The meal progressed in decorous, civilized style, only marred for Penny (if one overlooked the actual content of the food) by the amount of wine that David and Carmine drank. It wasn’t that she really minded, Penny told herself. It wasn’t as if either of them became drunk or obnoxious. But Carmine’s contribution was only the one bottle of champagne; they had paid for the rest, and considering that ten thousand pounds of their money was now sitting in her bank account …
She pushed the thought away. The matter of the money was niggling at her too often for comfort, and she reminded herself that, as Carmine had said at the time, what price for her husband’s future? David had been a v … had been what he was for four months now, and even in her meanest moments Penny had to acknowledge that the condition had its advantages. Take the sex, for instance. Through their married life he had never had a high sex drive; it had been a bone of contention at times, and once his illness set in, any question of conjugal rights had gone straight out of the window. Penny had never complained, naturally, but she had suffered a lot of frustration. Not so now. Now, David was tireless. Inventive, too, and so keen that in fact his demands were starting to become exhausting and just a little tedious. Ice cream is delectable, but too much makes you sick …
Penny pushed that thought away, too, and tried to shake her mind out of its bout of self-pity. What did the money matter, or the small irritations? David was alive (well … but no; don’t go down that path), strong, and guaranteed to remain that way for—
The word hit her suddenly and hard. Forever. David wasn’t going to age. As years passed, he would remain exactly as he was tonight, while she—
“Penny?” Carmine’s voice snapped the chain of the horror rising in her. “Is anything wrong?”
Oh, no; of course nothing’s wrong. Only that I’m such a cretin that I’ve only just started to consider the implications of immortality! “No,” Penny said, in such a peculiarly strangled voice that she gave the complete lie to the statement. “No, I—something stuck in my throat, I think.”
She might have imagined it, but Penny thought Carmine and David exchanged a very private look. “Not a fishbone, I hope?” Carmine said solicitously. “They can be dangerous. Can I—”
“No!” She swallowed. “Thank you. It’s gone now.” She took a large and unladylike swig from her wineglass, and this time distinctly saw David raise an eyebrow.
“More, darling?” No trace of disapproval in his voice; but he was good at hiding things. Always had been, now she thought about it.
“Yes. Thanks.” Defiantly she emptied the refilled glass in one, challenging him to make any comment. He didn’t.
“It was a lovely meal, Penny,” Carmine said, possibly to ease the sudden sharp change in the atmosphere.
“Absolutely,” David concurred before Penny could think of a reply. “We must do it again, mustn’t we?”
Penny opened her mouth to snap “Must we?”, but had the wit to close it again before anything came out. David offered Carmine coffee, and when Penny showed no sign of volunteering to make it, he headed to the kitchen to do it himself. Penny watched him go (tall, slim; that old tendency to put on weight had quite gone, and he looked extremely handsome these days) and as he disappeared, a question sprang into her mind. It was a spin-off from the immortality thing (she was feeling calmer about that, though doubtless it would come back and hit her again later), and suddenly she wanted, extremely badly, to know the answer.
She turned to Carmine. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.” Carmine inclined her head in a way that made Penny wonder if she was being patronized. Third thought to push away.
“It’s about children.”
“Ah.” Carmine’s expression grew wary. “I’ve been wondering if that would come up.”
Penny bristled, though not visibly. “I think it’s a natural enough concern. Whatever David might—”
“You didn’t have children before. Was that choice, or …?”
“Choice, of course.” Her hackles were rising by the moment and she wished she had not begun this conversation. Too late for regret, though, and with determination she collected herself. “It’s a perfectly straightforward question. Can we?”
Carmine said, “No.”
Penny’s bravado and aggression collapsed. “Why not?”
Carmine’s eyes held a world of sympathy, even if Penny was unwilling to acknowledge it. “It’s a harsh fact of his—our—condition,” she said. “A vampire can procreate—naturally, or our kind would have died out in the earliest days; maybe never even have evolved in the first place when you think about it logically. Chickens and eggs, you know …” She saw Penny’s face become very tight, and quickly let the metaphor drop. “I was born what I am, and I could make a child with any man, mortal or otherwise. David, though, was not born what he is, and when the condition isn’t hereditary, the rules are different. He could only father a child on a woman who was vampire-born. But with you, it isn’t possible.”
Penny’s mind spun off into space, and her lungs seemed to be clogging up with something murky and angry and bitter. “So,” she said, “you could have a child with my husband, but I can’t.”
What did that pause signify? Anything? Nothing? At length Carmine did answer. “Yes. Theoretically.”
Theoretically. Penny asked, “Have you had any children?”
Carmine broke eye contact and looked away. It was the first time Penny had ever known her to do that. “Yes.”
Penny’s bitterness was growing, and with it a desperate desire to strike out, to hurt, because she was hurting and she wanted Carmine to suffer along with her. “Where are they now?” she demanded.
The second pause was longer than the first. Then: “One,” Carmine said, apparently without emotion, “is in New York. Or was, the last time I heard anything of him. He’s a heroin addict, and he wants to die of it, but he can’t, because of … what he is. The other …” her voice caught momentarily, “… did die, though she was the one who didn’t want to. Ironic, yes? But it was a long time ago, and a long way east of here, and people believed in us then, so when she made a serious tactical mistake they …” She coughed. “Well, you know how the legend runs. The method of killing us is one of the facts that hasn’t been distorted.”
Penny stared, fascination creeping in despite herself. “A stake through the heart?” she prompted softly.
Carmine nodded. Her face had tightened, taking on the look of a fixed clay mask. “It doesn’t … actually have to be a stake,” she said. “Anything will do, as long as it … pierces far enough. In her case—”
“Your daughter?”
Carmine swallowed. “My daughter, yes. In her case it was a—a kitchen knife. Just a kitchen knife.”
David came back then. “Coffee’s brewing,” he began cheerfully, then saw Carmine’s tension, the expression on Penny’s face. “What is it?” His tone became sharp. “What’s happened?”
Penny mouthed “tell you later” but he didn’t see it; his attention was on Carmine. She, however, straightened her shoulders and smiled up at him. “Nothing to concern you,” she said lightly. “Women’s talk, that’s all. David, when we’ve had coffee I really must go. It’s been a lovely evening, but I have to be up tomorrow; I’ve got an early appointment.”
Penny wanted to say bitchily, “Another ten grand in the bank?” but held her tongue. This wasn’t the moment for scoring points; in a few minutes more Carmine would be out of here. She disciplined herself to make polite and superficially pleasant small talk while the coffee was enjoyed and they all had a cognac, then David fetched Carmine’s coat and walked her to her car. Penny watched covertly from the window, but it was too dark to see what sort of car she had. Something expensive, no doubt. She could afford it, couldn’t she? And why was a simple farewell taking so long? What were they doing?
When David did return (six minutes: Penny had counted) she was washing up with a pointed amount of noise and splashing. Before
his illness, he had promised to buy her a dishwasher. Out of the question now, of course. They couldn’t afford it. As she slammed another plate into the rack he came up behind her and slid his hands around her waist.
“Leave that. I’ll do it in the morning.” His lips touched the back of her neck. “Come to bed.”
Oh God, not again. “I’m tired,” she said. “Let’s give it a miss tonight, shall we?”
He laughed. “No way. I want you. Come on, darling; I’m not taking no for an answer.”
You never do, do you? Penny pulled a face that he couldn’t see, and sighed. No point in arguing; she would waste more time and energy that way than by giving him what he wanted, yet again. She pulled off her rubber gloves, dumped them on the draining board and went with him up the stairs.
David always fell soundly asleep after sex, and when she was certain of not disturbing him Penny got up and went into the bathroom. Switching on the small vanity light she faced her reflection in the mirror above the washbasin. On first impression she was pretty good for forty-three, but she wasn’t in a mood to be optimistic, and she studied herself more closely and critically. Proto-crow’s feet at the borders of her eyes. Lines developing at the corners of her mouth. Chin starting to sag; barely noticeable yet, but she could see it. She wasn’t a natural blonde, so couldn’t tell if there were any traces of gray in her hair yet. Gray was distinguishing in a man, aging in a woman. Carmine wasn’t gray, was she?
Carmine could have his child. I can’t.
It wasn’t that she wanted children. Never had, really; she wasn’t the maternal type. But the principle of the thing was different, and the thought that Carmine and David were capable of doing what she and David weren’t made her very, very angry. It also led, quite naturally from the perspective of this dissatisfied moment, to the conclusion that if they could, they just might. That tonight, she had possibly witnessed the opening gambits of a sexual affair. Or even if she hadn’t, that the potential was there.
Potential—or inevitability? Penny leaned closer still to the mirror, dissecting her image now. Even if lines and gray hair weren’t yet worth worrying about, that would change soon enough. Think forward three years; five; ten. In ten years she would be fifty-three. In fifteen, sixty would be looming on her horizon, but David would still be exactly as he was tonight; youthful, energetic, handsome. What would he want with a sixty-year-old wife? She would be a turn-off, an embarrassment, and that would be the end of it, marriage over, goodbye.
David was no fool; he must have considered the long-term future. Maybe he had even discussed it with Carmine, in some private conversation that Penny knew nothing about? Penny’s stomach churned at the thought of him talking to Carmine, possibly meeting Carmine, when she was not present to play chaperone. Or gooseberry. Remember how he kept looking at her tonight. Are they already having an affair? Are they?
Suddenly she felt tainted, and with the feeling came an overwhelming urge to walk back into the bedroom, shake David forcibly awake and confront him with her suspicions. Or to go to the phone, key Carmine’s number and demand the truth from her. Yes: that was the better option. Because if there was an affair David would lie about it, and she was too vulnerable to his charm not to be taken in. If Carmine lied, Penny would not be fooled. Yes. The better option. In the morning, when David had left for work, she would do it.
Penny did not make the planned phone call. For by morning, she had thought of a new idea; so radical that at first it shocked her and she mentally hid from it, finding a hundred reasons why it was utterly out of the question. Through the first half of the day, though, the reasons seemed somehow to break down of their own accord, until by midafternoon they were gone, leaving in their place the same kind of queasy, heart-racing excitement that young children feel on the night before Christmas when nothing can persuade them to sleep.
With an hour to go before David came home, she summoned the courage to ring Carmine.
Carmine said: “No. I’m sorry, Penny, but I just won’t do it.”
With her world collapsing around her Penny screamed down the phone. “Why not, damn you? You were eager enough to do it for David; what’s the bloody difference all of a sudden?’ She sucked in a huge, painful breath. “I know it’s all business to you, but I can find the money, I’ll—”
“Penny, listen to me! Have you talked to David about this?”
“No, I haven’t!”
“Then I think you should. And I also think I know what he’ll say.”
Penny saw red. “David’s not my bloody owner—I make my own decisions! And how the hell would you know what he’d say? Telepathic, are you? Or are you so cozy with my husband these days that you know him better than I do?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m only saying—”
“What are you saying? Tell me the truth, for once!”
“I’m trying to. The circumstances aren’t the same, Penny. David was terminally ill, and what I did for him was the only alternative to death. It isn’t like that with you. You’re healthy and with a long, normal life ahead of you. It isn’t—it wouldn’t be right to turn you into—”
“But I want it!” Then with a great effort Penny brought herself under control. Keep your temper. Reason with her. “Look. I’ve thought it through, I have no doubts, and I can get the money. Don’t you want another ten thousand?”
Carmine gave a strange little laugh. “Money doesn’t come into it. You could offer me half a million and I’d turn it down. The plain fact is, I will not do this for any living soul unless there is a very, very good reason indeed.”
“And my reason isn’t good enough.”
“No. Frankly, it isn’t.”
“I see. So you’re happy to give David your gift, but you won’t consider giving it to me.”
“It isn’t like that, Penny.”
“No, I’m sure it isn’t.” Then something dawned, and Penny wondered why on earth she hadn’t thought of it before. “Well, I won’t bother you again, then. I’ll ask my husband to do it for me instead. He is my husband, after all. Which is something you seem to conveniently forget when it suits you.”
There was a sharp pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Work it out, Carmine. You’re intelligent enough.” Penny was completely calm now. Yes, David can do it. Fool I am: I needn’t even have made this call. Coolly, she added, “I won’t take up any more of your time. Oh, one last thing. You’re not welcome in this house from now on.”
She didn’t hang up immediately; she wanted to hear and savor Carmine’s reaction. There was a short silence. Then Carmine said:
“Message understood. But before you go, it’s only fair to tell you that David can’t help you. Even if he agreed to it—which I frankly doubt—he doesn’t possess the ability. Only those who are born to the club, as you might say, can initiate new members. Goodbye, Penny. I think I feel rather sorry for you.”
Carmine was the one to break the connection.
Penny did not tell David about the phone call, and she did not ask him to do what she wanted. Instead, she kept the memory of the conversation locked privately in her mind, picking over every detail until it festered like a sore that wouldn’t heal. David can’t. Was that true, or had Carmine lied for her own purposes? I doubt if he would agree. How did she know what David would or wouldn’t agree to? Discussed it, had they? How often? How intimately? Your reason isn’t good enough. Carmine Smith, aka God. Well, the motive was obvious, wasn’t it? Wives get in the way of affairs, and the last thing Carmine and David would want was Penny joining the club, as Carmine had put it. Penny would cramp their style. Penny would be a damned nuisance. So she must be prevented from joining, mustn’t she? Provided Penny stayed in the ranks of ordinary mortals, Carmine and David need only wait a few years—nothing, to them—until Penny began seriously to age, then faded, withered and finally dropped out of the picture altogether. Problem solved: until then they could simply carry on their liaison behind her back.
> The dark thoughts hung on Penny like a shroud all evening. David must have been aware of it but he made no comment, which to her only compounded his guilt. She refused sex that night (unusually, he didn’t try too hard to persuade her), slept badly and, when it was time for him to get up, lay still and silent, pretending that the alarm clock hadn’t woken her. It fooled David; he dressed silently, then went downstairs to make his own breakfast, as she had begun to insist he should do.
Then the phone rang. It was unusually early for anyone to call, and Penny raised her head from the pillow. David answered it on the kitchen extension, and the kitchen was directly below their bedroom, so his side of the conversation carried clearly.
“David Blythe … Oh—hi. This is a surprise … No, no; it’s all right … What? When? … Well, I don’t … Ah. Well, yes, perhaps we should … Okay; 12:45 suit you? … Right. I’ll meet you there.” Click. End of call.
When he had eaten and came back upstairs, Penny yawned and stretched and put on a sleepy voice. “Who was that on the phone?”
David had his back to her and was putting on his tie. He didn’t use a mirror; there was no point. “I told you about that new client, didn’t I?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, it was his secretary; just changing the time of a meeting. Bloody nuisance; I’ve got a lot of other things scheduled today.” He turned and glanced at her. “You all right?”
“Fine.” Go on, go away. I’ve got something to find out, and I don’t want you around while I do it.
He left a few minutes later. Penny listened to the sounds of the troublesome car eventually starting (an old banger: we all know what happened to the decent one, don’t we?) and as soon as he drove away she picked up the phone and keyed “recall,” to see who had really phoned.
The Mammoth Book of Vampire Stories by Women Page 21
