Several hands eased into the air, with no small amount of trepidation. Most of the students were around my age, with Grigorio and Salem being the oldest at eleven and Russell and Theresa being the youngest at eight. Regardless of age, most did not grasp the seriousness of what the teacher had said to them, so I waited for Ms. Dolores to spit it out.
"Yes?" she said, pointing at Russell's raised hand.
"What happens to those who don't pass?"
I couldn't believe that the teacher would not just tell the truth. It was already so obvious to me that I couldn't help but speak up without thinking. Patience had never been a virtue of mine. "They die," I blurted.
All heads turned to me, but my eyes were fixed on Ms. Dolores, who held my stare with an expression I could not decipher.
"Isn't that right, ma'am?" I said, keeping my tone respectful but steady. The last thing I wanted to do was exhibit any shred of fear. Somehow, I gathered that it would be the one thing they would not stand for and I suspected that was the only reason mouthy Salem was still present. His constant tone of insubordination would have had my father's hand across his face faster than he could blink in regret.
"That is correct, Paris. Any further questions?" She held my eyes for a moment longer, then moved on to the others, who were stunned into silence.
I caught Salem, out of the corner of my eye, glaring at me. I did not care. Let the truth be known. If that wasn't motivation, I didn't know what was.
"Now," Ms. Dolores continued with her curriculum, "let's talk about healing and aging."
"I've always heard that vampires don't age," Salem said, letting his tongue get ahead of his brain again.
Ms. Dolores whipped her head around toward him like an agitated viper and actually growled, low, and with clear menace. It seemed he'd struck a nerve. "First and foremost," she stated, stalking closer to him, yet allowing her head to swivel around to the faces of each student, "we do not refer to ourselves as 'vampires.' That is a nasty, derogatory term and it shall never be spoken by any of you ever again. Is that perfectly understood?"
There was a chorus of silent agreement conveyed through rapidly nodding heads. I noted the edge in her voice for future reference.
"Vampires are dead, reanimated corpses, fictional creatures of death and craving. We, on the other hand, are very much alive. Valensi have a sturdier chemical makeup than regular humans. We do age, albeit at a much slower pace. Taking into account our increased metabolism, our bodies also tend to heal at a rate far faster than that of a human.
"This translates roughly to sixty years of life to one actual year of aging. For instance, if you are ten years old when you become Valensi, it will take you sixty years to make it, physically, to eleven. Do you understand?" She saw quite a few of the students with glazed looks on their faces, but she pointed at Salem. "What is sixty times ten?"
"Uh...600," he said, after a few too many moments of mental calculation.
"Good. So it will take you 600 years to physically age ten years. Understand?" She turned to the blackboard to jot down additional examples and more and more of the students began nodding.
As each of the children began to grasp the reality of that, their eyes widened in amazement. I, on the other hand, wondered just how many Valensi actually made it to old age and what exactly was their definition of that.
CHAPTER 8
PRESENT
J eff, Kenny and Greg were kind enough to buy me several drinks as we chatted at the bar. One look from the bouncer outside and the velvet rope might as well have floated away on its own. He'd hesitated at the trio when he saw them one step behind me but, when I nodded to him and cast him a little sideways grin, he let them in without question. I was beginning to enjoy my newfound power of femininity, which had never worked so well at the Citadel – except with Thorne, of course. The thought of Thorne caused a slight feeling of nausea and I pushed the thoughts aside. Now was not the time to let past loves ruin a decent night out.
"So, Paris, where are you from? Not Paris, I guess," Jeff said. "Not with that accent."
I hid my smirk. And here I thought I'd dropped it completely. Obviously, I was mistaken. "Bristol," I said, leaning in so he could hear me over the thumping music that issued from the dozen speakers around the club. "In the UK"
"Cool," Greg remarked, raising his glass for a toast. "God save the Queen!"
We all laughed and clinked our glasses.
"How about you guys?" I asked. I knew already, having run my thoughts through theirs prior to entering the building. My target had been set in that moment. Nonetheless, small talk was important for getting on their good side so they wouldn't suspect me of what was to come.
"Jacksonville," they stated, almost in unison. Again, we laughed.
"What brings you to Orlando then?" Jeff looked away from me as Kenny piped in.
"Our boy here's about to get hitched!"
"Really," I said, intentionally making it sound more like a statement than a question. "So you're celebrating."
"Absolutely!" Greg threw his arm around Jeff, causing some of his friend's drink to splash onto the floor. "Little Jeffy's last days as a free man!"
"So, why not party there, in Jacksonville?"
"You never shit where you eat," Greg said. He winked and laughed out loud, pulling our own laughter with his. He'd made it sound like a joke but his phrasing and my current knowledge turned its meaning back onto itself. All of my initial suspicions were proven correct.
"What about you two?" I said, my eyes bouncing from Greg to Kenny. "You guys married? Or, are either of you tying the knot soon?"
They fidgeted at my question and Jeff just smiled.
"They're single," Jeff said, "but it's not for any lack of trying."
"Hey!" the two responded together.
"Maybe you should hit a casino," I said. I paused at their blank stares.
"Oh," Kenny smiled. "I get it. We're unlucky in love, huh? Sure. Might not be a bad idea though. Greg here...he'd make a fucking fortune, I bet."
"Very funny, asshole," Greg replied. He turned to glare out at the dance floor. I could sense it building in him.
"It's all about timing," I said. "You never know when lightning will strike. Comes out of nowhere, ya know? You can't tell what the future holds. Trust me."
Greg stared at me for a moment, then turned his attention back to the people out on the floor.
"You wanna dance?" Kenny asked.
I nodded and we slipped through the tables that encirled the area and merged into the undulating masses. It had been years since I'd danced. The music was sort of poppy but it also carried a deep urban beat that allowed us to flow and grind and bounce in wonderful rhythm. It felt good—freeing somehow, as if a piece of me that had been held in check was ready to burst free at any moment. I recognized the feeling and reined it in, at least for the time being.
I danced several dances with each of them in turn. They got drunker and drunker, but I observed them with a calm, sober eye. Alcohol did not affect me as it did humans. I let the night wax on, until the opportunity presented itself for me to disappear into the shadows of the club. If I planned this appropriately and if the timing was just right...
When the opportune moment arrived, I followed Greg into the men's room. I'd already ensured that no one else was in there. I locked the door and faced him. He stared at me for several seconds, the gears turning behind those bright blue eyes of his. He wasn't the most handsome guy I'd ever seen but he wasn't unattractive either. In any case, I was far less concerned with his exterior than I was with what he harbored on the inside. He hid it well, but I'd had my suspicions when I'd first spotted the three of them ambling across the parking lot. Once I got a peek into his mind, I was certain.
Greg was a rapist.
"Tell me, Greg, how many women have thrown themselves at you?" I asked.
"Huh? What the hell are you talking about? And, why are you in the men's restroom?"
"How many? I can't really ge
t a read. Seven? Ten? A dozen? Oh, for God's sake, more than that?"
"I think you should leave."
He began walking toward me, but I quickly moved to block his path. I was curious how it was all going to play out. We had a few minutes and we were entirely alone, so I gave in to my desire to toy with him a bit. "I could smell the violence on you a mile away, big guy. You wanna add another notch to your belt?" I lifted an eyebrow seductively and took a step toward him. "Come on, now. Don't puss out on me."
"You crazy little bitch. You have no idea what you're doing." He paused, hesitant to make a scene, trying to find the right words. "I—I'm not interested. Sorry."
He made his move to get by me again but I would not allow him passage. I stood there peering at him, with my arms crossed and shaking my head.
"Move! Get out of my way or I'll—"
"Or you'll what, big guy?" I said mockingly. I placed a hand on his chest and shoved him backward, perhaps a bit too hard; clearly, I'd let my emotions get the better of me.
He fell backward and slipped on a wet spot by one of the three sinks. His head ricocheted off the porcelain and he hit the floor. "You bitch!" he spat, holding his hand to his head. It must have hurt like hell, but it hadn't broken the skin; I was glad for that, because I didn't want to leave any unnecessary markings – at least not until I'd had my way with him.
Before he could regain his composure, I fell upon him, pinning him to the cold tile floor. It smelled like piss and cheap orange air freshener in there but my focus remained laser sharp. I sank my teeth into his jugular, holding my hand over his mouth and drank just long enough for him to faint from the blood loss. When I'd had my fill, I pulled away and placed two fingers on the puncture wounds, then bit a small hole in the palm of my other hand. My blood oozed out, viscous and dark burgundy. I quickly switched hands and used my bloody hand to apply pressure to his neck wound. I knew it would only take a few seconds for the healing to begin – not enough to entirely remove the scarring but no one would believe his tall tales about being bitten by the likes of li'l ol' me. For all intents and purposes, the wound would appear to be months, even years, old.
Then, with purpose, speed and precision, I pulled his pants and underwear down. Grabbing several handfuls of paper towels, I used my sharpened fingernails and removed his penis and testicles. I bit another hole in my hand. This time it took a full minute for the healing wound to close. I spent an extra minute smearing my thick healing blood over the wound until it looked to be months old.
I cleaned up, quickly and efficiently, until it appeared that Greg the rapist had just passed out on the floor. I found myself rather disappointed that I wouldn't be there when he awoke and realized his junk was gone. A quick trip to the hospital might make it so that he could urinate again, but that was the best he would get. No other woman would ever have to worry about meeting him and his tool of violence ever again. I smiled as I flushed the damned thing down the toilet.
I rearranged his pants and situated him so that witnesses would blame his blackout on the alcohol and see no sign of any suspicious injury. Any story he told would be difficult to believe, dismissed as the ramblings of a guy who'd had a little too much to drink. How he would explain his lack of manhood would be up to him.
I stood back for a moment to admire my handiwork. It was difficult to keep the smile from my face as I did so. I left the little bastard lying there against the wall, with his belt loose and his pants half-off, just the way he'd left so many unfortunate women he'd terrorized.
When I departed the restroom, I saw several guys waiting outside the door; their eyes widened as I exited. I winked at them, wiped at the corner of my mouth as if I'd been up to a whole different kind of naughtiness and faded into the crowd. I heard their laughter erupt as they entered the restroom and found Greg the rapist laid out for all to see.
CHAPTER 9
1886, The Citadel, Age 9
M r. Marco had ants in his pants. He had not stopped moving since the moment we'd entered his classroom. He weaved his way through the students, tapping on a desk every once in a while to emphasize his point. "The term Valensi comes from the Latin valens - meaning strong, powerful, effective, healthy, potent or effective. All of which we are. And, then some," he stated.
"Don't they get hurt?" another student asked, after the teacher pointed to her.
"Of course," he replied. "However, our abilities, our strength and our fortitude are far greater than any of you can understand at the moment. We can take a lot, so to speak."
As he paused, I noticed something that had eluded me up until that point. No one ever spoke down to any of us. On the streets of Bristol, I'd gotten used to adults treating children like imbeciles or animals, speaking to us as if we couldn't possibly grasp what they were conveying. I was running it all through my head when I realized why the staff at The School spoke to us as if they expected us to get it: They did not want anyone in their little club who wasn't quick enough to understand the situation, their environment and so forth, with minimum effort. I supposed it was another weeding-out process and I surmised there would be more.
"Show us," Salem said, without raising his hand.
Even before I caught the glint in Mr. Marco's eye, I knew the boy's attitude was going to get the better of him. He watched, unaware of the mess he'd stepped into, as Mr. Marco smirked and then paced toward the boy.
"Salem, sir," the teacher said, condescension oozing through his fangs. "You'd like a demonstration, yes?"
Salem was stupid enough to nod in agreement.
"Fine. Let us demonstrate, then, shall we?"
Salem sat up straighter in his chair once he realized that the "we" the teacher was speaking of included him. Mr. Marco's hand shot out and grasped his. The sullen little bastard finally betrayed the emotion on his face that the rest of the class was all too familiar with: fear.
Without releasing Salem's wrist, Mr. Marco reached into his pocket with his other hand and retrieved a small pocketknife. He then flipped it open in one smooth movement, as if he'd done the same a thousand times before. He turned Salem's hand over so that both of their forearms were facing upward, then inserted the knife into his own forearm, slicing an inch-long gash into his flesh. The blood, dark and thick, oozed out and seeped down the side of his arm. Salem's eyes grew wide and the class gasped as one when Mr. Marco then made a similar slice into Salem's arm. The boy let out a howl of pain.
"Let's see now," the teacher stated. "Who will heal faster? Who screamed out in pain?" He glanced around at the class.
Some of the students had their eyes closed and some were covering their mouths or faces. My eyes were focused solely on the teacher's forearm. I could feel his eyes upon me, but I could not contain my curiosity. As much as they had spoken of their abilities, I wanted to see proof, too.
In what seemed less than a minute, Mr. Marco used his handkerchief to wipe away the blood from his wound. It was now closed to the point where it was no longer bleeding at all. He then wiped the blood from the wound in Salem's arm, holding it up for all to see the two separate wounds and their states. The blood continued to flow from the boy's wound, rolling down his arm in thick rivulets. Salem whimpered.
Mr. Marco placed the knife back in his pocket and slapped Salem across the face. "Valensi do not cry," he stated. "Never again! Not if you want to live as one of us."
Salem sniffed once in pain, wiping the tears away with his free hand, his face going stoic but for the flash of pure anger that only Mr. Marco and I caught. The teacher smiled and I noted it for posterity's sake. I wasn't certain why, but I filed it away as Mr. Marco wrapped his handkerchief around Salem's arm and sent him to the infirmary.
Rupert had a done a fine job in the days leading up to classes, showing us around the Citadel and quizzing us on where everything was. Salem stalked out of the room, refusing to hold his wounded arm with his other hand. Thinking about it, I'm not sure how I would have reacted to similar treatment.
"Any other
requests for demonstration? Are there any more doubters among you?" Mr. Marco waited for several moments before continuing his discourse on Valensi history.
CHAPTER 10
PRESENT
I felt good. I wanted to experience all this new world had to offer. Having satiated my hunger with Greg the rapist, I decided to take a bus back to the hotel instead of walking. I found that riding the bus was an interesting activity for me. There weren't many people aboard when I stepped up into the seating area. There was a couple, in their late sixties; a young man in a Nirvana t-shirt who eyed me with the desire I was growing so fond of receiving and a young Goth girl sitting alone near the back. She caught my eye and I saw something in her that drew me in. I didn't want to pry in my usual manner, so I moved to sit next to her, one seat away. Her eyes never left mine until I sat.
"Paris," I said, by way of introduction. She turned to look at me and smirked, trying to ignore me. "I love your make-up," I said, refusing to give in to her brush-off. Her dark eye shadow and black lipstick stood out in sharp contrast to her porcelain skin. Her hair was dyed a dark black, yet I could tell from a quick glance at her roots that she was more a natural light brunette. Her fingernails matched her lipstick, as did mine. I reached out my hand and wiggled my fingers, low enough to catch her eye. When she looked up, I placed my nails next to my lips and wiggled the tips of my fingers again, winking at her. She gave a low huff of amusement and shook her head.
"And, I thought I was a freak," she said.
"Oh, girl," I replied, "You have no idea of the freak I am. You might as well be Hilary Clinton next to me." That got her attention. After staring at me for a second, obviously to gauge my sanity, she giggled at my comparative observation.
The Waif's Tale Page 3
