Afterimage

by Jaye Roycraft

  He pursed his mouth. “You should have told me. We could have made different plans. We didn’t have to go to dinner. We could have even made it for a different night.”

  She reiterated her point. After all, it was as close to the truth as she could come. “I thought I’d feel better.”

  Jaime stared at his place mat then raised dark eyes to hers. “You know, your inability to be open with me is what sank our relationship last time. I thought you were going to change that.”

  “I’m not trying to hide anything, Jaime.” Liar! She felt like she was sinking into quicksand, and she didn’t know what to say or do to extricate herself.

  “Then why didn’t you just say you weren’t feeling well when I asked you what’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Right. Marya, I was willing to try again with you, but I don’t think this is going to work. I was hoping you’d changed, but I can see you haven’t.”

  She felt tears threatening to build, and her throat constricted. Everything she’d spent the past three days hoping for was being snatched from her grasp. She was flagged for termination. Nothing was as devastating as that. Jaime’s feelings shouldn’t matter at all. But they did.

  “My stomach is really feeling upset, Jaime. Maybe you should take me home.”

  “No ‘maybe’ about it. Let’s go.”

  They canceled their order and walked back to the truck in silence. The ride home was the longest fifteen minutes of Marya’s life. Jaime made no attempt at conversation, lighting up one cigarette after another, turning toward his open window to blow the smoke out. He didn’t turn to her once. When the truck pulled into her driveway at last she could think of only one thing to say. “I’m sorry, Jaime. I really am.”

  “That makes two of us. Good bye, Marya.”

  She hopped out of the truck and ran into the house without a backward glance. Slamming the door behind her, she leaned against it and closed her eyes until the sound of tires spinning on gravel faded from her hearing.

  It’s over.

  No, not yet. She steadied her breathing and forced Jaime Buckland out of her mind. Two weeks. She had two weeks left. She wasn’t going to go without a fight. She opened her eyes. The fireplace filled her vision, and she stared at it. An idea started to take form in her mind. She ran to the fireplace, opened the screen, and pulled the white card from its perch atop the grate. Drago’s card.

  She sat on the sofa and studied the front of the card. Alek Dragovich and a phone number. A phone number. Good.

  Next, she ascended a narrow staircase to the attic, excitement lending quickness to her steps. It has to still be here. She pushed aside cardboard cartons, wooden crates, and file boxes. Finally, she tore back an old blanket and found what she was looking for. The wooden chest was just as she remembered it. She dropped the blanket to the floor, knelt on it, and raised the chest’s lid.

  There it was. Her father’s journal. The vampire hunter’s diary. Many Roma of her father’s generation had been illiterate, but her father had been an exceptional man in many ways. He could not only read and write, but his ability to render accurate drawings was extraordinary. Marya was certain she had inherited her artistic talent from her father.

  She carefully removed the journal from the chest and carried it downstairs. It was the only item belonging to her father that Marya still had. After her father had died, her mother, in keeping with tradition, had sold all his possessions. Her mother had wanted to destroy the journal, calling it the book of meripen. Death.

  But Marya, wanting to keep that which had been most important to her father, had saved the book and hidden it from her mother. It chronicled not only the vampire hunter’s search for his prey, but detailed the methods used to kill each of his seven victims. It was a how-to book on how to kill a vampire.

  Marya spent the rest of the evening studying the entries and drawings. At midnight she closed the book and stared again at the white business card. Excellent.

  If she was going to die, she was going to make damn sure she took Alek Dragovich with her.

  Four

  MARYA WOKE EARLY the next morning, anxious to devise the best plan possible. She sat down at the kitchen table with the journal, a writing tablet, and a pen. She again went over the various methods for killing vampires, this time listing the advantages and disadvantages of each on a sheet of paper.

  There were actually quite a few ways to send the Undead to the True Death, but not all were practical, and many required specialized weapons or great physical strength. She eliminated some methods from consideration right away. Decapitation. Too gruesome. Removal of the heart. Too messy. Sever the spine. I’m not strong enough.

  The techniques involving fire and silver were more promising, although neither was a guaranteed success unless done just right. Fire in itself would only kill if the vampire was totally consumed. Likewise, silver wouldn’t kill unless the heart was staked. Staking, of course, was the traditional tried and true means of killing a vampire. Silver wasn’t the only weapon that was effective for staking, however. Certain types of wood also worked. Ash. Hawthorn. Oakwood.

  A weapon called a “vampire hunter” was a lance constructed of one of those woods with a silver core. Her father had once had one, but Marya didn’t know what had happened to it. Chances were her mother had disposed of it.

  Using silver ammunition or a silver knife seemed to be the easiest to both acquire and use. She had no idea, though, how to obtain silver bullets. A sterling silver knife would be much easier to find, but harder to manage in the deed.

  Marya re-read an entry that she hadn’t quite understood the night before. Silver nitrate. Lunar caustic. The only thing that Marya knew about silver nitrate was that it was sometimes used by doctors in the eyes of newborn babies to prevent blindness. She read further. Her father had underlined several entries. “. . . a chemical used in medicine and industry that burns the skin and can cause severe poisoning or death in humans if swallowed . . . highly toxic to the Undead . . . lethal if injected close to the heart in a potent solution . . . dissolves easily in water . . .” Another entry was marked with an asterisk. “This will replace the stake as the future of vampire killing . . .” On the next page another paragraph was highlighted. “Silver nitrate is used to make the silver backing on mirrors, and most silver salts used in film are made from silver nitrate. Is this why vampires cannot see their reflection in mirrors and cannot be photographed?”

  Marya was excited. Not too messy, not too gruesome. It didn’t require phenomenal strength, and it sounded as close to a sure thing as any method listed. It sounded just right. If only she could acquire some of this ‘silver nitrate.’

  Her father’s notes were written more than two decades ago. Perhaps she could find additional and more current information on how to obtain silver nitrate. She didn’t own a computer, but the Vicksburg Public Library had several terminals for public use. She had often used them to order art supplies on-line, and she knew how to use the various Internet search engines.

  She spent the rest of the morning at the library, taking copious notes. It wasn’t long before she found what she was looking for. Colloidal silver. Minute silver particles in a colloidal suspension of deionized water. In dilute solutions, colloidal silver was a natural antibiotic, readily available at health food stores. She used the pay phone at the library to call the local store that handled such items, her heart pounding in time with the dial tone in her ear. After a couple moments she hung up the phone in relief. They had colloidal silver in stock. She drove to the store, bought the largest bottle they had, then stopped at a medical supply store and purchased several different types and sizes of syringes. By the time she arrived home, she felt better than she had in the hours since Revelin Scott’s visit. All she had to do now was practice giving injections, come up with a plan for getting close enough to D
rago to inject him, and pray the concentration of silver in her magic bottle was strong enough to burn a vampire from the inside out.

  DRAGO WAS TIRED. Tired and glad to be home.

  His flight to Paris had been delayed by a whole week. After his Vicksburg assignment, Nikolena had called and sent him to New Orleans to investigate the death of a Brotherhood member. It had been a messy affair, resulting in two dead vampires and severe sanctions imposed on two more. Drago would have to make a follow-up visit to Louisiana as soon as he was done in Paris.

  He immersed himself in the hot water of the in-ground bath at Chateau du Russe and let out a soft groan of pleasure. There were no castles in Russia, but there were palaces, and he had done his best to turn this ancient French castle into a true Russian palace. He leaned his head back on the pool’s rim and let his eyelids drift shut. It wasn’t that he needed the bath to relieve aching muscles or stiff joints. The warmth and buoyancy of the water just felt good.

  The annoying bang of the door echoed behind him and broke his relaxed mood. Light, running steps grew louder, followed by a high-pitched feminine voice.

  “Drago! You’re finally back. I’ve missed you so much!”

  He cranked his head to stare at the unwelcome intruder, who eased herself carefully into the water to stand next to him. It was Danielle, one of his ‘guests.’ Young women with an overabundance of time and zeal often stopped at the chateau in an attempt to win the favor of mysterieux le Russe, the mysterious Russian, as he was known locally. He had tolerated and often encouraged the visits, hoping perhaps to chance upon the elusive affaire d’ amour, but lately it seemed that the women were interested more in his money than his charms, splitting their time between the chateau and shopping trips to Paris. He had already tired of Danielle long since, but she was more persistent than most in trying to secure his attention . . . and his francs. She was young, had flaming red hair, and wore the tiniest bikini he had ever seen. Suddenly she slapped her hand against the water, sending a spray to soak Drago’s head and shoulders.

  “That’s for being a bad boy and ignoring me for so long.”

  He had seen what she was going to do, but had had time only to avert his face from the full blast of the splash. He slowly rotated his head back toward her, running a hand through his hair to pull wet strands from his eyes.

  “How did you get in here, mademoiselle?”

  She stood waist high in the water and started to raise her arms to embrace him, but his restraining glare halted her action, leaving her arms trembling in midair. Water dripped from her elbows back into the pool. Her red hair was piled high atop her head in a mass of carefully arranged ringlets. A few long tendrils spiraled down on each side of her head and along the nape of her neck, and sparkling brilliants were fastened to the coif in strategic places. Her makeup was a flawless match to the elaborate hairstyle.

  Her exuberant voice lowered, almost to a petulant whine. “I followed you. I’ve been waiting sooo long for you, Drago! Almost three weeks! That housekeeper of yours is like a prison guard, but I . . .”

  Three weeks? He had no doubt that most of that time was spent in St. Honore seeking out the latest in perfume, jewelry, and haute couture, not waiting for him. For a vampire to snarl was a novice affectation, but he didn’t mind curling back his lips now and again at foolish humans. “First of all, Adelle is not a housekeeper. Secondly, you were not invited in here. Get out.”

  She looked confused. Her gaze drifted around the room, but she made no move to leave the pool. “But, Drago . . .”

  “Get out, mademoiselle. I won’t tell you again.”

  “I . . .” She never got the second word out. Her scream ricocheted off the walls as he used one leg to sweep her feet out from underneath her, but she was quickly silenced when her flailing arms weren’t enough to prevent her head from dunking below the water’s surface. She quickly bobbed out of the water, coughing and trying to peel the wet curls out of her eyes, but the damage was done. The coif was ruined.

  “Out!” His shout was louder than even her shriek, and this time she didn’t hesitate. In a frenzy of thrashing limbs, she half swam, half ran to the edge of the pool, hauled herself out of the water, and scuttled across the room, leaving a trail of puddles and wet footprints behind her. The door slammed.

  He took a deep breath. She had thoroughly annoyed him, and the girl was lucky he hadn’t done worse than spoil the work of a few hours in front of a mirror. He really must see to increasing security at the chateau. He closed his eyes and allowed the heat of the water to gradually restore a feeling of peace and stillness to his repose. The quiet lasted ten minutes.

  Even with his eyes closed he easily picked up Adelle’s approach behind him. Adelle Duquesne’s step and scent were both unique and well known. His servant for forty years, she was now closer to a mother to him than a lover, companion, or any of the other roles she had played over the years. Her appearance now was not unexpected.

  She sat down next to him at the pool’s edge and ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m so sorry, Leksii. I don’t know how she got through. She must have been hiding and waiting.”

  “Did you take care of the coquette?”

  “Of course. She’ll be escorted off the grounds, with instructions not to return.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what I ever saw in her to begin with. Vapid, worthless mortal.”

  Adelle laughed. “She’s a very beautiful girl. Very . . . hot-blooded.”

  He failed to appreciate the humor. “See to security, will you, ma chere? I cannot have this kind of thing.”

  “Changes will be made, don’t worry.” She tucked a long strand of wet hair behind his ear. “Can I get you anything, Leksii?”

  “No, ma chere, nothing.”

  “You sound tired.” Her soft voice held surprise.

  He drew in a deep breath of the steamy air. “I am.”

  “And here I thought you were exempt from such frailties.”

  He felt, rather than saw, her sad smile and reached up to touch her hand. “It’s not so much a physical exhaustion, Delle.” No, his body was as strong and free from pain as it always had been.

  “Your trip, then?”

  It wasn’t Vicksburg or even New Orleans. How could he explain it to her? “No, ma chere, it’s just . . . something that has been settling in my bones, and, as time passes, it becomes more and more a part of me I can’t shake.” It was the downside to being almost six hundred years old.

  “It’s called boredom, Leksii. Perhaps you need a new job.”

  He sighed. “There’s nowhere to go. You know that.”

  It was true. He was as powerful both in strength and position as any vampire on earth, save a handful of others in the Directorate. He was one of three Directorate enforcers assigned to North America, but more than that, he held the plum jurisdiction of all of the United States. He even had his own office in the Directorate building, albeit one that was occupied more frequently by his assistant Philippe than himself. There was no position carrying more power and prestige except for that of director, and he had no desire either to usurp Nikolena or hold a job that would effectively isolate him from the world. Nor could he ‘retire’ from his present position. The Directorate had a simple retirement system—it was called la Belle Mort. If one could no longer perform his duties, he was replaced. And killed. It was the only circumstance that justified a vampire’s demise at the hands of another vampire. It would be just too dangerous to let loose in the world a former member of the Directorate without the supervision and sanctions that ensured obedience.

  “So what are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, my pet.”

  “Do you want me to let Cerise in? She’s the only other guest here tonight. She’s been eagerly awaiting your return, but with a great deal more patience than Daniell
e. You’ve always liked Cerise, haven’t you?” Her voice was teasing now, but he didn’t smile.

  “All of them bore me. I just want to be alone.”

  She squeezed his hand. “All right. I’ll see to it you’re not bothered any more before you have to leave for your meeting.”

  “Merci, ma chere.”

  Adelle padded away from the pool area, and he was alone once again. There were few who understood his feelings when these dark moods descended on him, and even fewer who had the ability to meliorate those feelings. Adelle was the only mortal who knew and appreciated much of what he had been through in his life, but sometimes even she lacked awareness of his state of mind.

  He sighed again. He was not looking forward to this evening’s meeting with Nikolena. The affair in New Orleans had gone badly, but it had largely been over with by the time Drago had arrived. Little had been left for him to do save to clean up the mess and impose sanctions on those responsible. The Vicksburg case, however, had been one of Nikolena’s ‘punishment’ assignments, and Drago’s automatic response had been to amuse himself by resolving it in his own unique way. He was sure Nikolena would reprimand him, but he doubted there would be teeth to her bite. One aberration more or less in the world mattered little.

  He frowned when he recalled his confrontation with the mademoiselle. She had displayed very little fear for a human in her precarious position and had spoken her piece with true conviction. Persecution. What could she know of true persecution?

  He stared at the ripples in the water, and in their dancing ebb and flow, the centuries fell away.

  Novgorod, 1471

  HE HAD BEEN born a Prince of Novgorod, but in that year the nightmare that would steal his life from him began innocently enough. As a Prince, he had trained his whole life in the arts of riding, sword handling, and strategy. His command presence took no training—that had come naturally to the young man he was. When Ivan III, Grand Duke of Moscow, declared war on the city-state proudly named His Majesty Lord Novgorod the Great, Drago had relished the challenge, but his army, large as it was, could not live up to the grand and glorious name of the proud city. Largely composed of civilian militia, the Novgorodian army was disorganized and uncoordinated, and in July at the Battle of Shelon River, twelve thousand of his men were slain. Drago had fought hard, bloodying many a Muscovite foe without himself sustaining so much as a scratch, but it was only the first of Ivan’s campaigns against everything the Prince held dear. Little did he know in 1471 that seven years later he would be wishing with all his heart and soul that he had fallen with his comrades at the Shelon.