearable for a while by my cousin Isabella. She, too, was trapped in a loveless marriage, and her husband was constantly away in Rome. She was fun and threw great parties and, whilst Pietro was away from home, I was able to enjoy my life. Until I fell in love with a young poet and we had an affair. Whilst my uncle was alive I was under his protection but when he died, that protection died with it. My lover was thrown into a dungeon and Pietro was given the thumbs up to ‘take care’ of his wayward wife. History tells that he strangled me with a dog chain and that I bit him like a rabid dog before dying. In truth, he presented me to a vampire for my punishment. Unfortunately, that vampire didn’t kill me; instead he turned me and left me to live by feeding or die. I fed. I did bite Pietro; in fact I tore out his throat and drained him of his blood … I had my revenge for all the beatings.
“My name isn’t Lane Dearing; Lane is a contraction of Leonora, and over the past centuries I have needed to change my identity for reasons which you will come to understand. Dearing is the name of one of my more recent husbands that I have outlived by over a century. I’m just about to celebrate my six hundred and fifty-sixth birthday. And as much as I wish that all this wasn’t true, it is, and you are going to have to face it.”
Kat leaped up and instantly fell back onto the sofa, the alcohol, fatigue and shock visibly blending into a cocktail of delirium.
“What kind of sick joke is this?” she slurred. “Why’re you telling me these lies? Does Beckett know what you’re doing to me?” She tried unsuccessfully to stand again.
