by Clark Hays
He reached slowly for a soft cord suspended from the ceiling, hanging behind his chair and pulled it gently, almost as an afterthought. Somewhere in the recesses of the mansion a bell chimed imperceptibly. Seconds later there was a knock on the door and Jenkins, his servant of more than fifty years, entered.
“Sir?”
“Jenkins, please tell Elita I would talk with her.”
“Right away, sir.” He closed the door and Julius stood to toss another log into the fire, stirring it briefly with the poker. Sparks flickered and were drawn up the chimney as he settled back into his chair. Elita entered, without knocking.
“You called?” she said.
It is said that with time, one grows used to anything, that anything becomes tediously familiar. Not so, he thought, with Elita. For untold centuries the sight of her never failed to stir him.
“Any word from Desard?” Elita asked, feigning indifference.
“None, I’m afraid.”
“Unfortunate,” she said lightly, but emotion curdled her words. “I suppose we should fear the worst?”
“I can’t imagine what could have happened,” he said.
“I can. The cowboy wasn’t dead. He hurt Desard and Desard lost his temper. They must have crossed paths later and our little cowboy guessed what he was up against.”
“Is he that resourceful?”
“Would our queen give her heart to a simpleton?”
“Love knows no such distinction, I fear,” Julius said.
Elita crouched before the fire, taking in the heat. “Perhaps he will come for her.”
“If he does,” Julius said slowly, “we will eliminate him. What sort of threat can a lone farmer pose?”
“Cowboy,” she said. “And it would appear Desard underestimated his resolve.”
Julius was thoughtful. Then he laughed. “A cowboy. How preposterous. If he comes, we will take care of him. Perhaps it will even provide a bit of entertainment.”
FIFTEEN
When I woke, everything was fuzzy and I had no idea where I was. My eyelids felt like someone had pasted them together and cobwebs and old cotton candy had replaced my brain. My body was oddly heavy, as if the earth was pulling me toward its center, and I could barely move my arms or legs.
Had there been an accident?
Where was I and who brought me here? Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.
Were those voices? Yes, faint and mixed in with footsteps. A doorknob turned, the footsteps entered the room, more than one pair. And the smell? Something familiar, sweet. Cloves, from a cigarette.
As if on cue, I felt the warmth of light breath close to my ears and a stream of sweet-smelling smoke blown directly into my face.
“Our little angel still sleeps,” said the throaty voice. A woman.
“Yes, madam,” came the courtly response. A man.
“Or perhaps she pretends. No matter. When she chooses to communicate, let me know right away. I would speak with her first, before anyone.”
“Sorry, madam. Master Julius left strict instructions. No one is to speak with her unless he is present.”
“And you?”
“I am to communicate only about her need for sustenance or functional necessities.”
“She is comfortable?”
“Of course. I will see to everything she needs.”
“You’d better. Julius will have your head if she wants for anything.”
“Yes, madam.”
One pair of footsteps left the room, taking with them the smell of cloves. When I was sure the man and I were alone, I opened my eyes a sliver and watched him move about. He was small and perfectly groomed, wearing a black suit. His hair was gray and thinning, and he moved with effort. The night spilled into the room as he threw open the heavy drapes.
The fog in my mind began to thin and, with a rush, it all came back in a tumbling blur: the cabin, Tucker and Rex going out into the rain, the gleam of Tucker’s gun, distant shots and faint shouts, hands roughly pulling me from bed, but then nothing else. A wave of nausea threatened as the memories crystallized.
A memory of a woman’s voice asking if the cowboy had been eliminated floated up through the fog. And the answer — yes.
Her voice.
The man lit a fire in a massive stone fireplace, the only source of light and as it crackled and grew, the orange glow gradually illuminated the room. It was small and densely furnished in Gothic style with period tables, chairs, foot cushions, shelves of books, candelabra and dark, heavy drapes framing the narrow windows from floor to ceiling. Ornate wood trimmed the angles, polished to a high gloss. I skimmed the paintings on the walls, closely spaced and elaborately framed. The centerpiece was a dominating painting above the fireplace, a huge oil of a woman wearing a sheer blue gown. She looked familiar, but it took a few minutes to realize why.
Panic surged, and I struggled to keep it at bay. I concentrated on taking deep breaths until I could master my own voice. I didn’t understand anything that was going on, but I knew my survival depended on what I did next.
“Where am I?” I said as forcefully as I could muster to the man’s back.
He turned, startled by my voice.“Are you hungry?”
“Am I hungry?” I echoed. Why would he ask such a thing at a time like this?
“Yes, are you hungry?”
I was, but more importantly, the offer of food gave me time to collect my thoughts, creating a delay, letting me try to figure out what was going on.
“I suppose I am.”
“I will attend to it immediately. Should I select something for you or do you have a preference?”
“I would like a glass of Pinot, preferably from the Pacific Northwest, a filet mignon, medium rare, two Dungeness crab legs, new red potatoes, boiled please, and chocolate mousse with whipped cream.” The more complicated the order, the more time to think through my predicament.
“As you wish.” He moved toward the door.
“Wait,” I called to the old man as he reached for the door knob. “I want to see the woman who was just in the room with you.”
“My apologies, madam. That is not possible.”
“Is it true you are to see to my needs?”
“Yes, madam.”
“And that Julius will have your head if you disobey me?” I asked.
He sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Very well, madam.” He bowed and left the room.
I did a quick inventory of major muscles and they all responded sluggishly. It was a start. Still lightheaded, I held the bedpost and stood, blood pumping slowly and muscles tingling. At the window I saw the welcome sight of towering New York skyscrapers.
At least I had home court advantage.
I tried the door. It was locked from the outside. My hand trembled.
I made a quick circuit of the room. No telephone, no jacks even, and no electronic gadgets of any kind. And nothing that could serve as a weapon.
Two interior doors. The first was to an enormous walk-in closet filled with designer clothes, lingerie, jeans and sweaters. The clothes, shoes, even the underwear and bras were all, and only, my size.
The other door opened to an elaborate bathroom with a clawfoot tub long enough to stretch out in and a marble sink. The patter of the tiled floor extended into an intricate mural on the wall. Piles of plush towels filled the shelves, along with scented oils, soaps and creams.
If I wasn’t in the middle of hell, this would feel a lot like heaven.
There was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, hoping I sounded stronger than I felt. I closed my eyes and told myself my only option was to act regal and unafraid, to participate in their game as an equal, at least until I could escape.
“Your dinner is served, madam.”
“Please enter.” He set down a tray brimming with lavishly prepared items. A voice in the back of my mind warned against drugged food, but I was starving. And if they wanted to drug me, they could just hold me
down and do it.
He was so elegant in the way he made up the table, laid the silver, and poured the wine. And there was something almost gentle about him.
“What’s your name?”
“Jenkins, madam.”
Even when he called me madam, it didn’t sound funny. It sounded natural.
“Jenkins, why am I here?” I asked.
He simply smiled, bowed and left the room.
The steak was cooked to perfection and I washed it down with the wine, which was fabulous. There was drawn butter for the crab legs, fresh sour cream for the potatoes. In a restaurant, this would’ve set me back a paycheck.
As I finished the last spoonful of chocolate mousse, there was another knock at the door.
I reminded myself to act haughty and indifferent. “Now who is it?”
“You requested an audience.” It was the woman.
“Please enter.”
I was stunned. She was gorgeous. Her dark, silky hair was pinned back carelessly, her ivory skin was smooth as satin, and her green eyes sparkled with provocative suggestions. Her breasts spilled out of a silky white blouse and her short, perfectly tailored black skirt shadowed her hips, the exquisite ideal of a Madison Avenue model. She smiled at me and a flush spread from my throat, down my spine to my thighs, but I fought it under control. She looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and boredom.
“I’m impressed. The dose I just gave you would have most Adamites cringing and begging and pleading for me. Your kind can be most amusing.”
I told myself not to over-think things, to trust my instincts. Perhaps she was Julius’ spurned mistress and her jealousy could be used to my advantage. “Obviously, you are not speaking to just any Adamite, as you so charmingly call us.”
“Over the centuries there have been only a few who have not willingly given in to their passion for me. I can count them on one hand.”
“Give it a rest,” I said. “I’m not interested and the vampy trampy thing has been done to death. Frankly, uh, what was your name?”
“Elita.”
“Frankly, Elita, after what I’ve experienced in the last few months, you could never measure up.”
“Ah yes, with your little cowboy,” she said.
“Is he alive?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I asked.”
“As good a reason as any, I suppose,” she said. “It would seem he is still alive.”
Relief welled up inside me.
“Despite our best efforts, I might add,” Elita said. “You must have made quite an impression on him. Or else he has deeply entrenched survival instincts, like a cockroach. No wonder your culture is so fascinated with cowboys. But don’t get your hopes up. He will be dead if he tries to find you.”
My hopes were already up. Not in being rescued. Just knowing he was alive gave me renewed energy to find a way out of this nightmare. What a story this would make for Harrold. Definitely Pulitzer material.
“I have friends who will miss me.”
“Like your photographer?” She smiled cruelly. “A shame he took your breakup so hard. Just couldn’t seem to go on living without you.” Her tone was even, but there was a perverse enjoyment hidden deep within.
“You killed him.” It was not a question, but I was still not prepared for the answer.
“No. He committed suicide. I just helped.”
My God. What was going on here? I fought to keep the terror from consuming me. She looked at me, waiting for my reaction, smiling coyly. Before speaking, I choked back the anger and fear and sat quietly, composed on the outside, but my brain was reeling.
Her features darkened as she studied my calmness, so she pressed on. “Yes, it was a real shame about Ric. And you shan’t have to worry about your dear cat. What was his name?”
“Felix,” I whispered, my throat constricted.
“Your landlady was no longer able to watch over Felix, so I took it upon myself to offer a helping hand.”
“And how is he?”
“Delicious. He was delicious.”
“You ate my cat. I cannot believe you ate my cat. You are sick.”
Lies, all of this had to be a bunch of lies, nothing could be this strange. But I was more certain than ever I was in a mess. Okay, time to get out of here. I hoped my voice wasn’t trembling like my heart. “I want a tour of this compound, or whatever it is.”
“A tour? Forget it, Julius would not approve.”
“Are you afraid of Julius?”
“Of course,” she said. “Only an idiot wouldn’t be. He has the power to turn.”
“The power to turn?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” She moved close to me and whispered in my ear, letting the heat of her breath drip down my neck. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a little pleasure in these last hours of your mortality?”
“You are laughable. What I’d like, instead, you sad little girl, is a tour.”
“Yes, little girl,” came a quiet voice from the door. “She’d like a tour. Give it to her.” Elita pulled away, guilty at being caught. I felt a cold shiver and turned to face the voice. As I expected. Julius. He bowed.
“You owe me an explanation,” I said.
“And you shall receive it. Soon,” he said. “Elita, take our future queen for a stroll and then, Elizabeth, will you join me for drinks in the main parlor?”
“I’ll bring her to you,” said Elita.
“Good. Plan on staying, a witness to our historic little chat.” Julius left the room as quickly as he appeared.
“Don’t get any ideas about escaping,” Elita said tiredly, as we walked out into the hall. “It’s impossible.”
It was like no place I had ever seen. The splendor, the wealth. Impressive on a certain level, but I was focused only on finding a way out.
This was Manhattan, for God’s sake. How could a woman of reasonable intelligence be kept prisoner in New York? Then I remembered all those stories of bondage. It could happen. But I was not going to let it happen to me. If these freaks really were vampires, all I had to do was wait for the sun to rise, sneak out by day and bribe the guards. Bam, I’d be gone.
What the hell was I thinking? They’re not really vampires. There’s no such thing. I must be losing my mind.
“How did you get me here?”
“How we got you here is quite simple, and not very compelling,” Elita said. “Barely worth retelling. Enough money in your pathetic, rational world will get you just about anything you want.”
“Is that what this is all about? Boredom? Are you looking for some new kicks?”
“I wish it was that simple,” Elita said. “If only you were just a new face for Julius’ temporary amusement.” She trailed off into silence.
“Why do you allow yourself to be held here by Julius? You’re a knockout, you could have anyone you want.”
“I have spent centuries having anyone I want,” Elita said. “After awhile, even newness becomes tedious.”
“Why are you part of this, this game of vampirism?”
“This is no game,” she said. “No more questions. It really is quite boring.”
As we walked down the hall, I noticed a heavy wooden door with metal bracing bars, bolted with an iron padlock.
“What’s behind there?” I asked.
Elita sighed. “The ritual rooms.”
“I wish to see them.”
“They are sacred to our kind, not to be profaned by simple curiosity. Your turning will take place in them tomorrow night. Then you can see them firsthand.”
“My turning.” That’s what happened back at the gallery. I struggled to keep panic at bay; it would serve no purpose.
“I’ll let Julius explain that,” she said. “He’s infinitely more articulate than I am.”
“Julius, again Julius, I don’t understand why you are so obedient to such a little pip-squeak,” I said, hoping there was some possibility of turning her into an ally.
&
nbsp; Elita’s face echoed the scorn in her voice. “Soon, my dear queen-to-be, you will be completely in awe of Julius as we all are.” She paused and licked her lips. “I’ll enjoy seeing your high and mighty attitude leveled. You have no idea what you’re in for, do you?”
“No. But I hope it entails a Pulitzer.”
Elita shook her head and opened the French doors off of the massive dining room. I followed her out onto the moonlit balcony.
Delicately crafted wrought-iron furniture was placed carelessly about.
“When the police find out, you and Julius and all your other freaks are in for some hard time,” I said.
Elita giggled. It was charming and unexpected from her exquisite face, but the girlish laugh somehow only made her even more seductive, lighting her face like a school girl.
“You are so naive,” she stammered through another giggle, as I pushed past her and walked alone into the garden, “and for some unknown reason, that’s rather endearing.”
She stopped suddenly, her humor fading. “I wonder if you are toying with me. Are you that clever?” she asked my retreating back.
Yes, I thought. I am.
I walked onto the wet grass, cold against my bare feet. At last, I turned to look back at the house. Elita cut an imposing silhouette in the moonlight, leaning over the balcony.
“How do you keep this place so peaceful?” I called to her. “What keeps out the masses?”
“There’s a facade of rowhouses around the whole block. We own it all. We also employ a small army of guards who are paid handsomely for their services. They are full-time, so don’t get any ideas about escaping by daylight. Some of them are part vampire, simply biding their time until Julius chooses to turn them, others are descendants of families under our protection and in our service for centuries. Very loyal. They live much better than any other Adamites and are promised safety on the day of reckoning.”
“The day of reckoning?”
“It’s closer than you think,” she said. “And all because of you.” Her voice was almost mocking.
How could I respond to such nonsense? If I wasn’t a prisoner and they hadn’t tried to destroy all I loved, I would laugh in their faces and write a blistering blog post about their insanity.
