by Marta Acosta
“That’s really judgmental for someone with a scientific mind, Jane.” For a moment, he looked at me as if I’d handed in a substandard assignment. “Claire was from Helmsdale, too. The Family selected you to honor her memory, to give you the opportunities she had.”
Talk respectfully. I stood up and paced. “Mr. Mason, I like you, I really do. But what kind of opportunity is this? I came here for an education, and now you’re telling me I’m only livestock, only one of the herd to be served up at mealtime.”
“It’s not like that and you wouldn’t be passed around. You would have a special relationship with one person. I can’t say any more now!”
“Whatever ‘special’ relationship these pseudo-vampires offer, it didn’t make your wife happy.”
My teacher twisted his handkerchief. “She was happy here until … her breakdown. I was the one who thought it might be good to take time off and travel for a year. That’s why she killed herself … because she didn’t want to leave. It’s all my fault.”
His eyes teared up again. “Oh, Claire, my wonderful Claire!” I got a box of tissues and handed it to him and we sat without speaking. Eventually, his sobs subsided.
What I’d thought was my secret with Lucky wasn’t a secret at all—except to me. I felt sick with humiliation thinking about how others must have looked at me, knowing my personal stuff … that I was only at Birch Grove to provide these people with my blood. “Mr. Mason, does everyone here know? Does the Holiday family know?”
“No, not your friends the Holidays or the Applewhaites.”
I felt both relief and a hysterical urge to laugh when I thought of how ecstatic MV would be that these freaks existed. “The people in town—they’re part of it, too, right?”
“Only those most trusted and a handful of us at the school. A few students have the condition. It can only be passed on genetically. Their blood can be deadly to us normals in blood-to-blood contamination so they live extremely careful lives.”
The isolated puzzle pieces began coming together: the drops of blood on the marble bench, the penknives, the hats and sunscreen, the meals dripping in blood. “The Radcliffes and Harriet Tyler have the condition, don’t they?” When he nodded, I asked, “What do you call them?”
“Family.”
Family. The word held immense power to someone who’d never had one.
“Jane, it’s your life and your decision. They chose you because of your exceptional potential. They’ll send you to graduate school and pay for everything so that you can pursue a scientific career. It will be a lifelong commitment, but you’ll always be provided with a nice place to live, expense money, business connections, and friendship. You’ll be part of the Family.”
I panicked thinking about some creepy old guy cutting me and putting his mouth on my body. “You said I’d have a ‘special’ relationship. With whom?”
“I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this, Jane.”
“Mr. Mason, I thought that you and I both valued facts, truth.”
He closed his eyes for a few seconds. “You’re right. Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe are very impressed because you’ve excelled against all odds.” He met my gaze. “Jane, you were chosen for Lucian Radcliffe.”
I took in a sharp breath. Mrs. Radcliffe had planned for me to be with Lucky. Why then had he wanted to hide our friendship from her? “Does he know I’ve been chosen for him?”
“Maybe, but I’m not sure. I’ve been preoccupied with … other things. Claire used to keep up on all the news and tell me. Trust me that nothing will be done without your consent, Jane. Your headmistress would be the one to invite you.”
“I need to think about this for a few days, at least until the break is over. Promise me you won’t tell Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe that I know.”
“I promise, Jane. But I will have to tell them soon. I owe them that.”
“Give me a few days.”
He nodded. “I know when you weigh all the facts, you’ll realize how incredible this opportunity is. Jane Williams, Ph.D.—that sounds right, doesn’t it?”
Then he stood and left.
It was as if these people … no, it was as if Mrs. Radcliffe had walked into my dreams and seen exactly what I wanted: money, a home, a Ph.D., a family, and especially to be with Lucky for ever and ever. I could let them take care of everything for me.
Then I caught myself. When had I become a person who was willing to accept such dark insanity just to be near someone else, even someone as gorgeous as Lucky? When had I become a girl who let adults determine and control her life?
I felt as if I didn’t know myself anymore and that scared me more than the strange blood ritual … because I’d already lost myself once.
I packed essential clothes and got my stash and my composition book from my hiding place. I split up the cash and hid it in the bottoms of my shoes, in my bra, in my pockets. I messed up the bed and set a cereal bowl and a cup in the sink to make it look like I’d just had breakfast. I upended a drawer with all my candy bars into the glossy shopping bag that MV had given me.
I touched the frame of Mrs. Holiday’s Lady of the Wood painting and wished I could take it. Then I locked the door and hurried off campus and down the hill, hiding in the shadows whenever a car came near.
I walked by the bank because I wanted to clear out my account, but I spotted the security camera over the ATM. I knew Mrs. Radcliffe monitored my account and if I withdrew money this late at night, she’d know I’d gone.
I saw a truck lumbering toward Greenwood Grocery. I crept toward the loading dock of the store and watched a trucker deliver milk and dairy stuff. I waited outside the entrance to the parking lot. When the truck was leaving the lot, I waved to the driver and went to his window.
“Hi, sir, may I have a lift?” I smiled politely.
He had a crew cut and a handlebar mustache. “You running away from home, girlie?”
“I’m an emancipated minor and I’m legally free to travel where I want. I need to get to a train station or a bus depot.”
“Waall,” he drawled, “I guess I know the lure of the open road, but don’t get any ideas that I’m gonna take you across a state line, jailbait. Come on.” He opened the passenger door and I had to climb up to the high seat, dragging my sports bag. “Buckle up. I’m heading south.”
“So am I.”
“Name’s Biscuit.”
“I’m Mousie.”
“Biscuit and Mousie.” He chuckled. “We sound like a corny morning drive-time duo.”
I was glad that Biscuit didn’t say much, because thoughts swirled in my mind like a tornado. With every mile that passed, I felt safer. I stayed in the truck while Biscuit made deliveries and then he drove me to a transit station. “Well, Mousie, here you go. You can catch a train or bus here. What was so bad about Greenwood?”
“I didn’t belong there.”
“Me neither. You take care of yourself now.”
I had to wait almost an hour for a train. When a cop walked into the terminal, I knew he’d wonder what I was doing there this late, so I hid in the ladies’ room until my commuter train was about to board. I hurried onto a dull metal car and ran up the stairs to the upper level. Along the journey, I stared out the window at the desolate industrial landscapes of abandoned factories and junkyards. I’d been on the right side of the tracks and I was going back to the wrong side, where I belonged.
I transferred to a bus and then another bus before arriving at my destination. I was walking in the dingy ombre light that preceded dawn when I saw the first WTH tag—Welcome to Hell—spray-painted in yellow on a cinderblock wall.
Hellsdale’s ugliness was out in the open and the people here were straight up about their motivations: survival, power, money, sex, and family. They’d kill for family and they’d die for family. They’d kill for a lot less, too, but I knew the rules here.
The Radcliffes played an entirely different game.
I’d never possessed anything that anyone wa
nted before—not beauty, or money, or power—so I wasn’t used to being played. I’d never expected that someday someone would want my blood. As furious as I was at the headmistress of Birch Grove, I still felt a deep ache of longing for the gorgeous boy who’d told me he needed me. Now I understood why.
“Hundreds of totally independent witnesses in many ages have testified to the occurrence of these phenomena, and there’s no explanation known to me which covers all the facts … there were diseases known in the Middle Ages, such as the black death; which were certainly existent then and which have become extinct since, but for that reason we do not assert that such diseases never existed.”
E. F. Benson, “Mrs. Amworth” (1920)
Chapter 23
Nothing had changed except my perception. I noticed each piece of trash, smear of filth, and grease stain. I noticed the stink of diesel exhaust and sewage. I saw a homeless guy in a sleeping bag in front of the plasma donation building, where he could sell his blood for enough money to get the next meal and the next fix.
I walked by the liquor store and one of the men out front said, “Squeak, squeak, Mousie. Whatchu doing back?”
“Morning, sir. Just wanted to see my girl Wilde.”
“She’s moved into another place. Hold up, peanut.”
I put down my bag and waited while he strolled off and made a phone call. He came back and told me the address, adding, “She just clocked off. Don’t cause any problems, you hear?”
“No, sir. Thank you, sir.” I nodded and lifted up my sports bag. It got heavier with each step to a grimy six-plex. I walked up the exterior stairs to the second floor. Her apartment was at the back, farthest from the street. Before I raised my hand to ring the buzzer, the door flew open and Wilde stood there, taller and skinnier than ever in booty shorts, a halter midi, and platform boots. Her hair was now indigo blue with extensions that went to her narrow hips.
“Mousie Girl! Holy crap!” She threw her arms around me and I smelled her sweet perfume and felt the skeletal thinness of her body.
“Girlfriend, I missed you.”
“Me, too. Get your ass in here.”
Inside the small apartment, the TV flickered soundlessly and candles burned into pools of wax. Oversized red velour furniture filled up the space and a glass and brass coffee table was cluttered with overflowing ashtrays, bottles, and drug paraphernalia. Wilde picked up a half-empty liter of vodka and swung it. “We should celebrate.”
“I’m cool, but here’s something for you.” I handed her the glossy bag.
She looked inside the bag. “Candy! You remembered.”
“Of course! It was the last time I ever shoplifted. Hosea was so mad … no, he was so disappointed in us when he caught us. I couldn’t believe he’d gone to the store and paid for our haul.”
“That’s when you were still a little shady. I’d rather have a beating than see that look on his face.” Wilde put the bag on the table and unscrewed the bottle, then swigged the vodka. “Seems like a long time ago that a candy bar was so important that we’d whisper in our beds about our favorites and dream of being rich enough to eat chocolate all day long.”
We both sat on the stained sofa. “Wilde, can I hang here for a couple of days?”
“For sure, but I’ll still have my appointments. Junior’s strict about business.” She dug through an ashtray and picked out a half-smoked butt. She lit up and sucked in the smoke, her cheeks concaving like a skull’s. “You gonna tell me what’s going on? Don’t say it was the schoolwork, because you’re as sharp as a razor.”
“I liked the school, but they’re sick, twisted. You’ve got no idea.”
Wilde laughed until she coughed. “Oh, honey, I know all about kinks. You get paid more with the specialties. What’s their thing?”
“They’re sort of like a cult, I guess, but they make it sound all refined and cultured and they drink blood.”
“I prefer foot fetishists because they buy me shoes, but I’ve heard of blood play.”
“Well, this is a little different than role-playing. These people share a genetic anomaly. You know how blue eyes get passed down with genes?” I thought of Lucky’s clear eyes gazing into mine. “But this makes them want to drink blood. They wanted to drink my blood.”
“Anything else?”
“No, just a taste of blood occasionally.”
“Seems like they’re paying you better than the plasma center.” She shrugged. “The one thing I’ve learned is that everyone’s kink is different. Heck, every body is different. One of my regulars has a sort of tail, for real, and one has webbed toes.”
“I have a friend who’d love that.”
“I’ll tell you the details later. I gotta crash and you look all wore out, too, Mousie.”
When Wilde brought me a stained and pilled nylon comforter and a flat pillow, I saw that she had added more tattoos on her arms, elaborate roses and vines. “I like your new ink. You can’t even see the scars.”
She stretched her arms. “Now when I look at my arms, I see the flowers.” Wilde’s face went solemn. “You talk about freaks, what’s more unnatural than a mom burning her kid?”
“She shouldn’t have done that, Wilde Thang. Your body is your own and you should decide what you do with it.”
“Damn right. I’ll do what I want to do with my own body, whether it’s tats, or piercings, or renting it.”
I thought about that as I covered myself with the comforter, how the rich owned so many things, but the poor’s only valuable possession was our own bodies, and then exhaustion overtook me.
* * *
I awoke early afternoon, confused about where I was. Then all the memories came flooding back—the weird ritual in the grove, Mr. Mason’s explanation, and my flight from Birch Grove.
I peeked into the bedroom. My friend snored unevenly with the empty vodka bottle beside her and the radio playing low. I closed her door and went back to the main room. Greenwood had spoiled me, and I hated myself for being bothered by the dinginess and the stale smoke and booze stink of the apartment. Wilde was doing the best she could.
I opened the drapes and the aluminum windows to air out the place, folded my comforter, dumped out ashtrays, and collected bottles and cans.
I opened up the laptop and Wilde’s home page flashed on-screen, her Web site for “escort” services.
I searched for articles related to what I’d seen at the amphitheater and what Mr. Mason had told me. One of the first results listed was the kink that Wilde had mentioned. People who participated in blood play called themselves sanguinarians. The submissives were called blood donors.
I read about genetic anomalies, including some that caused sun sensitivity and biological photophobia, a painful reaction to sunlight. I learned about bizarre dietary cravings and deadly recessive genetic disorders that were carried by people who originated from specific regions, like Tay-Sachs disease.
I read boring essays about pre-Christian folk celebrations and learned that Dacian was a language of a farming region in what became Romania, which fit in with popular vampire mythology. The information about Dacian crop-based ceremonies—set in circular areas marked by stones and boulders like the amphitheater—was consistent with what Mr. Mason had told me.
Birch trees were used in Dacian ceremonies, as well as folk ceremonies throughout the world. As Mrs. Holiday had told me, they were a symbol of hope, renewal, fertility, purity, strength … I thought of the grove and my comfy little cottage. I remembered how happy I’d been when Lucky walked me home that night and asked me if I would be loyal to him, when he’d talked about “us.”
I’d thought he had chosen me over everyone else in Greenwood because he knew he could trust me.
I couldn’t find anything about this specific “Family,” but there had been murderous anti-vampire hysterias well into the 1800s that would have forced the Family to go into hiding. All the information led me to believe that Mr. Mason had been telling me the truth about these people—a
nd that meant that the Radcliffes’ secrecy was necessary for their survival. I could understand the survival instinct.
I was drinking a soda, eating potato chips, and watching cartoons when Wilde stumbled into the room in a wifebeater and a thong. I hadn’t noticed all the bruises and scabs on her legs last night.
She gaped in surprise. “Mousie! I forgot you were here. My head’s gonna explode.” She went to the fridge and drank a bottle of peach iced tea. She got a box of cigarettes out of a drawer and lit one before saying, “Sorry you got stuck sitting around.”
“It’s okay. I used your laptop to do some research.”
“Research! Most people look for porn. Did you see my site?”
“Yes, it’s a good start. I could help you with layout and design so it’s more polished.”
“It’s supposed to be half-assed, so clients think I’m a nice girl who’s experimenting. But you could organize it better and put in a contact form.” She went to the coffee table and set two white pills on a mirror. After crushing and chopping them, she used a straw to snort a line. “Want some?”
I wondered what it would be like to numb out all the painful feelings. I shook my head. “I’m still a nerd.”
“That’s good, Mousie. I’m gonna get clean soon, when I’m not feeling so run-down. But the only thing that stops me from feeling that way is using.”
“What about beauty school? I bet you’d get energized working in a cool salon, making money styling ’dos, and being glamorous. Or, like a friend always says, ‘fabulous.’”
“Fabulous. I’d like to be fabulous. In fact, next week I’m going to clean up,” she said. “So, Mousie, you got any plans?”
“I was thinking of trying to get back to City Central and finding a place to live.”
“How are you going to pay rent?”
“I can get jobs tutoring.”
She lit another cigarette and puffed for a few minutes. “I can give you clients, the easy ones who don’t ask for much, and you can set the rules and only do what you want. If you dress real young, you can make good money from the pervs. I’ll show you the ropes.”
