Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  “I did.”

  She gave me a strange look. “What?”

  “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

  “I hope you understand that we can’t be held liable for this event; I mean, if we thought he would hit you, we would never have let you approach him. It’s not a case of negligence, and I sincerely apologize for your discomfort. Shall I get a doctor for you?”

  I laughed. “I don’t need a doctor, thank you. And I promise I will not sue you. I believe I finally got what was coming to me.”

  Puzzled, she cocked her head at me, obviously wanting more information. I chose not to elaborate; her obvious fawning was beginning to anger me.

  “Think nothing more of it.” The finality in my voice drove her away, and I went out into the hallway to find Chris.

  Since there was no sign of him, I assumed he had gone to Mitch’s room; I found a small waiting area and sat down. Picking up a newspaper, I began to catch up on current events. I was thoroughly engrossed in the crossword puzzle when a shadow fell across the page. “Jesus,” I swore under my breath, afraid to look up, not knowing who it was. Mitch, come to take another shot at me, perhaps? Maybe my very own personal ghost, here to gloat over my disastrous choice of loving a human? Who it was made no real difference to me; I had no desire to see or talk to anyone else this evening.

  “Just go away and leave me alone.” I sounded surly even to myself, but didn’t care. “I’ve had trouble enough for one night.”

  “I’m sure you have, but it’s important. Please?”

  And because I did not recognize the voice, I glanced at the speaker. He was tall and dark with a fresh-scrubbed sincerity in his face, his jacket and stethoscope identifying him immediately.

  “Ah, one of the resident white-coats. I told the nurse I didn’t need a doctor.”

  “Miss Griffin.” He smiled broadly, ignoring my bad temper. “I’m John Samuels, Mitch’s doctor. My friends call me Sam.”

  He extended his hand and I reached up to shake it. “Dr. Samuels,” I said coolly, “what can I do for you?”

  His smile faded only slightly. “You may have already done it. I just wondered if you could spare a little of your time and talk to me about Mitch. There’s so much going on here, I can’t tell you how excited we all are. He’s talking again—a little disoriented, true, but that’s to be expected—but, good God, he’s talking clearly and lucidly.”

  His enthusiasm was contagious. Reluctantly I returned his smile and agreed. “I have nowhere else to go, Doctor, and nothing but time on my hands. I am at your disposal.”

  “Thank you.”

  I rose from the chair; he smiled and escorted me to his office.

  As he settled in behind his desk, I sat uncomfortably, glancing casually around his office. He gave me a long, appraising look, then reached into the top drawer, extracting an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, and an engraved gold-plated lighter.

  “I won’t smoke one now,” he said with a guilty look. “It just calms me to have them here.” Then he laughed. “I know, you think that as a doctor I should have more control, more sense, don’t you?”

  “I think nothing of the sort. You are human; you may do as you like.”

  “Why did you say that? ‘You are human.’ What does that mean?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, you know what I mean.” My voice sounded relaxed and even, betraying none of my inner turmoil. “It has been a rather extraordinary evening, as you well know. As for me”—I smiled encouragingly—“I don’t mind if you smoke, provided you share.”

  “Fine.” He offered the pack, I took one, and reached for the lighter. “Allow me,” he said graciously, and quickly struck the flame. I cupped my hand around his as I lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, then sat back and looked at him.

  “Miss Griffin,” he began tentatively, “your hands are shaking.”

  “So?”

  “Well, if I had a suspicious mind, I might begin to wonder why you are so nervous and so hostile.”

  “How fortunate for me”—I couldn’t hide the sarcasm in my voice—“that you do not have a suspicious mind. Can I be honest with you, Dr. Samuels?”

  “Absolutely, but call me Sam, please.”

  “Well then, Sam, I do not like hospitals or doctors. It’s nothing personal; I am sure you are very good at what you do, I would even be willing to believe that somewhere beneath your charming bedside manner lies a real person.” I took another drag on my cigarette, then reached forward to flick the growing ash away. “Right now, however, I would like nothing more than to leave. It seems quite apparent that my presence is a disturbing influence on Mitch.” My voice broke on his name and I looked away from Sam’s intent gaze.

  “And you were hurt by his reaction, surprised?”

  “Not surprised.” I paused for a minute and thought. “Not at all. The entire event merely confirms what I suspected.”

  He said nothing, but reached over and lit a cigarette for himself. He kept the lighter in his hands and tapped it on the desk, turning it over, reading the inscription. Finally he looked up at me. “Well?”

  Suddenly the anger and frustration I had been reining in since I arrived exploded. “Dammit, he threw me back into the world almost two years ago, forcing me to live the kind of life that even you, with your undoubtedly keen insight into the human psyche, cannot imagine. His son coerces me back with the story that only I can save him. And then to be met with such hatred, such pain.” I pressed my fingers against my eyes to prevent the flow of tears. “I never meant for him to be hurt.” My voice softened, and Sam leaned forward to catch my words. “I wanted him, I loved him. Love him, more than I have ever loved any man, and this is what my love did to him.” I lowered my hands and balled them into fists.

  “Miss Griffin.” The doctor’s voice was compassionate, warm, and I relaxed. When I opened my hands, there was a slight smell of burnt flesh, and I looked down with surprise at the stub of the cigarette crushed between my fingers. I dropped it into the ashtray.

  His concern for me showing in his face, Sam stood up and moved toward me. “Did you burn yourself?”

  “No.”

  “May I see?”

  “No.” Petulantly, I put my hands behind my back.

  “Miss Griffin . . .”

  I looked at him for a minute. “Oh, what the hell. Call me Deirdre. If I stay here much longer, you will manage to worm out all my deepest secrets.” I smiled at him, honestly this time, for I was beginning to like him. “Damn, you are good at this doctor thing, aren’t you?”

  He flushed at my praise and sat back down at his desk. “Yeah, I’d like to hope so. Do you feel better?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Then maybe we can start over. Deirdre”—he nodded at me—acknowledging my permission to use the name, “how long ago did you and Mitch meet?”

  “Two years ago, just a few days after Thanksgiving.”

  His head jerked in surprise. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “No reason, I just had the feeling that your relationship was of longer term than that.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. And you left the country when?”

  “New Year’s Eve.”

  “The same year?”

  I nodded and he reached over and put his cigarette out. “So you knew each other only a short time.”

  His statement seemed like a question. “Love at first sight?” I suggested in reply with only a small tinge of sarcasm.

  “Could be.” Sam met my eyes, and I saw a cautious admiration begin to form. “Do you mind my asking how old you are?”

  I tried to evade the question, but quickly searched my memory for the last recorded age for Deirdre Griffin. “What possible difference can that make?”

  “None, I suppose. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  “Not at all, Sam. I’m thirty-eight.”

  He looked unconvinced. “I’d have guessed from your appearance that you we
re younger, but your eyes are older, somehow. You’re an interesting case, Deirdre.”

  “Case?” I jumped up from the chair.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean that, it’s just an expression we use around here. Please sit down again.”

  “Actually, I would like to leave now. I would be happy to come back and talk again sometime if you think it will help Mitch.”

  “Even if it doesn’t, I’d like it.”

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  He hung his head. “Yeah, I guess I am, maybe just a little.”

  I extended my hand. “Well, I’m flattered. Thank you.”

  Before Sam could shake my hand, Chris entered the office. “Deirdre, I’m so glad I found you. It’s wonderful. He’s better, really better. He wants to see you, wants to know if you’re still here. I told him I’d find out.”

  I sighed, knowing that I could not face Mitch again, so soon after his initial and forceful rejection of me. “Tell him I’ll come back tomorrow night. I have to go now.”

  “Wait!” Chris came after me. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “No, you stay here with your father. I’d like to be alone.”

  Some habits die hard. For one of my kind, they can often be the only things that keep you alive. So I was not really surprised to discover that my walk led me that night to the Ballroom of Romance. More amazing was the fact that the club was still in business and open.

  There was no crowd waiting at the door; its popularity as a night spot must have waned during the years I was away. The doorman was unfamiliar to me; his expression of bored disinterest was apparent as he pulled open the entrance.

  Inside, everything was exactly as it was when I had left. The tables, the bar, the dancers—nothing had changed. I caught myself scanning the dance floor for someone I knew and stopped immediately. Who did I expect to see? Max? Larry? Dead, they are dead, I reminded myself, and would not return. Pushing gently through the group of people standing near an empty seat, I laid my bag down on the bar and ordered a drink.

  I thanked the bartender for the prompt service when he brought my wine. At the sound of my voice the man tending the other end of the bar turned and glanced at me; his eyes narrowed, as if to focus more clearly in the dim light.

  “Miss Griffin?” He recognized me and came over. “It is you. I thought so. Long time no see, huh?”

  “Yes, it has been a while. How are you?” I could not remember his name, but I remembered quite plainly the scornful attitude he had shown me in the past. Now, however, he was pleasant, courteous, and respectful.

  “Fine, thank you. Can’t complain, I suppose. Can I get you something?”

  I pointed to my full glass and shook my head. “But you can do me a favor, if you would.”

  “Anything for you, Miss Griffin. It’s nice to have you back.”

  I listened for a sarcastic note in his voice and found none. I smiled at him; it was nice to meet someone I knew before who had no ulterior motives, no hidden resentment, no open hatred. “Well,” I began, “I would like to look around a bit, you know, for old time’s sake.”

  “Be my guest.” He threw his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. “You’re the boss.”

  “Thank you.” I picked up my wine and headed toward the door that led into the offices and lounges behind the club. This too had not changed. I had a strange feeling that if I waited here long enough, I would see a younger Deirdre walk these halls, her intended victim in thrall, willing to follow, to give her what she wanted. I shivered slightly, then walked without hesitation to Max’s office.

  The room was dark, but I did not bother to put on the lights. There was no need; my night vision was good enough to see that it was exactly as Max had kept it. And I knew this room so well, I could find my way through it blindfolded.

  I closed the door and leaned my face up against it. They had replaced either the entire door or the wood panels within it, for there were no gouges in the wood to show where the makeshift stake had entered, no indication that a living being had once hung impaled there, spewing its life out upon the floor. Even the carpet was new; there had been too much blood spilled for the stains to be removed. Nothing in this room gave any sign that a baffle for life had been waged within its walls; it was sterile and empty. But still I searched for his presence; surely he would be there if he were anywhere.

  “Max.” I whispered the name at first, then said it louder. There was no response. I took a drink of my wine and walked across the room to sit on the couch. “Dammit, Max, just like always. When I don’t want to see you, you come around, and when I would like to talk, you’re unavailable. It seems to me you’re even less reliable dead than alive.”

  I set my glass on the table, kicked off my shoes, and lay down on the white leather sofa, staring at the ceiling. Unexpectedly, I began to cry, my sobs quiet, absorbed by the dark, lonely walls. I cried for myself, for Mitch, for all those I had loved now dead, and I cried for Max.

  When I finished, I curled up into a ball and slept.

  A soft moaning in the corner wakes me. Rising from the couch, I go to him, but it is too late. Mitch is dead, his face stretched in pain, gaunt and aged, his skin white and bloodless. The fang marks on his neck are mine.

  “Deirdre.” Max’s voice causes the fine hairs on the back of my neck and arms to rise. I make no movement, but stand with my back to him, trembling.

  “Deirdre.” The name is a command; I am his, I always was. I turn around.

  “You are dead, Max,” I say, and look upon him. The flesh on his bones is shredded, rotting and decayed. His finely sculptured face is now nothing more than a skull, but the mouth opens and talks.

  “Deirdre, come to me. I am not dead.”

  I move forward one timid step. “Not dead?” I see the stake piercing his rib cage, see the wood of the door behind him splintered with the impact of the killing blow. “No.” I cannot deny the evidence of my eyes. “You are dead.”

  “Not dead, my love, for you still live and I am with you.” One skeletal hand grips the implement of his death, but the other beckons. “Come to me.”

  My legs walk toward him, my body obeys him. But my mind is screaming, I am screaming.

  His arm grips my shoulder and pulls me to him, the opposite end of the stake is positioned over my heart. The point penetrates my flesh, breaking the bones, the ribs, and finding its rest deep within my chest.

  “Peace,” he whispers as he holds me close, lovingly. “Peace and death.”

  There is not peace for me, no death; there is only the unavoidable pain and the sound of my voice, shrill and sharp, screaming.

  “You are dead.”

  Chapter 7

  “Deirdre?”

  Disoriented, and feeling drugged, I sat up from the couch and saw the figure of a man outlined in the doorway.

  “Max?” I whispered the name.

  “I think you were having a bad dream.” The voice was reassuring and I relaxed. “Close your eyes and I’ll turn the lights on.”

  When I opened them again, Victor Lange stood there, smiling at me. “They told me out front that you were here. Did I disturb you?”

  Standing, I smoothed my clothes. “No, actually I am very happy to see you. I was having a nightmare.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” I met his eyes briefly, then turned away. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh,” he said casually, walking around to the desk and setting his briefcase down on the top of it. “I stop by from time to time to check over the accounts. I trust you have no objections.”

  “Objections? Why would I object?”

  Victor looked at me with amusement; he turned the latches on his case and the lid sprung open. “Because you own the Ballroom now. Or at least you will when the papers are signed.”

  “I own the Ballroom.” It took a moment for the fact to sink in, then I laughed, a sharp, scornful laugh directed at no one but myself.

  “Do you mind if
I ask why you find it funny?” Victor’s voice had lost its pleasant tone, acquiring instead an angry, resentful edge, as if I were laughing at him.

  “Honestly, Victor”—I choked back the rest of my merriment—“it is nothing you said. It is just that, well”—I thought for a minute, then continued—“the entire situation seems ludicrous to me. That Max should leave me the club, and that this room, a room I never wished to see again, along with everything else he owned, belongs to me. That the employees here, most of whom treated me as if I were a leper, should now be employed by me. And that, somehow through his death, Max found a way to bind me to him forever.” That final word wavered in the air. Suddenly, I did not want to laugh.

  Victor gave me an odd glance, then proceeded to shuffle through his briefcase. After he had gone through the entire stack of papers he shook his head and looked back at me. “I’m sorry,” he said with a gesture toward the desk, “but I don’t seem to have the necessary papers here for you to read. Perhaps you would let me give you the gist of his will. There’s no intent to bind you in any way; there are, in fact, certain provisions should you not wish to accept his possessions. But before we discuss that, I’d like to clear up one misunderstanding. Max left you everything for one simple reason: He wanted to take care of you.”

  I made a small sound, a derisive chuckle.

  He came out from around the desk and, standing in front of me, gently clasped my chin in his hand and moved my head up to meet his gaze. “Max loved you more than anything in the world.” Victor’s eyes seemed for a second to glaze over with pain and sadness. Then they cleared and he smiled. “You should be flattered and comforted to know that he chose you. That above all others, he chose you to receive his legacy.”

  I pulled away from him, uncomfortable with his direct stare. Walking over to the table, I picked up my half-filled glass and drained it. I did not like the thoughts of any of this. Max’s legacy to me was nothing more than an infinity of loneliness and estrangement. It could not be sweetened by material things; love could ease it, but that seemed something I would never achieve. When I spoke again my voice was small and tight. “And if I do not want his legacy?”