by Ray Wallace
"Someone's happy," said Ariella from the passenger seat.
He turned and smiled at her. "We're together. How could I not be happy?"
She leaned over and kissed him.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"Starving."
"Me too. I found a place the other night, just around the next corner..."
A few moments later they were there. He pulled up to the curb, rolled down the window. A scantily clad young woman approached.
"How much?" Jake asked the prostitute.
"For the both of you? A hundred."
He looked at Ariella. "What do you think?"
"Mmmm, tasty."
"All right, get in." He opened his door, pulled his seat forward, motioned for the woman to get in back. She did. He closed the door.
Ariella reached over and took his hand, lifted it to her mouth, gave it a little bite.
Oh, it's going to be a wild one tonight, thought Jake as he put the car in gear and drove off into the darkness.
- KEEPSAKE -
(A TALE OF THE NAMELESS)
Author's note: Another story set in the world of the Nameless - in case the title wasn't enough of a giveaway. This one was also written before the novel and originally intended to take place after Ariella's departure from the Coven. With the way things turned out in the book, however, this would be impossible. So it's a prequel now, one I imagine occurring a few years before The Nameless. A time when Nicolae was doing his damnedest to find the thirteenth member of his beloved family...
*
"Feeding time," said Jeremy as he pulled back the curtains and looked out over the innumerable lights of the night-shrouded city below. It was a breathtaking view, one that never ceased to cause a tiny thrill to surge through his body. Jeremy had to hand it to Nicolae; he had chosen well when he had decided to house his Coven here. The place was old, built more than a century earlier, still in immaculate condition thanks to Nicolae's oversight of its constant upkeep. The place was also big, a sprawling manor that covered most of the hilltop upon which it roosted. And the location was wonderful, isolated out here on the edge of the city, away from any curious neighbors who might become suspicious at the odd, frightful sounds that at times emanated from the house's interior.
For a few minutes Jeremy simply stared out the window, thought about all the people down there going about their tiny lives, acting on their whims and jealousies, suffering through their tragedies, finding the strength to endure in their hopes and dreams. All of those people, millions of them, oblivious to the fact that he was here, standing at his window, looking down at them, imagining just how good they would taste...
Jeremy let the curtains fall back into place, turned away from the window, skirted the king-sized bed from which he had recently arisen, approached the desk located next to the room's lone entranceway. He reached out and flicked the switch on the wall there, blinked against the sudden luminescence that bathed the room. Then with an eager light in his eyes he opened the desk's top right hand drawer, removed what appeared to be a black jewelry box. Setting the box on the desk he tilted back its hinged lid, could only stare for a moment at what was contained within.
Teeth. Gleaming, silver teeth. Very sharp, gleaming, silver teeth. Razor sharp as a matter-of-fact. Each tooth pointed like a tiny chrome dagger.
One had to be careful while handling these teeth, even more cautious when wearing them. It would actually be quite foolhardy for anyone without Jeremy's resiliency, without his supernatural ability to heal himself and superhuman tolerance for pain to make use of them at all. For causing damage to oneself with them was unavoidable. As most everyone has managed, at one time or another, to bite his or her tongue or the inside of the cheek while eating, with these teeth in place such minor wounds were not so minor any more.
Jeremy slowly, almost reverentially lifted the teeth from the box's padded interior, took a few steps to his left to stand before the full-length mirror bolted to the wall there. For a moment his vanity took over as it always did and he had to just stand there and soak in his naked reflection. He was tall, just over six-foot-three, his body composed of lean, wiry muscle, his skin the pale perfection that all the members of the Coven had in common. The type of body Michelangelo would have loved to have captured in marble. His light brown hair hung to his shoulders and surrounded a face that was almost absurdly handsome. In high school and college a number of girls had called his eyes "dreamy." And many more had willingly climbed into his bed.
After college he had decided that whatever job his business degree could have gotten him would have to wait and he had come here, to the city, found an apartment and a roommate, had set about pursuing a career as a male model. He had quickly risen through the ranks, within a year-and-a-half had become one of the most sought after faces in the industry. How weird it was to see himself on billboards and magazine covers, to have so many people adore him, to suddenly have more money than he knew what to do with. And the parties... the women... VIP list at every club in town.
It was at one of these clubs where he had met the man with the Russian accent, the man who had introduced himself as "Nicolae," the man who then introduced him to three of the most beautiful women he had ever seen: Anna, Mary, and Judith.
And the rest, as they say, was history.
Nicolae had asked Jeremy if he wished to experience a night he would never forget. Nicolae's three companions had smiled at Jeremy, one of them licking her lips. What red-blooded American male could possibly turn down an offer like that? So the five of them had left the club, had stepped out into the city's warm darkness, had all piled into the stretch limo waiting for them out front. A couple of drinks and a short while later Jeremy realized they were leaving the city, were taking one of the bridges to a nearby suburb, were climbing through the rolling hills that led to some very exclusive and reclusive estates.
Then they were there, at the old and sprawling mansion, the limo sent on its way, Jeremy ushered up the front steps and through the wide double doors there. One of the girls took his hand and gently pulled him into the house, led him beneath the giant chandelier in the entrance hall, up the wide and sweeping staircase at the room's far side. Jeremy followed without question, his thoughts a little hazy as though he had been hypnotized. A part of his mind wondered if he had been drugged during the ride over here, if something had been slipped into his drink. The rest of him didn't care, was concerned about one thing and one thing only: getting to fuck these girls.
They reached the top of the stairs, the girl before him - Judith. Her name is Judith. - still holding him, pulling him along. Something odd about how cold her hands were but he just couldn't summon the will to be concerned about it. The other two women followed behind him, lightly pushing him along, giggling and laughing like this was some sort of wonderful game. He found himself laughing in response, trying to remember the last time he had felt this good, this happy.
Then they were in a room, a spacious bedroom with a massive four poster bed near one wall, a love seat and vanity near another, huge cushions thrown about the floor, silk drapes covering the windows and hanging from the ceiling. He found another drink in his hand, a tiny mirror with lines of a white powder cut onto it held before him, a short straw held to his nose. And a pill, he was given a little red pill, took it without a moment's hesitation.
After that it all became a blur, a phantasmagoric series of memories:
Delicate hands pulling his clothes from his body, pushing him to the cushioned floor... The three women naked above him, beside him, beneath him... He felt hot, so hot, like a fever burned inside him, the cold flesh of the women a soothing balm to the fire that threatened to consume him... Then he was on the bed looking up at the mirror he discovered on the ceiling there, gazing with a detached awe upon the sight of himself and the three beautiful women, their skin so pale next to his, writhing about with something approaching total abandon. Like some strange creature, he remembered thinking, taking in the vision of all t
hose entangled limbs moving to their own silent rhythm, occasionally spasming as a jolt of pleasure shot through them. A sea creature pulled from the waters and left to die in the choking air...
And there was Nicolae, seated on the love seat, drink in hand and a grin plastered on his face as he took in the action, raising his glass at times in a salute. Then came the release, the mind-numbing explosion of his climax, the fire pouring out of him leaving his body suddenly weak as that of a newborn child.
He remembered lying there, eyes closed, moaning, tired and thirsty, unable to move, one thought spinning through his overloaded mind: What the fuck?... What the fuck?... It was impossible to organize his thoughts. He wondered about the pill he had taken but not for long. He was so damn thirsty.
Then a male voice with a Russian accent said, "Here, drink," and something cold and wet was pressed to his lips. He drank deeply, greedily, the liquid soothing the parched dryness that had threatened to consume his being. It was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted, a thick, salty liquid that almost immediately restored the strength that had been all but entirely sapped from his body. Then that voice again: "Come, my dears, let us leave him now." He heard the door close, forced himself to open his eyes.
The mirror showed him lying there, alone, body slick with sweat, a red smear across his mouth. He licked his lips, tasted again the drink that Nicolae had given him: Salty. Coppery.
Blood.
Oh, shit.
He thought about what had been pressed to his mouth. Not a glass, no. Something else entirely. Something softer. With a tear in it. A piece of rubber? Not quite. Something organic. Something alive. Or something that had been alive. Skin. Cold skin. Cold as the women he had bedded. But subtly different. A man's. Nicolae's, of course. More than likely his wrist.
The sick bastard had cut his wrist and let Jeremy drink his blood!
"Oh, shit," he said aloud this time.
He sat bolt upright, momentarily amazed at his strength's sudden return, stood from the bed and ran across the room to the door, ready to storm out of there and kick him some weirdo Ruskie ass. The door was locked. "Motherfucker!" he shouted and beat at the door, pulled on the handle as hard as he could. It was a thick door, heavy, solid oak probably, the handle made of some black metal. No way he was going to be able to open it. In a rage he turned and stalked to the room's other side, tore at the curtains there, exposed the hidden window. Iron bars covered it at six inch intervals. "Son of a bitch!"
A trickle of fear found its way in past his anger and he was just starting to wonder about the level of trouble he was in here when the pain hit him. In the stomach. Like he had been punched. Hard. No, stabbed was more like it. He grunted and doubled over. Now what the hell was this? For a moment the pain lessened. He stayed bent over, taking in deep breaths, afraid to stand up immediately. And then it came again. Twice as bad as before. He stumbled over to where the cushions littered the floor and collapsed on top of them, moaning, curled himself into a fetal position.
"Oh, God... Oh, God..." he whispered.
He hoped that the terrible feeling would let up again but it didn't, instead it intensified and spread outward, moved up into his chest, down into his legs, invaded his hands, his feet, his head. He screamed, a primal sound without words, a simple expression of his agony. Like a great wave the pain rolled over him, through him, threatened to drown him in its brutal intensity. He forgot where he was, who he was, what he was, knew that he was simply this thing that hurt, wished only that the pain would go away. And when it seemed that this agony could not possibly get any worse it did. The great wave became a tsunami. Mercifully, he passed out.
At some point he felt hands on him, lifting him, carrying him to the bed. He whimpered and tried to speak but a soothing female voice shushed him, told him that everything was going to be all right, that he had to fight it, had to fight the pain just a little while longer, that if he did everything would be so much better than he could have ever imagined. Again he slept. And awoke to the sickness.
In some ways this was worse than the pain, left him hot and weak and delirious, filled his mind with the most horrible thoughts. I'm dying, a voice said over and over in his mind. Dying... Oh, please God, don't let me die... Someone pressed a cold rag to his head. Ran it over his naked body. It felt good, so good, helped quell some of the heat that threatened to boil him alive but did little to rid him of the awful thoughts, the certainty that he was about to die.
Then the voice again: "All right, Jeremy. Here it comes. This is the part that matters most. Your heart is slowing, your breath growing weaker. Do you see it? The light? The little pinpoint of light? See it growing? Do not fear it. Go to it. Embrace it. It is the end. It is the beginning." The voice was fading... fading... "We'll be waiting for you on the other side..."
He reached out to the light. It took him in, washed away the sickness, the pain, the fear. It held him, comforted him, bathed him in its brilliance. He felt like an unborn child in the womb, warm, safe, protected.
Then the light spit him out.
He opened his eyes and gasped, forced himself into a sitting position, a feeling of terrible dread washing over him. He was still in bed, still naked, and the women were there. Nicolae was there. And there were others, eight more of them, standing about the bedroom, all of them looking at him. He felt that he knew them, all of them, even though he had never seen most of them before in his life.
"I told you," said Nicolae to those gathered. "I told you he'd make it."
"What the fuck?" asked Jeremy in a voice barely more than a whisper. "What happened to me?"
"Why, you passed through, my boy."
"Passed through?"
"Yes, you are one of us now. Place your hand on your chest over your heart."
Jeremy did, looked a question at Nicolae. Did they want him to take an oath, offer up some sort of pledge?
"What do you feel?"
"Nothing."
"That's right," said the Russian with a smile.
Then it dawned on him. Nothing. No heartbeat.
"Welcome to the Coven," said Nicolae.
"Welcome," echoed the others present in a single voice.
"Holy fucking shit..."
Jeremy shook the memories from his head. That had all happened only a few months ago. Oh, the things he had seen and done since that night... He brought his mind back to what he held in his hands, to what the evening ahead held in store for him. He smiled, watched his reflection smile back at him, then he opened his mouth wide and inserted the teeth.
They were a perfect fit, made from a mold of his own teeth and gums by a master sculptor he had hired specifically for the job. Hired then thanked by brutally murdering with his bare hands, by tearing into with his newly made chrome dentures. After all, his new purchase needed broken in, didn't it? And he needed to know just how well the teeth worked. Just fine, it turned out, as he bit into flesh and muscle and internal organs, as he shredded through them with no more effort than one would normally exert while masticating a perfectly boiled piece of shellfish. Chewing and swallowing with wild abandon, he gorged himself on the body parts and fluids necessary to sustain him and his kind. No simple vampires were the members of his Coven. No. Their hungers ran deeper, their tastes more varied. Sure, blood was fine but only as a sauce for the meat through which it coursed. And how could the many other treats of the human body be ignored? The eyes, the tongue, the liver, the kidneys, the spleen, the testicles... Jeremy ravenously partook of them all. But not the brain. He was warned about that but had experimented once anyway out of curiosity. Never again. He had immediately felt as though he were on the worst acid trip of all time, had been sick for days afterward. Only Nicolae ate the brain and rarely at that. He said it gave him visions, allowed him to see the future. Yeah, well Nicolae could have his visions.
When Jeremy's hunger was satiated, he sat on the floor next to the ruined corpse, leaned back against the wall there and thought about what it was that he had bec
ome. What Nicolae and his Coven had turned him into. Nameless. That's what Nicolae said, that they were "the Nameless," the creatures of the night who had never been named, who masked their true natures so diligently, who disposed of the remains of their victims so carefully, that their human prey was all but unaware that they even existed. And those few who were aware would never do anything so foolhardy as call attention to the fact.
"I am one of the Nameless," Jeremy had said aloud to the deathly silent room.
And he had found that he was content. No, more than that. Happy. Delirious. What power Nicolae and his children - as he liked to call the members of his Coven - had given him! More power than he could have ever comprehended as a mere mortal. Unimaginable strength and agility. Resistance to all known diseases. The ability to live for centuries. Who wouldn't be ecstatic with these newfound gifts? He was an unstoppable force, a god who strode through the mortal realm selecting victims on a whim, dragged them kicking and screaming into dark alleys where he fed and left the remains. He didn't have time to care about the scraps he left behind. There was so much to do in this nocturnal world he ruled, so many others upon whom he wished to feed. So what if a few mauled corpses were discovered? Who would guess - or be taken seriously if they did - that it was the work of a supernatural creature? And what did it matter if the humans did know? What could they possibly do about it anyway? The care with which the Coven masked its presence seemed silly. If the humans ever became aware of the Nameless they would simply tremble in fear at the knowledge. Of course, Nicolae felt differently on the subject. In one of his visions he had seen a panic stricken mass of humans hunt down and destroy the Coven.
Let them try, Jeremy had thought with a red and silver smile while relaxing there in the sculptor's shop. Let them try...
With an effort Jeremy pulled himself away from the memories, from his reflection in the mirror, skirted the bed, opened a closet door and removed a pair of black slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt. His "killing clothes" as he liked to call them. Blood was much harder to detect on dark fabrics. It was no coincidence that his wardrobe was almost entirely black. Once dressed he thrust his feet into a pair of black boots and then he was out the door, one thought drifting through his mind: Feeding time...
