Until Death

by Kari Anne Kilgore

  Until Death

  Kari Anne Kilgore

  Spiral Publishing, Ltd.

  For letting me stay up late to watch Dark Shadows.

  For constant trips to the library and bookstore.

  For awesome 70s parenting that let me watch movies and read books a bit before my time.

  And for always encouraging me to learn and explore and to never doubt that I could.

  This one’s for you, Mom.

  Chapter 1

  Now

  The villagers never paid attention to the dogs anymore.

  The constant barking and scrabbling was background noise after years of so many strays learning to survive past their pampered origins. The rich, forested mountains in Transylvania were kinder than the crowded streets of Bucharest, under Communism or decades later. Creatures meant to warm laps and comfort hands have no easy transition to wandering, endlessly searching for shelter.

  Some whisper of instinct surely must remain, even with every appearance of wild ancestors bred out of them decades before.

  Leo Sabov wondered at that every time he was in Romania, how such a huge population could go unnoticed in the city or in the country. People could get so worked up over stray animals in the US, yet somehow the nomadic animals here seemed healthier and more content with less attention.

  He sipped strong coffee on his third floor balcony, watching the first rays of sunlight trace orange fire on the sharp granite cliffs above the tree line across from him. His bare feet were pleasantly chilled by the tile, his mind soothed by his first good night of sleep in many weeks. Staying up too late and drinking too much with his little brother usually had the opposite effect.

  A young girl walked through the chicken coop below, gathering eggs for the guests of the inn he'd been returning to with his wife for over twenty years. The milling birds stirred up a scent of rich earth strong enough to overcome even the coffee. The girl sang to herself, a sweet song at odds with the quarreling chickens and agitated dogs. Maria would have known the words to the song, would have whispered them into Leo's ear.

  He rubbed his eyes, struck by a different sound in one of the dog's voices. His mind seized on the escape from memory. An old female with the dangling teats of many pregnancies stood in the neat yard beside the inn. She stared at something Leo couldn't see behind the rough-hewn logs of the outdoor kitchen. Her black and tan coat was healthy, and she was normally friendly, one of the sweetest in the village. This morning, though, her voice had a harsh, desperate edge.

  Dogs began to gather around her, from neighboring houses and inns, from their rough shelters on the hillsides. Some looked around, searching for what was bothering her so, then resumed their normal morning discussions and investigations. The others, many of them clearly her offspring with that same rangy body and distinctive coloring, watched her silently at first. Then their voices began to take on that same worried note.

  The old mother dog took a few stiff-legged steps forward, more than a dozen of her young following. Her sharp, fast barks were interrupted by low growls. Even from three floors up, Leo could see her long hair rise into hackles from her neck to the base of her tail. She walked forward again, her group in near lockstep beside her.

  The shadows in the yard were deep with the sun barely over the towering, fir-covered mountain behind Leo. That had to explain the odd shape moving from behind the log and stone building below.

  The inky phantom shifted, seeming to change as it moved, every sight more unsettling than the last.

  A puddle of water, a deeper shadow, a slithering snake; a terrified cat, a deformed child, a staggering bear.

  Leo leaned forward, drawing breath to call out to the girl walking across the dark green grass, egg basket in the crook of one arm. Whatever that thing was, his guts twisted at the thought of it being so close to her.

  Before he could open his mouth, a pathetic, mange-covered dog stepped out into the sunlight beyond the kitchen. Her light brown coat missing in patches, her body desperately thin.

  The group of dogs moved forward again, all of them joining with the ancient female this time, their barking fast as a machine gun. The poor stray picked up speed. She glanced at the inn, seeming to stare right into Leo's eyes, before she broke into a run toward the outskirts of the village.

  Too many of the villagers had forgotten the dogs, forgotten their ancient pact to trade shelter and affection for far superior senses. The dogs remembered.

  Chapter 2

  Six days ago

  Leo followed the innkeeper, struggling to pay attention to what Costel was saying through a haze of grief and jet lag. A tour of the inn hardly seemed necessary when he'd been coming here for nearly twenty years with his wife, even if he was here to bury her now. All he wanted was somewhere to go to sleep and try again to pretend none of this was happening, if only for a couple of hours.

  "You said you may be staying with us for a couple of weeks?" Costel said for at least the second time. The lanky, bearded man towered over Leo, his blond crew cut and dark blue eyes a sharp contrast to Leo's light brown eyes and wavy brown locks brushing his shoulders. Maria would have been after him to cut a few inches off that mop on his head long before it got to this point, if she hadn't been so busy dying.

  Leo blinked and forced himself to pay attention. They were in the small kitchen in the indoor dining room, mostly a place to warm food brought from the main kitchen or from the bakery in town. He and Maria had reheated leftovers and made coffee here many times, but otherwise he'd only walked by on the way to their room.

  His room now.

  "At least a week," Leo said. "Probably two. Maybe a little longer. Assuming you have space for me, I mean."

  "Leo, of course I do. We want you here for as long as you need to be, and we'll take very good care of you." He put his hand on Leo's shoulder as he turned to a small door across from the kitchen. "I know jet lag can make for strange meal schedules, so please make yourself at home and eat as you need to. You know about the refrigerator, and we'll leave small things out for you. And please use anything in the pantry that you need."

  He opened the door, barely two feet wide, onto a small space lined with shelves and jammed full of spices, dry goods, and jars of pickles. Leo flinched at the top shelves, hoping his friend didn't notice. Hot acid flooded his throat and his heart pounded. Those shelves were lined with bottles of wine, various types of whiskey and brandy, and every kind of glassware he could imagine. He'd never even noticed that door before, much less imagined something so insignificant could slam him back into a past nearly as painful as his present.

  "If you need anything that's not here, please let me know and we'll get it for you," Costel said, either not noticing or ignoring Leo's upset. "Such things are never easy, but we want to do anything we can to help you."

  Leo nodded as he stepped forward and closed the door with a shaking hand. He knew he'd fail miserably if he tried to explain why a damned pantry and an offer of comfort made him react as if the man had held a gun to his head.

  "Thank you, Costel," he said. "I appreciate it. I'll let you know. I promise."

  Costel held a hand over his heart and lowered his head for a second.

  "Then if you don't need anything this evening, I'll show you to your room. You get all the rest you can. Breakfast will be ready when you are, my friend."

  Leo's heart sank when he headed toward the stairs, made from varnished half-logs with a rail to match. There were only a few rooms up there, including the only room he'd ever stayed in on their many trips to Transylvania. He wasn't sure if it would be more heartbreaking to stay somewhere else or more lonely to stay here without his wife for the first time. He was about to find out.

  "I've made up your
same room," the innkeeper said, and he was indeed walking toward the front of the building. "If you'd rather stay somewhere else, we have a few other rooms available. I thought..."

  Leo glanced up, focusing on Costel's face for the first time. The first time he'd focused on anyone's face since he'd walked out of the hospice ward for the last time just over twenty-four hours ago. Costel could be counted on for a hearty laugh and smile, tireless energy, and a warm embrace for any arrival or departure. Leo had never seen him sad or even moody.

  Right now his face was twisting and tears stood against his pale eyelashes.

  "It's fine, really," Leo said. "I want to stay here, in our room. She'd want that, too. Thank you."

  Costel tried to smile, but his features crumpled instead. Leo stepped forward and hugged him, relieved to comfort someone else after countless hours of not being able to do that for himself. Costel took a deep breath, patted Leo's back, and stepped away. He wasn't quite smiling, but the crisis had passed.

  "I will leave you then. Sleep as well as you can."

  Leo took his own deep breath before he opened the wood plank door with an actual metal key, attached to a tiny log with the room number burned into it. The same miniature bathroom in the corner, the same huge wardrobe built of more of the rough-hewn logs, the same white walls and sheer white curtains over the balcony door.

  He'd spent more time than he could stand to remember in this room, talking, sleeping, making love in the middle of the night, or even the middle of the day. All he could see was empty space without Maria. Without her clothes, her scent, her voice.

  He crossed in a few strides, feet shuffling on the flat gray carpet, and sat down hard on the bed. His back and thighs protested at how firm that European mattress was, and he knew his hips and shoulders would take up the chorus by the time he woke. Leo held his head in his hands, exhausted and afraid he wouldn't be able to sleep. The only thing worse might be sleeping deeply enough to dream.

  That pantry. Of all the things he thought he'd been prepared for, now and one year ago. What an absurd, pathetic thing to knock a man reeling, to push him out of his own shaky grasp on reality.

  Chapter 3

  One year ago

  Leo strained in the narrow, musty space, asking himself yet again if changing the light bulb in a useless corner of their house could possibly be worth this much trouble. His calves ached from balancing on the tiny stepladder while his toes threatened to slip backwards out of beat up sandals. The ancient, dead incandescent bulb had come out easily enough. He grunted, shifting his grip on the twisty new fluorescent one in his fingers.

  Maria would have said his natural stubborn had kicked in, pushing his logical mind out of the way. If she’d been home instead of hospitalized yet again, she would have said that. Boredom and loneliness without her had driven Leo into a likely losing battle with the unreasonable Los Angeles housing market already. No matter what his wife might have said, he probably should have climbed the shelves instead of trying to wedge a too-short ladder back here.

  “Brilliant idea,” he whispered. “Get that light working so you can verify the builders should have boarded this up to begin with. You’ll feel better about your whole damned life then.”

  The grooves in the base slipped into alignment with the gritty socket at last. He turned the bulb slowly, not wanting to create an even bigger project for himself by twisting the thing until it broke.

  He stepped down off the ladder and flipped the switch with his elbow. Leo remembered to breathe when the dead light bulb he'd just replaced slipped out of his fingers and exploded into shrapnel all over his feet.

  So many bottles, more than he could count standing here. More than he could fit into his reality. Those fucking curved green bottles. Maria hadn't even bothered to buy a different brand.

  When he did breathe, it was a gasp harsh enough to tear through his throat, sharp as the frosted white glass digging between his toes, under the soles of his feet. He caught the rich, metallic scent of blood, but underneath was that bite of juniper. The perfume of those first shared drinks together, the taste of her mouth. Later the stench of her breath and skin and the taste of every part of her body at the end when she drank more than she ate.

  Leo finally stepped backward, out of the blood-slicked leather, his feet slipping on the cold white-tiled floor of the kitchen. Twelve years of those blasted meetings. Drunks calling in the middle of the night. His wife getting up and leaving him cold and alone so she could rescue yet another lost soul.

  Had any of it been true? There were dozens of empty bottles on the floor with a narrow path through them, maybe a hundred. Maria must have started drinking again years ago, right? She couldn't have put this many away in just a few months time.

  But Leo remembered when they were in college, how she could swallow their rent money in a few days without even trying and still manage to make the Dean's list over and over again.

  Her law practice had only suffered over the past couple of weeks when she was too weak and ill to go to work, but that didn't mean a damned thing. Was she in the hospital right this second getting treated for liver failure instead of some mysterious disease no one could diagnose?

  He was only in this damned pantry, the useless space at the end of the laundry room, because she was finally sick enough to admit she needed help. Leo was a creature of habit, and his habit was to putter around the house when he was anxious and upset.

  His main worry had been the unknown ailment that had gradually robbed her of her vitality and was starting to show in her bloated face and stomach. Stepping into this wasted space, some realtor's idea of a selling point, had thrown him into a nightmare he'd thought was in his past.

  There were at least thirty full bottles on the shelves too, hidden in this awkward space neither of them used. Had she kept that dead bulb in here on purpose, just to keep him from seeing? Did she sneak in here with a flashlight, sit on that filthy stool and guzzle that shit? Then chew her endless supply of spearmint gum, what she called her sobriety crutch to avoid smoking?

  Why the hell had she kept the empty bottles?

  He looked down at his crimson footprints, then back at the bottles on the floor of the pantry, several coated with a thick layer of dust.

  The first time it had been the blood, Maria's blood, that yanked Leo out of his cocoon of denial and forced him to deal with how deep he'd fallen into the rabbit hole with her. That just-short-of-condemned house back East, what they'd been reduced to when she drank up everything they earned at part-time jobs. Disgusting stained brown carpet, warped countertops, cheap wood paneling that never did feel clean.

  His blood on white tiles that cost a fortune, imported from somewhere on the other side of the planet to prove how far they'd come. Her blood on that bargain basement carpet. Hers hadn't come from glass, at least not that she'd stepped on.

  Maria had tried to get away like she always did back then, pulling away from Leo when he tried to get the highball glass out of her hand. She hadn't tripped on a damned thing, at least he didn't think so now. Back then he'd tried to convince himself it was that carpet. Not only thin as a sheet but laid badly, with little wrinkles that caught every scrap of dust, food, and hair.

  No, Maria hadn't tripped over anything but her own feet. Leo had watched helplessly when her head slammed into a bookcase that rebounded against the one brick wall in the whole place. For a long time after that night, before she managed to claw her way out of the thicket of juniper she'd disappeared into, he'd wondered if it would have been kinder if she'd slammed into the wall instead.

  She'd sat back hard, books falling from the shelves around her legs, blood falling from her gashed forehead. She'd touched the wound, not feeling it when her fingertips brushed the blinding white bone escaping the bonds of flesh and muscle.

  Twenty-seven meticulous stitches had closed the wound, but she carried a sunken scar a bit darker than the rest of her skin no matter what dermatologists tried to do about it. Sometimes she cov
ered it with bangs, sometimes not. Maria refused more surgery, saying the scar reminded her how far down she could get.

  Leo backed up against the opposite wall in their hard-won Southern California paradise. Metal handles of drawers dug into his spine one after the other as he sank to the floor, bleeding feet out in front of him. If his wife had been drinking long and hard enough to put her liver into the advanced stages of shutdown, she might have finally found a bottom neither of them could claw their way out of.

  Chapter 4

  Ten years ago

  The private room at the traditional Romanian restaurant in Queens was warm and cozy—and more crowded than Maria liked. The dark wood panels of the walls contrasted with the bright white ceiling that made her eyes ache in the glare of a crystal-clear May afternoon.

  At least thirty middle-aged women and their adult children, most of the older generation from other parts of the world like Maria's mother and Leo's great-grandmother, crowded into the space that could comfortably seat about twenty. The remains of a rich, delectable feast—complete with lamb, pork, and chicken—had yet to be cleared to make room for what would surely be a dizzying array of pastries to go with the American-style frosted Mother's Day cake.

  This had always been a difficult day for Maria, ever since she understood motherhood wouldn't be easy for her, and maybe not possible. The rough scars across her abdomen had always been a fact, part of her like her green eyes or thick brown hair. A terrible bout of appendicitis and emergency surgery had left extensive damage, including throughout her reproductive organs. The twisting white marks, and what they meant, had always been part of Maria’s life. A part she never thought much about until she married Leo.

  Everything else seemed normal for both of them, yet two years of trying and three rounds of IVF had failed. Something else had to be going on, and her parents had never been much for discussing the past. Especially not the past before they'd fled Romania when she'd barely started school.