Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  He started to reply, but the phone rang and he answered. “Yeah,” he said with a suspicious look at me, “she’s here. And who the hell are you?”

  He grunted and held his hand over the mouthpiece before handing the phone to me. “Some guy named Ron. Sounds young and handsome. I suppose he’s the business you need to see about?”

  “Jesus, Mitch, he’s my attorney.”

  “Oh,” he said, handing me the phone with a shrug and a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hello, Ron.” My voice sounded tired and irritated. “What can I do for you?”

  “You know.” His voice was warm and intimate and I stood up, turning my back to hide my embarrassed blush from Mitch’s keen eyes. “But,” he continued, “I assume that’s still out of the question. Was that your cop who answered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so. He sounds like a cop.”

  “Excuse me, Ron, but did you call for anything specific?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I just wanted to let you know that I did some checking around and I can accept your job without a conflict of interest.”

  “You know, Ron, I have been meaning to ask you, what sort of conflict could there be?”

  “Well”—his voice sounded evasive—“there’s the other night, for one thing.”

  I laughed. “You have a hell of a set of professional ethics if that’s all it is.”

  “The Bar does tend to frown upon relationships with clients.” He stopped abruptly, and I knew there was another reason he did not want to mention.

  “And?”

  “And what?” Now Ron sounded defensive.

  “And there’s something else. I can hear it in your voice.”

  There was a long pause, and Ron sighed. “Well, I have, in the past, done some work for The Cadre, and since they inherit everything if you decline, I thought there might be a problem.”

  “Oh.” That made sense to me. “What exactly is The Cadre?”

  “An international organization of entrepreneurs.” The answer came readily to his lips, as if it were rehearsed, but I hardly cared one way or the other.

  “So,” Ron said, his tone relaxed again, “when should we get together? I’ll need to read over the will.”

  “I have to be at the Ballroom sometime tonight.” I winced at Mitch’s intake of breath and glanced at the clock. “How about nine or so?”

  “That’d be great.” He hesitated. “Ah, you aren’t bringing your friend along, are you?”

  “Oh, no,” I insisted. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “Good,” Ron agreed. “I wasn’t looking forward to meeting him anyway.”

  “No, I suppose not. I’ll see you later, Ron. Thank you for calling so promptly.”

  I hung up the phone and looked over at Mitch. While I was on the phone he had slipped his pants on, and was standing by the window.

  “The Ballroom? Why on earth are you going there?”

  I moved behind him, put my arms around his waist, and rested my chin on his shoulder. We stood there for a while, not speaking, but watching the glistening rain on the early evening streets.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to answer me?”

  “It’s the ultimate joke.” I smiled and kissed the bare skin of his shoulder. “Max left everything to me in his will, including the Ballroom. I’m his sole heir.”

  “No kidding? Who’d have thought?”

  “Not me. But he did, so now I have to struggle with that as well as everything else. He never did me any favors; even from the grave he’s making trouble for us.” I didn’t try to disguise the bitterness in my voice. “Max is the dirtiest bastard that ever lived.”

  “Was.”

  “What?”

  “Max was the dirtiest bastard that ever lived. But he’s dead now, Deirdre, and he can’t hurt you anymore.” Mitch turned around and held me close to him. I wanted to cry, but instead I hugged him back, then broke away abruptly.

  “You are right, I suppose. It’s just hard for me to believe he’s dead.”

  “Well, he is,” Mitch said determinedly, “and I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I thought we were rid of him two years ago. Let’s quit dragging him back. Okay?”

  Was that what I was doing, I wondered, causing his presence by my thoughts of him? “Fine,” I agreed, trying to not let my skepticism show. “And now, the sooner I go, the sooner I can get back. Get some rest, my love.” I attempted a sensuous smile. “You’ll need it when I get back.”

  Mitch followed me out to the living room but stopped me as I started to walk out the door. “Where’s your coat?”

  “My coat? Why?”

  “It’s pouring out, you’ll get soaked.”

  I laughed. “It hardly matters to me.”

  “But it does to me. It’s bad enough that you have to leave just when I get here, but if you think I’m going to let you back in here dripping wet . . .”

  “You can towel me off at the doorstep when I get back.”

  “Now, that’s a tempting offer—” Mitch started toward me with a boyish grin.

  “Anyway,” I interrupted him, “I don’t have a coat. I brought only one with me, and it’s now in your kitchen trash.”

  “Why is it there?”

  “Bullet hole.”

  “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot about that incident. Look, maybe I’d better come with you tonight. Just give me a minute or so to finish dressing, and I’ll be right with you.”

  “No, Mitch, you should stay home.” I tried to say it as gently as possible, but it came out as more of an order than a request.

  “And what the hell does that mean? That I’m not good enough to be seen out in public with you?”

  “I never said that, Mitch. I just think that you should stay home; you haven’t been well.” I knew he was getting angrier with each word I said, but there was nothing I could do. He could not accompany me tonight, or any night when I met with Ron. The anger he felt now would be nothing compared to what he would feel if he ever learned what had transpired between me and my newly hired attorney. “No,” I repeated. “You should take it easy tonight. It’s your first night home, and you need your rest.”

  “And that’s another thing, Deirdre, while we’re at it. I haven’t been sick and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. This is the second time tonight you’ve used my health against me. You won’t talk about making a commitment to this relationship because I haven’t been well. You won’t let me come with you anywhere because I haven’t been well.”

  “And all of that is true, Mitch.” I held my position at the door, although I really wanted to hold him and comfort him. “You haven’t been well.”

  Suddenly, it was as if all the anger and frustration he had been feeling for the past two years boiled over at once. “Bloody hell, Deirdre. And if I haven’t been well, as you so delicately put it, then maybe you can tell me whose fucking fault it is.” I cringed away from his obscenity; I knew he never used that word unless under a great strain, but he ignored my reaction. “I can tell you whose fault it is. This whole situation is your fault; you and all the other goddamned bloodsuckers out there got me into this, and now I can’t ever get out. I wish to hell I’d never heard of vampires. I wish to hell I’d never fallen in love with you! I’m sick to death of the whole thing.”

  He stood staring at me, panting slightly, and I watched the anger slowly drain from his eyes, to be replaced by sadness and remorse. But it was too late; the words had been said and he could not unsay them. And I could not deny their truth, not to him or to myself.

  There was nothing I could say, nothing I could do to change this moment. This was the moment I had spent most of my life avoiding, the inevitable moment I knew would come when I first fell in love with Mitch. Why did I ever allow it to go this far? Why did I ever let him into my life?

  I could only stand and look at him, no more than three feet away from me, and more than a century out of reach. And when I felt my eyes began to tear,
I turned my back on him.

  “Good night,” I whispered softly, and walked out into the wet darkness of the night.

  Chapter 19

  By the time I got to the Ballroom I was completely soaked. But the walk in the rain had cleared my mind, if not my sadness, and I felt prepared to face the evening. I walked through the crowd, ignoring the curious stares of the people that I passed, and stood at the bar.

  “Fred.”

  He looked over at me and stifled a small laugh. “I guess it’s still raining out, huh?”

  “Yes.” I smiled back at him. “I’ll be back in the office. Bring me a towel or two, will you? And get someone to relieve you here. We need to talk.”

  “Sure thing.” He took off his apron and headed out the other side of the bar.

  “Oh, and Fred?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If someone by the name of Mitchell Greer shows up or calls, I’m not here. You haven’t seen me and don’t know when I’ll be in next. Make sure the doorman gets the message also.”

  “You bet. I’ll be right there.”

  Fred came to the office equipped with several large towels and a clean waitress’s uniform. “I thought you might want to dry out completely,” he said with a shrug, “so I brought you something to change into. Next time it rains, though, I recommend an umbrella.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now give me a few minutes and come on back in.” Fred closed the door behind him and I pulled off my dripping clothes, dried myself, and slipped into the uniform. It was made of lightweight black nylon, and I smiled in remembrance as I fingered the flimsy material. The last time I wore a uniform similar to this was in the early sixties at a Midwest truck stop. It was there that I had met Max, for what I’d supposed to be the first time, never knowing that he had been the one responsible for my transformation almost a hundred years before.

  “Dammit, Max, you should have told me who you were. I would have gone with you anywhere and stayed with you forever. But no, you had to wait until I met Mitch before letting me know what really lay between you and me. And then it was too late.”

  I looked around the office uneasily, halfway expecting Max to make an appearance. Instead, there was a knock on the door and I jumped and called, “Come in.”

  Fred entered, followed by a waitress I did not know, who collected my wet clothes and promised to have them dried right away. Then Fred and I sat down to discuss the business of the Ballroom. When we concluded our talk, it was only a little after eight. He had agreed to take the manager’s job, as I thought he might, and I was happy to leave the club in his hands. I made it absolutely clear to him that I did not want to be involved in the day-to-day routine.

  “I will, of course,” I said as we ended the interview, “be stopping by from time to time. And it is absolutely essential that you keep my favorite wine in stock. Other than that, you’re on your own.”

  “Great.” He beamed his delight at the situation. “This is a good opportunity for me, and I really appreciate you giving me the chance. Max never trusted anyone and”—Fred shrugged—“since he was always here, it didn’t really matter anyhow.”

  “Fred,” I said, thinking of the ring of Max’s keys still in my purse, “he couldn’t have been here all the time. He must have lived somewhere else. I have one of his keys that doesn’t seem to fit any lock around here; I assume it’s from his apartment.”

  “Could be,” he said skeptically, “but any time of the day or night, he was here. Keeping a separate apartment would have been next to impossible. He would never’ve used it.”

  “But he had to sleep somewhere, didn’t he?”

  Fred gave a wry laugh. “Max never slept. Anything else?”

  “No, thank you, Fred. I’ll see you later.”

  Just before he closed the door, I called to him. “Oh, by the way, Ron will be coming in to see me around nine or so. Please buzz me when he gets in. Other than that, I would like not to be disturbed.”

  “Gotcha,” he said with a wink, and left.

  I pulled the ring of keys out of my purse. All but one was neatly labeled. There was a key for the office, the front door, the back entrance, the desk, the cellar, and a few smaller keys that were labeled “supplies.” I removed the one unlabeled key and held it in the palm of my hand, putting the rest of the ring back in my purse.

  “All right, Max,” I said with a trace of humor, “you and I both know that you had to sleep sometime. And you had to have a secure place to do it.” I stared at the key as if it somehow held the answers to his past. Then I suddenly laughed. “Dammit, Deirdre,” I scolded myself, “it is absolutely amazing that you’ve survived for so long with so inadequate a brain.”

  I got up from the desk and looked around the room. There were no heavy draperies here to conceal a hidden door such as the one that existed in my office at Griffin Designs. But it had to be here. During his life, Max had as great a need for secrecy as I still did; if he secured a safe place for himself, it would be here.

  I closed my eyes and thought back to the time when Max had ruled me and this place. We were always quarreling, but he always called me back. And angry or not, I would return to him. I remembered the night I had attacked him, thinking that he had betrayed me to the police as having committed the murder of his first victim. I could feel the texture of his shirt and skin shredded beneath my nails, could still taste the blood that I licked from my fingers. He had thrown the shirt away and gotten another from the closet.

  “The closet. Dammit,” I said, flinging the closet door open and inserting the key into the lock mounted on the back paneling. It fit and turned with an almost inaudible click. Cautiously, I pushed the door and peered into the room. The light from the office only dimly lit the area, and I looked around for a switch.

  “Come now, Max,” I whispered into the still air, “even I appreciate the convenience of electricity.” But there were no lights here, only darkness and dust and cobwebs. I entered the room anyway and saw a small table to the right of the door equipped with a filled candelabrum and matches. I lit them and looked around.

  The room was unfurnished, totally unlike the secret apartment I had maintained for years. There was a large wooden chest up against one of the walls, but the focal point was the large stand occupied by two coffins, laid out side by side. One was larger than the other and more elaborate, but there was no mistaking either’s purpose.

  “Oh, Max.” My laughter sounded mocking in this emptiness, and the dust, stirred by my entrance, swirled and glinted eerily in the candlelight. “How very gothic of you. But why two?”

  I approached the larger one. The wooden top was thick with two years of accumulated dust, but I could make out the ornate antique carving. I brushed my hand over the gold plate and leaned down to read its inscription—“Maximiliano Esteban Alveros—1596.”

  “Jesus,” I breathed softly, almost reverently. “So old.” As if of their own volition, my hands reached down and opened the casket. It was empty.

  “Of course, you fool,” I sighed in relief, “did you really expect him to be here? He’s dead, dead by your own hand, and buried these two years.” Even so, I studied the coffin’s emptiness as if it contained the answers I sought. There was a faint aroma of Max in the room—the wood that had absorbed his scent for four centuries exhaled it now. Gently, I let the lid down and walked around the stand to the other coffin.

  This one was newer, streamlined and modern. With shaking hands I flung the lid open. It was also empty and its aroma was one of newness. No one had ever used it. I dropped the lid, and when the dust flew from it I could make out an engraving of a single rose in the dark wood—a black rose.

  “But this can’t be mine.” I denied the obvious. “I never slept in one of these.” I shuddered at the thought of being enclosed here during the long summer days. But as I looked closer, there was no mistaking the name on the golden plate—“Dorothy Grey—1832—Beloved Wife.”

  My knees weakened and I collapsed on the floor
, leaning up against my own coffin, not knowing whether to cry or laugh. I did a little of both. “Jesus, Max, if it weren’t so damn perverse, the gesture might be touching.” Whatever would have given him the idea that I would share his tomb with him? But as I considered the facts, I realized that there was a time when I would have done so, and willingly. Only Mitch’s presence in my life had prevented that event from occurring. And Max had been responsible for our meeting.

  I shook my head and pulled myself up from the floor. Everything in my life was becoming so convoluted, so bewildering, I hardly had any idea what to do. It had been a difficult situation when Max was alive, but now it was almost totally impossible.

  “Quite a triangle, is it not, Max?” With one finger I idly traced the rose carving on my coffin lid. “The living, the dead, and the undead—just one big, happy family.”

  I moved to the large chest, found it unlocked, and was assailed by a musty odor when I opened it. Within were about a dozen large leather-bound books. I picked one from the top and glanced at the front page. It was written in Max’s hand, in Spanish, and was dated from the early 1600s. Rummaging deeper into the chest, I found a fairly large gold locket. The light was too dim even for me to examine it; I slipped it into the uniform’s pocket to view later.

  “Deirdre?” A deep, soft voice in the doorway addressed me hesitantly, expectantly.

  I dropped the journal on the floor, spun around, and peered through the semi-darkness. Victor Lange stood there, the light from the office outlining his body.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Deirdre, but Fred said you were in.”

  “And so I am.”

  His voice was smooth and confident, showing no surprise at the room he was entering. “I wondered how long it would take you to discover this place.”

  “You knew this was here?” The voice in my head still urged me to trust him, but as he moved toward me, I backed away. “You’ve been here before?”

  Victor respected my hesitancy and stood still. “Of course.” He smiled reassuringly. “Max invited me in, oh, around twelve years ago, to show me his new acquisition.” He gestured at the coffin with my name. “But it was his private spot; it’s not as if he entertained here.”