The Other Kind (The Progeny of Evolution Series)

by Arsuaga, Mike

  No guests had arrived for over half an hour. The Planner prepared to proceed to the buffet when a small commotion stirred among the crowd nearest the door. Sam stood to get a better look. Cynthia, towering over me and everybody else in her heels, had the only clear view.

  Her eyes widened with excitement. “It’s the Lady,” she announced in an animated, raspy whisper.

  The knot of guests parted. A finger thin woman with black hair, maybe a shade or two lighter than Cynthia’s, dressed in a tight fitting silver gown approached, flanked by two formidable men in gray suits. The woman pressed ahead with mincing but purposeful steps, showing glimpses of white medical support hosiery to mid-calf through the slit in the side of her gown. Upon recognizing Sam, the full, precisely painted lips set in a narrow Iberian face curved upward.

  “You are the Madre,” she said with gratitude in her voice as if she found Sam only after a long and laborious quest.

  Sam offered her hand. The older woman took it in both of hers and kissed it. “You have saved our kind.”

  Sam hesitated, apparently not sure how to answer her. “Thank you, Contessa.”

  “Such titles are obsolete these days. Call me Malvina.”

  “Okay, Malvina it is.” Sam presented us, “This is Jim, my mate, our dear friend Ed Myers, and Cynthia, my protégée. She organized this wonderful event.”

  Malvina’s face brightened. “You are the charming young one who was so helpful.” She said to Cynthia and to us added, “I have learned much of America from her emails.”

  “I had a lot of time on my hands in New York,” Cynthia shrugged.

  While the females talked among themselves, I took the opportunity to get a better observation of Malvina. At first glance upon entering the room she appeared to have the face and figure of a forty-year-old woman. On the narrow face smooth skin tautly covered well defined cheekbones. She had slim hips and a flat stomach. When she drew close, however, the smoothness of her face broke down into a surface of small pores. Tiny lines etched into the skin around the eyes would frustrate the efforts of the best make-up artists, and the one she had did excellent work. I observed small knobs pushing from underneath at the joints, the same ailment afflicting Ed. Underneath the silver gown, braces did for her deteriorating spine what the support hose did for her legs.

  Her bodyguards were brothers, born two years apart. The older one, a human, appeared to be around forty-five and his vampire brother, twenty years younger. The human served as one of Malvina’s familiars. Each stood around five feet nine with broad shoulders. Brown hair hung straight to the nape of the neck. Streaks of gray wove through the human’s hair.

  I wondered how the older brother felt, watching his vitality ebb away while his sibling remained frozen in youth and vigor like a cretaceous fly trapped in a piece of amber.

  Ed opened his mouth, attempting to start a conversation with Malvina.

  “You look like an absolute stud tonight,” Cynthia interrupted, taking his arm. “Oscar deserted me. His loss is your gain.” Before the shocked Ed said anything, she led him into the crowd.

  Oscar circulated among the gathering, relentlessly pitching the incorporation plan. They listened politely and without commitment, partly due to the language difficulties but mainly because the only opinion in the room of any importance—besides Dr. Ortiz—stood in front of Sam, talking to her with the greatest of admiration.

  Malvina sat at our table with Ed, Oscar, and Cynthia. The bodyguards were split between the two adjacent tables. As we settled in to eat the band shifted tempo, playing something slow and soft designed to make the dining experience more pleasant. Cynthia chatted animatedly with Ed while Oscar silently waited for an invitation to address The Countess.

  “Doctor Jim,” Malvina said quietly. She leaned close, exuding the scent of an old vampire, like dried paper, pressing so close only I heard her. “I am made to understand your familiar, Mr. Young, has a proposal for our community to consider.”

  She thought of any human who knowingly worked for or with us as a familiar. “Yes ma’am. I think it will help all of us.”

  “After the event perhaps you, Sam, and Cynthia could join me in my suite and bring Mr. Young. After proper introductions we may talk,” she said.

  Malvina might have believed she possessed modern attitudes, but she still lived in the nineteenth century when it came to familiars—a time when they were little more than property. They served from fear, either for their own life or for their loved ones. One never addressed another member’s familiar without introduction. Malvina refused to recognize Oscar until we introduced him to her. It also explained why she or her staff wouldn’t answer the Planner’s telephone calls.

  The baby shower ended with Sam surrounded by a mountain of baby clothes, furniture, and toys. Dr. Ortiz sent a stroller. It comfortably seated the triplets abreast. The large spoked inflatable wheels clicked softly and rapidly when the contraption went in motion. A handwritten note on the attached card read, “For long family walks and good health.”

  As we left with Cynthia for Malvina’s suite, we paused to watch Ed dance a two-step with the female lycan from Texas. Cynthia shook her head, slightly in awe it seemed. “I never suspected he looked so good,” she said as we made our way to the taxi.

  I would never see my dolorous friend happier.

  * * * *

  The Charles Weston, or simply The Weston, stood ten stories high, exceeding the height of any man-made structure within twenty miles. Malvina’s suite occupied most of the top floor. We took an express elevator that opened directly into the suite’s foyer where the bodyguards met us. Juan, the vampire, nodded briefly at Cynthia who returned his notice. Oscar, who didn’t mind the attention she paid to Ed, frowned at the new, much younger rival. He followed up by gripping her arm possessively. A second later the brothers stepped aside, showing us to the living room.

  Malvina waited, seated in an easy chair with her feet propped on an ottoman. She removed her shoes, displaying narrow feet and legs encased to the knees in the support hosiery. Beside her a plump, blonde woman dressed in a blue seersucker uniform, with hair wound in a tight bun, stood.

  “I apologize for the informality of removing my shoes, but at my age they bind so,” Malvina said. Her eyes cut to the plump woman. “Everyone, I want you to meet Bertie. Directed to me as a foundling while I visited Minorca, she has been in my service ever since. She is the wonderful cosmetologist who works daily miracles in the maintenance of my appearance. More importantly she possesses credentials as a registered nurse, educated in England.”

  After introducing the familiar, direct conversation could occur. To clear the way for Oscar I did the same for him. “And the male familiar accompanying you,” I thought to add, “May we know him?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the human brother, and shrugged. “The human familiar is Paco and his younger brother is Juan.” She took a breath, indicating a change of subject from the trivial to something important, and continued. “Bertie will remain with you after I leave. She is licensed in America, credentialed to acquire any medicine needed for you or the children.”

  “We can’t,” Sam protested, shocked. “It’s too much. You have been more than generous already.”

  “My dear,” Malvina replied. “I do this for reasons greater than the interests of anyone in the room. You are young. Pregnancy came easily. While you may take it for granted, I have a better understanding of how difficult an accomplishment it was. For all we know, you may be the only one among us able to bear children. I am wealthy, but it is nothing compared to understanding and securing the future of our kind. Putting a familiar at your disposal is a trifling price to pay.”

  “Well,” Sam said, “I would like to hear what Bertie thinks about this.” Old clashed with new as a confused expression clouded Malvina’s face while Sam’s remained cordially firm. “With all respects to your generous offer, I want to know she comes willingly to help us. In America we do not force familiars to do
anything against their will and that is how I will raise my children.”

  Bertie piped in. “I would be pleased to help, ma’am,” she said with a shrill West London accent and a quick curtsy. “In fact, I would be proud to.”

  “Well,” Malvina said, “now that the matter of the children’s care is settled, we may discuss Mr. Young’s proposal.” She turned her narrow elegant head toward Oscar. “I have read your brief and will support it, but I have some proposals for change based on things you do not yet know.”

  Oscar gradually sat back in his seat. Malvina made a quick hand signal and Paco shuffled off to the next room, returning with a large cardboard foldout. He opened it on the dining room table. A map of the world with several hundred small marker pen dots on it lay before us. Approximately equal numbers of red and blue marks spread across the land masses.

  “I am Basque. My family traces itself to the kings of the Cambrian tribes. We have our own language and writing. Parts of it are nearly two thousand years old. Since I emerged, I have studied Basque texts. In them are references to both vampires and lycans. For over a century I believed in the existence of the wolves. My efforts to prove they existed failed, but for the happy chance of your meeting, our kinds may never have discovered each other.”

  She stopped and oriented the world map so we could best see it. “This map points to the location of all known members of The Other Kind. Blue is vampire and red is lycan. What do you notice?”

  “A lot of them come from your homeland.” Sam observed.

  “Exactly right, dear. There is a, how you say, a concentration. Basque oral and written tradition refers to both our types earlier, and with more detail than anywhere else in the world. I believe the mutation initiated among them.”

  “My grandparents came from near the border,” Sam said, “just on the French side.”

  Malvina continued. “We need to think about building a colony for our kind. I have land as well as cattle to augment the residents’ diet. By being together, greater accomplish becomes possible.”

  And be concentrated in one place. One airstrike and we’re finished, I thought.

  “By the way dear,” Malvina said to Cynthia. “La Mancha is a part of central Spain. Calling me ‘The Lady from Pamplona’ is more accurate.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Brave Little Attorney

  With Cynthia’s modeling career taking off, her schedule afforded less time in town. After the baby shower she moved out of our apartment, taking a suite at the Weston. Bertie moved into her old room. With the heavyweight care now at Sam’s disposal, we convinced Ed to relinquish the couch and return to his apartment.

  “If you need anything,” he said, drifting reluctantly toward the front door. “If you need anything at all—call me. Day or night, call me.”

  The pace of Cynthia’s work quickened. Photographs of the “booty to die for” poured into a pair of jeans or molded by material stretched to its ripping point, competed with her elegant hand, wearing an expensive bauble, or holding a necklace suspended from the graceful arch of long fingers. These images soon filled the pages of fashion magazines. Milton helped her create a new identity as a Canadian. For a professional name she chose “The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia.”

  When Cynthia insisted her face never be shown, her agent suggested she wear a mask covering chin and mouth, circulating the rumor a car accident burned the lower half of her face. Since her contract restricted photography to hands, legs, and butt, the disfigurement created a lot of notoriety but didn’t interfere with her career. However, as the public always wanted what it couldn’t have—or in this situation, couldn’t see—the paparazzi consistently followed her, hoping to catch an unguarded moment. Inevitably, she slipped up and one of them in the vicinity got what they call in the trade “the money shot.”

  It happened in the Atlanta Airport on her way back to New York after a West Coast shoot. Previously, the tabloids kept the mystery of the accident and speculation regarding the type and severity of the disfigurement in the public eye. It didn’t dominate the front page like O.J. Simpson once did, but snippets regularly appeared, mostly from unnamed sources who shared, allegedly first hand, details about the accident or appearance.

  A female member of the paparazzi caught her entering a stall in the ladies room. Cynthia injudiciously dropped the mask before locking herself in. She said the flash startled her so much she nearly peed herself and morphed on the spot. Talk about a money shot. The photograph appeared in three tabloids to general disappointment. The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia turned out to be normal—stunningly beautiful—but normal in every way. As quickly as it arose, interest in the matter faded, buried under stories of UFOs, Sasquatch, celebrity scandals, and, recently, brief sightings of apparently normal people transforming into fanged or wolfish creatures.

  A week or so later I received a phone call at my office.

  “It’s a Mr. Meadows,” the receptionist said.

  I searched my memory, coming up empty. “Put him through, Miriam,” I said at length.

  “Doctor White,” said the stranger. “My name is Dan Meadows. Last year our daughter Cynthia joined your support group.”

  We never used last names in group sessions. The first name habit continued after Cynthia came to stay with us. Thinking hard, I dredged up a recollection of Detective Borden mentioning her family name.

  “Yes, Mr. Meadows, I remember,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to meet with you somewhere.” He paused before adding, “Privately.”

  I agreed to meet in the student union. Waiting at an out of the way table, I expected him to be alone. Instead the whole family came. Dan Meadows, a large blocky man with a firm jaw, saw the world from under dull heavy lidded eyes and a forelock of hair. According to Cynthia, he ruled the family with an iron fist and a foul temper. The temper cost more than one job. When he drank he became violent, especially toward the women. His wife, a slim tired woman, had once been attractive in a willowy way, like Cynthia, but a lifetime of failed dreams beat her down. Now she sat across the table, resigned and spent like a used wire brush. Between them was a young man of seventeen or so. Cynthia had not exaggerated describing him. He was a mountain of human flesh, larger and taller than anyone I knew except for Cynthia in lycan form. Tattooed swastikas covered the scalp of his shaved head. It confirmed what I’d long suspected was the basis for Cynthia’s dislike of Jethro Lee. He wasn’t white. It’s easy to take the girl out of the bigotry but taking the bigotry out of the girl was another matter. She would vehemently deny it, but I’d seen enough of the behaviors associated with it as a young man in Georgia to know it well.

  The son watched me from green eyes like cat’s eye marbles. He habitually rolled his jaw slowly back and forth as if chewing gum.

  The mother was named Karla and the son was Dan, but the family called him “Junior.” At last I put a name with the famous “dorky little brother” who was anything but little.

  After introductions Dan Meadows got to the point. “You probably know, Cynthia ran away,” he said, flipping his head to clear the forelock. “We ain’t heard from her since. And that’s been going on the better part of six months. We did not know whether she was dead or alive.”

  “Then I come across this photograph in one of the supermarket tabloids,” interrupted Junior as he laid a copy of the picture taken at the Atlanta Airport on the table. The newsprint paper immediately began to absorb a milky glass ring on the sticky surface.

  “That’s Cynthia.” Karla Meadows insisted as the creeping stain reached the edge of the photograph.

  “But this woman is dramatically different from your daughter,” I pointed out.

  “I know she appears all grown and dressed up in fancy clothes, but that’s my daughter. I know it.”

  I turned the paper to orient the picture right side up, pretending to study it, wanting to suggest I gave it an objective and serious evaluation. Finally I said, “This young woman
is a successful fashion model.”

  “She’s got the same name as our daughter,” Dan Meadows argued.

  “And rich, too, I’ll bet,” Junior added.

  “I only want my baby back,” Karla Meadows cried and, looking at her husband for support, added. “We all want her back.”

  “I still don’t understand how I can help you,” I said.

  “We talked to her agent in New York,” Dan replied. “She said you knew The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia and gave us your work phone number. You knowing the model seemed like a mighty big coincidence to us, since you were also the last person to see our daughter before she ran away. We want to meet with this young lady. Only then can we know for sure if she is ours.”

  I raised my eyes from the tabloid photograph to meet Dan’s stare. “I can speak with her to determine if she will agree to a meeting.”

  “And what if she says she don’t want to see us?”

  “It’s her decision. I can’t force her.”

  Dan abruptly rose from his seat and looked down. I think he had an idea the extra height would be intimidating. In a balefully quiet voice he uttered, “You have to understand, we ain’t giving up. If she says no, we’ll keep trying.”

  Even knowing everything I did about their treatment of Cynthia, I felt a little sorry for the family, especially the mother. “Mr. Meadows, you have my word I’ll do my best to arrange a meeting.”

  Karla reached across the table, enclosing my hand in both of hers. “You seem like a good man, Doctor White. I know you will do right by us.”

  Slowly disengaging from her fervent grasp, I said, “I’ll try my best, Mrs. Meadows. I promise.”

  * * * *

  “I won’t do it,” Cynthia snapped at me over the phone the same night. Sam listened on the bedroom extension.