Love Bites

by Adrienne Barbeau

  Maral found me before I lost consciousness. I couldn’t move my head, but I saw the look in her eyes and knew she was seeing the violent movement beneath my skin as my muscles and bones attempted to fuse back together. It must have been terrifying for her. The blood drained from her face as she watched protruding leg bones angle back towards the top of my tibia, cells reaching for cells to reconnect. “What are you?” she asked in a quavering voice, and eventually I answered with the truth.

  “Vampyre. Dying.”

  She stared at me a moment longer, shaking her head as though to confirm something she might have suspected for a while. And then she sliced her wrist on a jagged rock and she nursed me back to life.

  “How did you know what to do?” I asked her later as I healed the wound on her wrist with my saliva. It took only minutes.

  “Everyone knows what an injured vampyre needs,” she said. This time her voice was stronger. “You see it in the movies all the time.”

  She’s been allowing me to feed on her ever since. Not just allowing—needing. There are times when she begs for it.

  The tabloids never tire of questioning our relationship—we’re the Oprah and Gayle of the film industry—but only my clan knows the truth.

  And now Peter. He knows part of the truth. It was time to tell him the rest.

  I wasn’t going to tell him everything, though. He didn’t need to know I’d been attacked again. There was nothing he could do to help. Not until I knew a lot more about what was going on. Like who was after me, and why.

  And even then, I’d take care of it myself.

  I heard him enter the house and called out to him to meet me in the library. If Maral had been there, I would have asked her to make him an espresso, but right then dealing with the massive copper machine was more than I wanted to bother with. It was an original; Achille Gaggia had given it to me in Italy soon after he designed it. In 1945. I remember because we were celebrating Mussolini’s capture. Achille was so excited that I didn’t have the heart to tell him I don’t drink coffee.

  Peter was standing in front of the bookshelves when I came in. He’d turned on a single amber-shaded floor lamp and the room was bathed in soft gold light and shadows. He had a Gary Disher novel in his hand, the Inspector Challis series. He put it back on the shelf and turned to stare at me. I could see a vein throbbing across his left temple. I heard his blood pulsing through it. He didn’t speak, he just stared.

  “Would you like some wine or something to drink?” I asked. Tremors of nervousness tightened across my chest. I rarely feel fear, but this was something else. Anxiety. I didn’t want him angry with me.

  “No. I’d like to know what’s going on.” He was deadly serious, with not a hint of warmth in his voice. “What’s going on with you and what’s going on with us. I don’t know if you’re controlling my mind or what, but I can’t stop thinking about you. And I really don’t know what to think. I don’t know how any of this works. It’s pissing me off.”

  “Sit down. Over there.” I nodded towards the leather club chair, and I stretched out on the sofa opposite. I wanted to keep the coffee table between us. The closer I was to him, the harder it would be to keep my hands off him. In this light, he looked like a Greek god. If I touched him again, I might not be able to stop.

  “Okay, look,” I continued, “you know what you saw in Palm Springs. You know I am not of your kind, your race. I am vampyre. I am not evil incarnate, although I can be a class A bitch when I want to. And I don’t go around killing people so I can survive. Give or take a few film critics when I first started acting. But that was when I was Anna Moore, not Ovsanna.”

  “Anna Moore, your mother? You were your mother?” Peter was struggling to take it all in. I knew I probably shouldn’t throw too much at him at one time. But I might not have another chance. Better to get as much out on the table as possible.

  “I’m old, Peter. More than four hundred years old. I came to this country at the turn of the century as my ‘grandmother,’ an actress in silent films, and then when talkies came in I was her daughter, Anna Moore, and when Anna had outlived her career, I let people think she was dying and I showed up as her daughter, Ovsanna, supposedly raised in Europe and here to nurse her mother through her final days.”

  “You were your mother? Jesus. All this time my mother’s been selling Anna Moore memorabilia on eBay. If she only knew.” Still not a smile, but his hazel eyes had softened a bit. “She could raise her reserve.” With his black hair and high cheekbones, he looked like he should be modeling for Hugo Boss, not fighting crime in Beverly Hills. “What about all the others, those old-time movie stars you introduced me to? And the three that were killed—Jason Eddings and Mai Goulart and Tommy Gordon? What’s their story?”

  “All members of my clan, all Vampyres of Hollywood. You see, it wasn’t until the birth of the cinema that my kind found their true calling. Have you seen us on-screen? Well, you have, you just didn’t know we were vampyres. The camera loves us. It’s something about our vampyre physiology; we’re luminescent on-screen. You can’t take your eyes off us. Charlie Chaplin, Theda Bara, Peter Lorre, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks—so many of my clan became stars as soon as they found the camera. Any vampyre with a shred of talent became a star back in the twenties. And then some, like Pola Negri and Olive Thomas, couldn’t make the cut when talkies came in. But that’s how I started, or rather, my ‘grandmother’ started, back in 1915. When the talkies came in, I retired for a while and came back as Anna Moore, and then in the late sixties, right before Anna ‘died,’ her daughter, who bore a striking resemblance to her—even down to her first name, ‘Ovsanna’—arrived from Europe to follow in her footsteps. Some of the others who started with me and became too recognizable to relocate or fade into obscurity simply staged their deaths and went into hiding. I always thought Orson was so clever, waiting until the day Yul Brynner died to dilute the press coverage of his own ‘death.’

  “And we controlled the industry, so we controlled our mythology,” I continued. “All that stuff humans believe about garlic and mirrors and living only in the dark—we made that up. And put it on the screen. As for controlling your mind, I’m not. I can’t. My clan doesn’t do that. I am Dakhanavar, from the Mt. Ararat region of Armenia. My ancestors weren’t the brightest of the clans—remind me to tell you the toe story sometime—but we are guardians by nature and I will fight to protect you, but I will not bend you to my will. If anything, right now, I want you to know the truths about me so that you can make your own decision.” I held my breath, just a little bit. He looked so formidable in the dim light.

  “What are the truths, aside from your ability to change into whatever William Blake–looking creature that was that you became in Palm Springs? What’s the story with you and Maral?”

  Just like a man, I thought. I’m telling him I’m the überbeast he’s only seen in horror films and all he wants to know about is who I’m screwing. “Maral is my family . . . my helpmate . . . and my source of life. I think she’s beautiful. She’s the only human I’ve let get close to me in many, many years, and I care for her deeply. She lives with me in this house. Not in my house in Malibu, though. She has her own bedroom and office here. We’re lovers when the desire arises, but it’s not an exclusive relationship. She knows she can have romances with other people.” I didn’t tell him she hadn’t slept with anyone else in more than a year and the longer we were together, the more emotion she wanted from me. Emotion I wasn’t capable of providing. Maral can be a problem sometimes.

  “And you?”

  “I don’t take human lovers very often, Peter. Especially not since I met Maral. Not because of my feelings for her, but because her presence eases my loneliness. It’s hard having a long-term relationship with a human. I fall in love with someone and then have to watch him grow old and frail while nothing changes with me. Hard on the loved one as well. Maral is still so young we haven’t had to deal with that, but if she continues to stay in my life, we
will.”

  “Can’t you turn her into something like you? That’s what they do in the movies. Jesus, I let you drink my blood—isn’t that supposed to make me a vampyre, too?” He looked down at his left wrist where just two weeks before I’d placed my lips to replenish my strength. There was nothing there, no scar, no wound, no sign of my fangs having been deeply embedded in his flesh.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The consternation on his face made him look like a teenager. “It doesn’t work that way, Peter. That’s a myth perpetrated by literature and horror films. In the first place, I would never turn her without her permission. And second, the very act of creation can change the nature of the person. You saw what Rudolph Valentino became—so vicious you had to kill him to save us. He wasn’t like that before I turned him. Too often the vampyre I create is not the human I fell in love with. And Maral has her own set of neuroses. Her daddy did a real good job messing her up, and she’s got some problems where men are concerned. She’s invaluable when it comes to running the studio, but she can go off-kilter emotionally from time to time. Even if she wanted me to turn her, I’m not so sure I would.”

  “All right. I get that. But what was that thing that happened when you were getting out of the car? That electricity. I thought vampyres were supposed to be cold-blooded. Heat was coming off of you like fire. If I hadn’t pulled my hand away, my skin would have fried. That’s the reason you didn’t shake hands with my family, isn’t it?”

  “You noticed that, did you?”

  “Not at first, because you had packages in your hands. But then when you managed to say hello to everyone and you hadn’t put them down, I started watching for it. You did the same thing when it came time to say good-bye.”

  “Well, I had a different reason then. When I touch someone, if I let them in, I get images from that person’s life. Faint and jumbled usually; sometimes I can’t make sense of them at all, so they don’t do me any good. But other times, they’re strong and clear and I find them intrusive. The first time I shook your hand, I saw my special effects artist crucified against the wall, the same way you’d discovered her when you came to talk to me about the Cinema Slayer. I can block the images out, but it’s easier most times to avoid physical contact. My touching you, and burning you, was something else.”

  “So you only burn the people you . . . aw, fuck. This is ridiculous. I’m talking about something I didn’t even believe existed up until two weeks ago, and now I’m talking about it like I know what I’m talking about! You know what, I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Peter—”

  He was up and out of the chair. “No. Save the explanations for another time. If there is one. I loved the story about the movie stars, believe me. And I’d probably enjoy the toe story about the Armenian vampyre, too, but I can’t hear any more right now. It’s too much to take in. I had a great time today. I’m glad you came to the house, I’m glad we spent time together, but I don’t know how much of this I can handle. Just stay there. I know where the door is.”

  And he walked out.

  So I was right. Imagine his reaction if I’d told him about the were.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was two in the morning and I was fighting the Thirst. Peter had left me aroused and frustrated. I wanted to tear into someone. Suck someone dry until I was released. I wished Maral were home.

  I could have stopped Peter from leaving. I could have been next to him in less than a heartbeat, and if I had touched him . . . But I didn’t. That wouldn’t be playing fair, and besides, I didn’t want him on those terms. It had to come from him. I knew what I wanted to happen between us, but he hadn’t made up his mind. Not yet, anyway. And whatever happened, it had to be his decision.

  I went into my office and sat down at my desk. It’s a beautiful amber-inlaid piece I smuggled out of the Russian court, right after the October Revolution. Well, it was early July, really, and I did my damnedest to get Nicholas to at least let me help the Empress and their children escape, along with his cook and valet and doctor. But he was a stubborn man for one so young. Never to grow older. I’ve never thought their martydom was worth it.

  My computer screen was still open to the views from the security cameras. I studied each split screen for any sign my beastly intruder had returned. The geese were quiet; there was no movement on the screens. Just to be certain, I went out onto the balcony and smelled the air. It was scented with roses and alyssum. And goose shit. But nothing unexpected.

  The phone rang in my bedroom. Only four people have my private line—Doug Fairbanks, Orson Welles, my attorney, and Maral. My business partner had it, but he was dead. I knew who was calling. I pulled back the duvet and lay down on the bed before I answered.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” I said, “how’s the bayou?”

  “I been callin’ you all night, chère. Why didn’t you pick up?” Subtle accusations colored Maral’s voice. I ignored them.

  “You’ve only been in the swamps a day, Maral, and already you sound like you never left. I was out. Having Christmas Eve dinner with Peter King’s family, remember?”

  “Until after midnight? I just didn’t think it’d be this late, is all.”

  I ignored that, too. Maral can be a bitch sometimes, where the men in my life are concerned. She doesn’t trust men in general, and she really hates it if they’re paying attention to me. It’s one of the few things we’ve argued about over the years. I changed the subject. “Well, it’s even later there. Why are you up at four in the morning?”

  “Maw-Maw got me worried about you, is all. She did a reading for me for my Christmas present. She said she figured I been livin’ with les Américains so long, I need to know what’s going on.”

  Maral’s grandmother is in her eighties. She still lives by herself somewhere near Maral’s mother in Bayou Go Down. Never learned English. I met her once when we screened Mojo Working in New Orleans and Maral brought her family down to see it. We got by just fine with my French and her Cajun. She’s a pistol, that’s for sure. Raised eleven kids and buried two husbands and still going strong.

  “So tell me what she saw.” Maw-Maw’s been throwing the tarot since she was a little girl. Maral believes she’s got the gift of second sight. I’m sure she does. Maral tells story after story of her grandmother knowing things long before they happened. Like the time some neighbor of theirs got struck by lightning. Maw-Maw was home alone, in bed with fever. With no phone or TV, she had no way of hearing the news, but when her twin sisters stopped by to check up on her, she told them that the neighbor had been sizzled.

  Or the time last month when she’d told Maral’s brother there was a beast in the swamps, and two days later they found one of the Villarubbia boys spit out all over the levee. They still haven’t seen the gator, but she knew he was out there.

  “What did Maw-Maw see that got you worried about me?” I asked. Maybe she’d seen the were attack. She wouldn’t know what to make of it, but she might know I was in danger.

  “She saw Peter King. You shouldn’t be spending time with him, Ovsanna. There’s nothing good gonna come of it. He’s a cop and he already knows too much about you.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re not worried about me, Maral. Peter’s no danger to me. And he’s no danger to you. If that’s what you’re worried about, you don’t need to be.” I wasn’t going to get into this on the phone. “Now how come your momma wanted you home so badly? What’s going on there?”

  “She’s having trouble with Jamie. She thinks he’s doing drugs. I know he’s doing steroids, for sure. And smoking pot. I followed him down to the levee and watched him.”

  “Wait a minute. On Christmas Eve? What was your brother doing down at the levee? Doesn’t he know that boy got attacked? Besides, wasn’t your whole family there?” Maral’s twin aunts, Tante Ruby and Tante Anne, live together on a houseboat in the bayou. They’ve never married. They wear matching cotton housedresses, sewn at home from the Butterick patterns they’ve had since the thirtie
s. When they came to the screening in New Orleans, they wore hats to match. “I thought you were all going to midnight mass.” I would have loved to see their Christmas attire.

  “For sure, everyone was there. All the cousins. And Uncle Erace brought his accordion and Tante Ida played the fiddle. And Jamie was there. But you know how he is in his brain, he’s slow. He’s like a little kid. And you should see Momma, she’s wasting away. I got scared just giving her a hug. And Jamie’s gotten so big, Momma can’t control him. He’s too big to whup. Well, after dinner, he lied to her and told her he was going out frogging. She asked him what kinda fou’ does he think she is—she knows damn well it ain’t frogging season—and she threatened to pass him a slap, but she couldn’t get him to stay. So I followed him down to the water and saw him giving money to some guy.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No. He looked a lot older than Jamie and he wasn’t Cajun, that’s for sure. Sounded like backwoods Florida. He was wearing a wife-beater tee and camo pants—on Christmas Eve. And grungy jockey shorts. I know because his pants were hanging lower than his behind.”