A Keeper's Truth

by Dee Willson

  “Ma’am.” He nods. “I am Clause, Dr. Waters’ chef, and butler when the need arises. Please do come in and allow me to take your coats.”

  I make a face at Karen and she grins from ear to ear. Clause disappears with our coats, and Karen takes a good look at my outfit. “About time the old Tess showed up for something,” she says.

  I’m dressed in gold from head to toe. I glow.

  “I found the gold tights and body suit at a thrift shop and I painted the shoes.” I raise a leg. The once black stilettos reflect light with glitter. My hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail coated in gold sparkles from a can. My facial features are strikingly inhuman, painted on with shimmering makeup. Long eyelashes twinkle, my lips glisten with gold lipstick, and Abby’s wings hang down my back, even though I know they don’t belong with the outfit.

  “Let me guess, you’re a hot fairy,” Karen remarks.

  “That’ll do. I’m actually a Tuatha Dé Danaan.” Karen lifts an eyebrow. “The Tuatha Dé Danaan are ancient fae, mythical creatures thought to live in a parallel world among the Irish.” She just stares. “No one will get it. I expect to be pegged a fairy all night.”

  Karen shrugs without further comment. She’s just happy to have a wingman.

  I take a step back, appreciating Karen’s outfit. She’s a police officer. Well, a scandalously clad police officer. The navy polyester uniform holds tight to her curves, top three buttons hanging free. Her long red hair is tied into a bun tucked beneath an authentic-looking officer’s hat.

  I laugh, delighted. “Who’d you buy this outfit for?” Her husband is a self-absorbed prude who’d never volunteer for this type of foreplay.

  Karen looks herself over. “Hubby would poop his pants to see me like this. I figured since I felt like a teenager sneaking out of the house I might as well have some fun with it.”

  God, I love going out with Karen.

  We’re about to wander when Bryce blows into the foyer. “Thank you for coming,” he says. He looks dashing, slightly menacing, but distracted. “The bartender will serve anything you wish to drink and waiters are wandering around with things I couldn’t possibly name.” The party is obviously catered. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He ends with a hospitable bow, cape in hand, then turns to greet the next wave of arriving guests pushing us from the foyer.

  “You need a drink,” says Karen. So we head for the bar.

  “This party is packed.” We push through the crowd. “How did all these people get here? They couldn’t possibly fit in six cars.”

  Karen scans the crowd. “This is nothing.” She hates being outdone. Her parties are legendary, and she has no intension of being knocked from her throne.

  The bar consumes an entire corner of the great room. It’s illuminated with candles and small pot lights that showcase glass cabinets filled with an assortment of expensive-looking crystal glasses and stone sculptures. An attractive young man stands behind the counter, his suit starched stiff, making him look like a penguin. I lean over the bar, inquiring about martinis, my voice straining to be heard above the chatter. “Any kind you wish,” he says, flashing a smile containing more teeth than should fit into one mouth.

  “Candy apple martini,” I say, Mrs. Maples coming to mind. “But not the sour kind.”

  Bar boy nods. “And you, officer?” He ogles Karen’s barely-contained boobs.

  Karen leans forward, giving him a better appreciation of her finer points. “Corona with lime, please and thank you.”

  Man, her husband has no idea what he’s missing.

  With drinks in hand, we scan the room. People have put great effort into looking the part, most in elaborate costumes. I watch a tall fellow in a pirate outfit talking to a group of people with an animated hand and one hook flying every which way. The group consists of an extra-large Fred Flintstone, Obi-Wan from Star Wars, and a doctor and nurse, a couple. To our left a knight is involved in a heated conversation with a lanky woman dressed like Wonder Woman. The man holds his sword outward, demonstrating its advantages, and Wonder Woman, lasso coiled, stands with both sets of knuckles on her hips, impatiently waiting to get a word in.

  Everywhere I look waiters filter through the room with trays of shots and fancy pastries. As one approaches, pausing to serve several shots to a boisterous woman in a witch costume, I gently place my almost full martini onto the tray.

  “It’s much too strong.” I can feel myself becoming light-headed already.

  “Let’s flaunt our stuff,” declares Karen. She leads the way through the crowd, chatting as we go. Most of the people look to be from out of town, but I recognize a few locals: Manny and his wife Loraine from down the road, the Fedwicks, dressed in matching ghost attire. Henry is here, the chef from the corner bistro. I don’t know his wife’s name, but she’s beside him dressed as a baby, diaper and all. Mostly couples. A lot of frowns and soppy eyes. Just wonderful.

  Karen talks while I survey the room, admiring the architecture. The house was custom built in the sixties for some European nickel tycoon, or so I’ve heard. The attention to detail is impressive. One end of the room boasts the largest fireplace I’ve ever seen, surrounded by intricate woodwork and glossy black granite. An elegant antique mirror crowns the mantle framed by two ornate statues of dancing women. Along a never-ending wall are three sets of French doors. Beyond them the night is dark so I can’t see out, but I’m inclined to think they lead to a beautiful patio oasis. Everything is layered in textured shades of creamy ivory, and the walls are Venetian plaster, heavily rubbed to shine like marble.

  I expected Bryce’s home to be littered with modern pieces and showy man-cave stuff, but it’s not. Sure, there is a lot of open space not yet filled, but his possessions are obviously historical pieces gathered from around the world, both elegant and unique, and I’m surprised.

  I take it all in, Belle in the Beast’s castle.

  Bryce sweeps into the room, smiling, aiming straight for us, I think. Guest’s stop him every few steps to chat. I find myself fidgeting, which pisses me off. He’s well dressed in a cultured black suit and crisp white shirt, opened to reveal a purple silk scarf stylishly folded and pinned with a diamond-encrusted emblem. Over the suit, draped on his back and clipped at the neckline, is a black satin cape with blood-red silk lining. His handsome features are highlighted by slicked hair and pale makeup, making him every bit the regal vampire he’s meant to be. He’s got a glass of bubbly in each hand.

  “At last,” he says, coming to stand beside Karen and me. “I’m so pleased you could make it.” He leans in to kiss Karen on each cheek as she mumbles words of gratitude, and I wonder, for a split second, why she gets kisses and I don’t.

  Bryce turns to me. “For you,” he says and grins, handing me a glass.

  Am I so pathetic he thinks I need alcohol? “Thanks,” I say, slightly agitated. I wait for the words of sympathy, the condolences, but they don’t come.

  “If you’re anything like me,” he says, “empty hands make you nervous.” His sly smile reveals two dangerous teeth.

  I’m not entirely sure what to make of this guy. I’ve dated men with more money than class, good-looking guys with the confidence to approach a pretty, self-sufficient girl without fear of rejection. They usually had egos the size of mountains and rough hands. Not the manual labor kind.

  “Thank you,” I repeat, wondering for the umpteenth time why he insisted I come to this party . . . and why I came.

  Karen mumbles something about a costume malfunction as she fumbles with the buttons on her jacket. Everything looks fine to me, but she says she needs to find the ladies’ room and slinks away before Bryce can offer directions, leaving me alone with him beside the fire.

  I make a mental note to thank Karen later. And kick her in the ass.

  “Vampires have a long history,” Bryce says, maneuvering his cape like a bat wing. His face glows, dancing with the flames of the fire. “They date back almost four thousand years. Ancient tribal tra
ditions speak of living sorcerers, immortals capable of absorbing one’s life-essence or chi. These magicians didn’t rise from a grave or suck blood, but the end result was the same. Over time, the word vampire evolved to a catch-all phrase encompassing a variety of creatures, some based on tribal traditions, most on modern imagination.”

  I’m blown away. Some of this I’ve read before. A lot of my books cover vampire folklore. But I’ve never met anyone else who has read this stuff.

  “No one told Stoker.” I teeter on my toes, searching the mirror for his reflection.

  Bryce clears his throat with a raspy chuckle. “Folkloric vampires have little in common with literary vampires. Vampire myths exist throughout all of Eastern and Central Europe and references abound in scripture as old as documented time. In fact, the word vampire is found in hundreds of languages, most deriving from the Turkic word, witch.” He swigs the last of his champagne, oblivious to my shocked expression.

  “Perfect choice,” he says, staring at my costume.

  I feel the need to explain. “I’m a fairy. An Irish fairy, to be precise.”

  “The Tuatha Dé Danaan,” he says, matter-of-factly.

  Bubbly drizzles down my chin.

  “The Tuatha Dé Danaan,” he says, “are remembered as myth, folklore, and are a perfect example of how ancient history predating the written word has been twisted and misinterpreted throughout the ages, making it impossible to distinguish fact from fiction.”

  I can’t tell if he’s serious. “Most of the books I’ve read paint the Tuatha Dé Danaan as mythical creatures who guard the passage to the underground, to the land of the fae.” I peer at my gold tights and shoes. “And look like this.”

  “Today the Tuatha Dé are an important part of Irish mythology, their story always evolving. But what if, thousands of years ago, the Tuatha Dé were mere mortals, migrating people from an advanced civilization displaced by a great flood or catastrophe? What if they were people no different than you and I?” He leans in to whisper in my ear. “Who knows, maybe you’re a direct descendant? The Tuatha Dé were tall women and men with fair red hair and pale skin, and your stunning green eyes are a dead giveaway.”

  I suddenly feel like a stranger in my own skin. My hair is dark but my mother was a red head.

  “The wings are cute though.” A devious smile plays on his lips. “You ought to be careful tonight. The vast majority believe the Tuatha Dé Danaan were sensual beings. You may get hit on something fierce.”

  I scan the room, feeling somewhat targeted. No one is looking in my direction. No one but Bryce.

  “I’ll be your white knight and protect you from the demons that lurk,” he murmurs in my ear.

  I laugh but my heart is not in it. Who will save me from Bryce Waters?

  Nerves and alcohol wreak havoc with my insides, my pluck gone the way of the dodo bird. I take a sip of Champagne and gaze out into the room, people watching. Suddenly, the room seems even more crowded, the notion making me dizzy.

  “You have a lovely home,” I say, avoiding his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the fire is making the silver flecks in his eyes spark.

  “Thank you. There is still a lot to do, much to update, but I’m settling in.”

  “What made you buy in Carlisle?”

  “It’s 1625 feet above sea level.”

  I stare, dumbfounded, and Bryce grins.

  “I have family nearby,” he says. “I fell in love with the town ages ago, when I was here to assist an archeologist studying the area. The Niagara Escarpment has more than one-hundred sites of geological significance, including some of the best exposures of prehistoric rock and fossils to be found anywhere in the world.”

  “Are you an archeologist? Do you travel a lot?”

  “I’m a historian. I teach, but not here. My work takes me around the globe, although I’m trying to cut back, to spend more time with family.”

  A historian. Hmm, my inner nerd is giddy.

  “Aren’t historians, like, book worms? You’re not what I envision. You got a pocket organizer hidden somewhere?”

  Bryce tut-tuts me, smiling. “How cliché. I specialize in anthropology, the study of human origins, societies, and cultures. Most of my time is spent teaching ancient history: Mayan, Inca, Roman, Egyptian, civilizations that thrived for hundreds or thousands of years.” He frowns, seemingly bored.

  Not me, I studied art history in university, even spent an entire semester addicted to Egyptian pottery.

  “Have you published any articles or books I might’ve read?”

  He shrugs. “I mostly speak at conferences, schools.”

  He looks too young to have such experience.

  “Do you get to go on archaeological digs?” Bryce doesn’t strike me as someone who likes to get dirty . . . in the dirt.

  The right side of his mouth twitches. “Every once in a while one of the archaeologists or geologists I work with calls me to a site.” He reaches behind me, his scent, soap mixed with vanilla and apples, engulfs me as he pulls something from a shelf. “Gotta love the dig,” he says. Cradled in his hand is a tiny porcelain dish encased in plexiglass. The dish is covered in symbols of various shapes and sizes, all encircling a naked woman standing waist high in water, holding a tree branch above her head. My breath blooms over the plastic box as I investigate the etching too intricate for tools of this century, let alone one past.

  I take a stab at dating the piece. “The Minoan civilization, sixteen-hundred BC?”

  “Add a thousand years. Early eighteenth century. A rare find.” He points to the center of the plate. “The woman is Xi Wang Mu, known as the goddess of immortality. Here, she’s following the other gods of life across the sea, away from her former Palace of Immortality, which has been swallowed by angry waves. Her chief duty is to tend to this peach tree, the tree that bestows eternal life to anyone who eats the fruit.” He returns the priceless plate to its haven on the shelf and turns to me, now brimming with excitement. He’s young, my age I’d guess, and articulate, speaking with a maturity beyond his years. His knowledge is mesmerizing.

  “Truth be told, my specialty is prehistory, cultures that existed prior to written language. I’m especially close to Lemurian culture.”

  This sounds familiar, the concept floating close to acknowledgement, but still out of reach.

  “Lemurians . . . I’ve read about them before. They’re more myth than fact, right?”

  “Depends who you ask,” he says, not bothered by my skepticism. “Unlike the Atlanteans, who were obliterated before sunrise, Lemurians struggled to survive the catastrophic remains of comet bombardment for thousands of years, until they were eventually overtaken by tsunamis.”

  “Atlantean, as in Atlantis?”

  “Atlantis was a fantastical place, brimming with scores of people. The sun shone for all but a few hours of the day, bringing life to boundless acres of garden. The land, laced with volcanic soil and fed by an immense irrigation system of fresh mountain water, offered feasts of fruit, flowers, vegetables, and herbs. The markets were busy day and night with trade beyond wonder, and the evenings filled with song, laughter, and dance. Oh, the dancing,” he says, sighing. “The imperial palace was a magnificent mega of early Etruscan architecture, and clad with silver and copper, it radiated warmth that could be felt for miles. One could spend countless days exploring the city’s streets, the gardens, the temples, the shrines, and the royal residences that encircled the heart of the city. From atop a bridge you could look upon a canal bustling with import or take in the glory of one of four grandiose harbors. And that,” he says with an awe-inspiring smile, “was just the place. The people, ah, the people were something to behold.”

  His account, so vivid, takes my breath away. I tingle from the inside out and feel like I’ve magically returned from a stroll down the stone-lined streets of the majestic city only seconds ago.

  “You are a fabulous storyteller,” I say, truly impressed.

  “I get car
ried away sometimes.” He smiles. “Enough about me. Tell me about your work. I know you’re an artist.”

  Art—my favorite subject. Before I get a word out, someone calls Bryce from across the room. A waiter waves frantically from the doorway.

  “Hold that thought,” Bryce says, frowning. And away he goes, my white knight in black.

  Nothing like I’d imagined.

  That Bad

  The party gets louder as more guests squeeze in. I sip the last of my Champagne, keeping an eye out for Karen or someone familiar. The fire has my right side toasty.

  A man stumbles toward me, polishing off a bottle of Heineken. “Yummy,” he says, his beady eyes grazing my body.

  “Excuse me?” He’d better be referring to the beer.

  “Power wrapped in foil,” he slurs, leaning in close, his weight supported by the mantel.

  Mental note—avoid the drunks.

  “What are you supposed to be?” I say, looking for a way to get past him. His skin is pasty white, almost translucent, and gives me the creeps. Gauzy material clings to his limbs, a couple of rounds in the dryer too many. His head twitches on his shoulders and his lips move, but I don’t think he’s speaking English. I’m busy trying to stay out of his reach. With every step he takes toward me, I take two steps back.

  “Dude, you’re bugging me out.”

  I’m planning an escape via body slamming when a hand takes mine, pulling me away from the wall and more than an arm’s length from the freak. Bryce has materialized out of nowhere. The freak looks startled, then embarrassed. He turns and disappears into the horde of costumes.

  “I appreciate—”

  “You need to eat,” says Bryce, leading me from the room.

  I’m about to protest but he’s right: I’m hungry. I didn’t have much dinner and the wine is dousing my defenses, which apparently I need to keep sharp. We zigzag through the crowd, and I glance at our interlocked hands, tempted to pull free. Bryce holds tight, as if he has the right, and I wonder what kind of playboy this guy really is. I’ve seen them all, but he’s an enigma.