by Sloan Archer
I remained motionless, my hope being that I could fool him into believing that I was asleep, catch him off-guard, and then make a run for it after he untied me.
Fat chance.
The walkie-talkie crackled once more. “Is she up or not, sonny?” This time it was the intolerant snarl of my lovely great-grandfather. “Speak up!”
“Hold on,” the thug answered. “I’m checking.”
“Well, hurry it up, Jason! All we need is for some busybody to drive by and see what we’re doing.”
This time, Jason (seemed like such a genteel name for a kidnapper) thumped me on the skull. He pulled off my hood, ripping some of my hair out in the process. I tried not to flinch. “Hey, girlie. You awake or not? I don’t care either way, but if you’re asleep I’m going to have to give you another shot. And this one ain’t gonna be as easy as the first. It’s basically pharmaceutical speed.”
I sighed, opening my eyes. “I’m awake.”
“Humph. Thought so.”
Jason spoke into the walkie-talkie and then went around the back of the van and pulled open the double doors. He untied my legs so I could walk, but he kept my hands tied behind my back. The rope binding my wrists was itchy and synthetic, and it bristled my skin like thousands of tiny shark teeth.
I felt like crying once I saw the surroundings. It didn’t matter which direction I faced: hills surrounded us on all sides, many of them studded with row upon row of grape vines. So we were near Napa, then.
I couldn’t see why Jason felt the need to keep me tied up. If I did escape, where in the hell did he think I’d go? The nearest neighbor was probably over a mile away. Surely they’d be able to catch up with me in the van before I’d even made it down the driveway.
Breaking up the horizon was an ostentatious McMansion at the foot of the driveway. Jason, tugging me along by the bicep, led me towards it. I looked back over my shoulder and shot my great-grandparents a filthy look. They looked back at me and kind of smiled, sheepish, as if they’d forgotten to send me a card on my birthday. Oopsie!
As I was being tugged along, I came up with all kinds of cold-blooded remarks I could have yelled back at them. You wait until my friends at VGO hear about this! If my boyfriend hadn’t been kidnapped himself, he’d be here kicking all your asses! Grams said you two were dicks!
I, of course, kept all these things to myself.
When we neared the mansion, Jason made a sharp left turn and led me around to the back. A freestanding shed stood about fifty feet beyond the house. It was one of those premade numbers people with nicer homes used to store their lawnmowers and tools. But this shed was larger than usual, more the size of a detached garage.
Jason pulled a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the shed door while my great-grandparents hovered about twenty feet back. The inside of the shed was void of furniture, barring a mattress on the floor in one corner. It was made up with a single wool blanket that made my skin prickle just looking at it. On top of the blanket was a single towel, a mini bar of soap, a pair of white cotton women’s underwear, two white socks, and a grey sweat suit. There was a very basic sink and toilet with no seat. In the far corner was a four-by-four square of floor tiling and a drain. Jutting out of the wall in front of the square was a plain pull knob, and above the knob was a stubby copper pipe: the shower. The only light was a single bulb screwed into the ceiling. There were no windows, just a few metal slats in the wall by the shower, probably to let out moisture.
It was a prison cell, minus the bars.
I was instantly fearful. This was not some half-assed hostage-stashing spot they’d thrown together, like, say, a closet in the back of the house with a Rottweiler standing guard. No, this place had actual plumbing, which meant that my kidnapping had been premeditated. It was either that, or this was the spot my great-grandparents regularly took all their abduction victims. Both possibilities were equally terrifying.
What was more worrisome than the shed was lack of concern Jason, Richard, and Maxine showed for concealing their identities. From what I’d gleaned from true-crime shows, kidnappers who planned on letting their hostage go would wear masks about ninety percent of the time. When they didn’t make an effort to hide their face, that usually meant the hostage was in trouble.
But this was my family, I reminded myself. Yah, the family who tossed Grams out pregnant . . . The family who didn’t bother making contact until they realized I had something they needed . . . The family who had a thug drug me, tie me up, and then throw me in the back of a van.
“Will you behave if I untie your hands?” Jason growled.
“Yes,” I said, resigned. I was far too deflated to conjure up a clever plan. I was pretty much stuck where I was, unless a sudden and implausible deus ex machina swooped down from the heavens and saved me: a strapping superhero, perhaps, or a platoon of vampire-loving soldiers, sent courtesy of the VGO.
I rubbed at my raw wrists after Jason cut off the rope. I looked past his shoulder and asked Maxine and Richard, “Why are you doing this?”
“We’re doing this, Mercy, because you refused us your blood,” Richard explained.
I hated it when people took questions so literally. “What do you plan on doing with me?”
“That depends on how you conduct yourself,” Maxine said tartly, and then she and Richard turned around and walked into the mansion.
Jason made a move to leave as well. “I’ll be back in a couple hours with some food. If you get thirsty, it’s safe to drink from the tap. It’s filtered.”
“Hey!” I yelled. “You can’t lock me in here like an inmate! When are you going to let me go?”
Jason stepped out and shut the door. I banged on it as he locked it from the outside. “Hey! That’s it? You’re leaving me in here?” I screamed, not even sure if he was still out there listening. “Nothing to eat? Nothing to drink? Nothing to . . . to read? What am I supposed to do in here?”
What I was supposed to do in my new home was wait. But wait for what? Well, that much was obvious. I was to sit there and wait for my demented family to come in and rob me of my blood. And what were they going to do with it? That was obvious, too. They were going to use it to replicate Leopold’s serum.
But once they had Leopold’s serum, what then? Were they planning on sneaking up behind vampires on the street and injecting them in the arm with it? (It wouldn’t surprise me, in view of their fondness toward the use of needles.) Or were they going to attempt to kidnap the entire vampire race and force the serum on them? (Again, wouldn’t surprise me.)
My great-grandparents were jerks, but that didn’t mean that they were impulsive jerks. It was apparent that they’d planned my abduction, so it would be only natural that they’d already have a plan set in place for the serum. I didn’t want to start thinking about what would happen to the vampire race if their plan succeeded. And I especially didn’t want to think about the implications of my blood being used to commit vampire genocide, because then that would mean Michael Graves and his prophesies had been right all along. It would mean that I truly was the Cataclysmic responsible for ending all vampires.
It struck me, then, how long it had been since Michael had crossed my mind. Not so long ago I’d thought about him every single day— sometimes once every waking hour. That seemed like another lifetime ago.
Shortly before Michael’s death (and by “death,” I mean that he was slayed by Marlena), he’d shared with me his prophecies of the future. He’d claimed that a human who’d come from a special bloodline that only he could detect—a so-called “Cataclysmic”—would be responsible for eradicating all vampires. He’d even gone as far as sketching drawings of his predictions in psychotic scrapbooks; the scary part was that I’d seem many of those sketches come true with my own two eyes.
Now I was questioning if Michael’s grim forecasts might have been right. Was it my true destiny to exterminate vampires? I really, really hoped not. I would sacrifice myself before I’d let my long-lost relatives use m
y blood to kill off a whole species.
Looking around my cell, it was obvious that Maxine and Richard had considered my outlook. There were absolutely no sharp objects in the room, should I get it my head to slit my wrists. Even the mattress I was sitting on was made of memory foam, so no sharp springs inside—nothing strong enough to hang myself with, either. And if I did off myself, couldn’t my blood still be taken from my dead veins, anyway? Of course, it was easy to be Ms. Big Talker when thinking about martyring myself hypothetically. But, come on, I had to psyche myself up just to pluck my eyebrows. So I doubted that I’d actually be able to end my own life if it came down to it.
I concluded that now was not the time for bleak speculations.
I had an escape to orchestrate.
It took all of three minutes for my hopes of getting out of there to be crushed. Unless I could make myself turn into mist, I wasn’t getting out through the ventilation slats. I’d need a chisel or a chainsaw to hack my way through the wall within a reasonable amount of time. I jiggled the knob to test the lock, which was a heavy bolt style that would be impossible for me to pick with the zero tools at my disposal.
There really was not much else I could do other than sleep—would it have killed them to leave me with a book or a couple magazines? I was still pretty groggy, anyhow, from the drug they’d injected me with. I flopped down on the mattress, pleased to learn that the blanket wasn’t as itchy as I’d assumed. Under the blanket, the mattress had been made up with simple white sheet. I pulled off my constricting jeans and curled up under the blanket. I yawned. It was actually quite soft . . . and . . . cozy . . .
The sound of the lock rattling awakened me. Without the tiny bit of light shining through the vents and underneath the door, the room had gone pitch black, which meant the sun had set.
Heart thudding, I jumped to my feet, forgetting for a moment where I was.
Jason walked in, flipped on the light, and closed the door behind him. He was holding a jumbo iced soda and a paper bag with the unmistakable shape of a foot-long sandwich pressing through the paper. He looked me up and down, as if halfway surprised that I was still there. Yah, like I could have gone anywhere else.
I realized, then, that I was standing there in only a sweater and underwear. I grabbed for the blanket and wrapped it around my legs like a skirt.
“Relax,” he said with a snort. “You’re not my type.”
Yes, because why on earth would it cross my mind that a man who’d drug and tie up a woman may not also take it upon himself to cop a feel? I’m so sorry to offend you, my honorable kidnapper.
I pulled on the sweats while Jason pretended to be interested in a hangnail on his index finger. I noted that he was wearing a wedding ring, which I found reassuring, though it’s not like married men weren’t capable of hurting women.
When I was decent, he thrust the bag and the soda at me. “Here,” he said. “I know some girls are picky about what they eat. I don’t know if you’re a vegetarian or what, so I got you tuna. There are a couple chocolate chip cookies in the bag. I’ll see if I can bring you some books tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Jason,” I beamed. I figured that being polite to my captor could only help my cause. Maybe I could sweet-talk him into letting me go, because no way could I overpower him, not with the good hundred and fifty pounds he had on me.
“Yah,” he growled. He wouldn’t make eye contact, which led me to believe that he had already decided that he was not going to form a bond with me—that he was making a conscious effort to be distant. Another bad sign.
He turned to leave and I quickly asked, “How long are they going to keep me here?” I purposely used the term they’re instead of you’re so that Jason would know that I didn’t think he was the one keeping me there. No siree, it was them. Jason, nice guy that he was, would never do such a thing.
He shrugged. “I have no idea.” His hand closed around the doorknob, and for an insane panicked moment I actually did consider trying to beat him up. I didn’t.
“Do you share Richard and Maxine’s beliefs about, uh, stuff?” I wanted to discern how much Jason actually knew about vampires.
“Girlie, the only thing I share with those people is my bank account information, so that they can pay me.” There it was—he was just there to do a job. No wonder he didn’t want to talk to me about the situation. He didn’t care.
“Did they tell you that I’m related to them?” I asked. “I’m their great-granddaughter.”
Jason’s back straightened. He turned around and stared at me levelly. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
He shook his head but said nothing.
I asked, “They’re going to kill me once they get what they want, aren’t they?”
Still, Jason remained silent. But now he’d stopped shaking his head.
11
Richard and Maxine paid me a visit the next morning. As Richard held the door open for Maxine, I eyed the lawn behind them, thinking how easy it would be to overpower these frail old people. I’d probably end up breaking their hips in the process, but I’d have a fair chance at getting away. I imagined it would sound like silver balls cracking together, like those metal pendulums people keep on their desks.
Richard perceived my peeping. “You can try to make a run for it, Mercy, but I assure you that Jason is standing by.”
As if the confirmation had been choreographed, Jason poked his head in and gave me a two-fingered wave. “Yo.”
“Don’t you like the clothes we left for you?” asked Maxine. Yah, like that was the most pressing issue, me not being happy with the sweats they’d laid out for me.
Maxine handed me an iced coffee in a plastic container. It did not go unnoticed that they’d selected coffee that wasn’t hot or in an actual mug. They probably worried that I’d throw scolding coffee in their faces or break the mug and shank them with the shards. You know, me, their perilous inmate.
“I prefer my own clothes, thanks,” I snapped. “Just like I’d prefer to be in my own home, sleeping in my own bed.”
Richard patronized, “Now, Great-Granddaughter, let’s not pretend that this is anyone’s fault but your own.”
“My fault? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I went to take a sip of the coffee and reconsidered. I shook the cup. “Is this drugged? I know how much you like drugging me.”
Richard sighed and furnished me with a look of forced patience, like he was contending with a petulant child.
Jason came in with two folding director’s chairs and set them up for Richard and Maxine to sit on. Richard waved a hand towards my mattress and said, “Won’t you please sit down?”
I saw no point in arguing, figuring that the sooner I allowed them to outline their list of demands—or whatever the hell it was that they wanted—the sooner they’d leave me be. I was felling awfully rundown and was looking forward to going back to sleep.
I flopped down on the bed, which put me about eye level with their legs. It was weird sitting below them like that. I felt like a dog.
“Okay, so now what?” I asked.
“We began to tell you about Francine yesterday,” Maxine said. “But we never finished.”
Uh, because you were too busy kidnapping me, I wanted to say.
Richard said, “We are hoping that if we finish explaining things from our perspective that—”
“That what, I’ll be on-board with your vampire genocide?” I sneered.
Richard pursed his lips and gave Maxine a look: I simply cannot deal with this vulgar commoner.
Maxine gave me a brittle smile and rested her hand on her husband’s forearm. She seemed to be the more easygoing of the two.
Still, it would behoove me to not keep pushing it, or they probably would drug me again. Perhaps if I managed to play along with them convincingly enough, I could even trick them into believing that I was on their side. And then maybe they would let me go. But I’d have to be sly about it. If I all of a sudden started going along with every
thing they said, they’d know I was full of it.
“We were hoping you would appreciate our cause better,” Maxine said, “if we finished our story.”
I moved to the rear of the mattress so that my back was resting against the wall. “I would like to hear more about Grams,” I said as sweetly as possible—but not too sweet. “So, yes, I would like for you to finish your story.”
“Very well,” Richard said.
“You were at the part where you joined the hunting club,” I prompted.
“Oh, yes. I believe I was.” Richard nodded. “I belonged to the club for a great many years. I’m still affiliated with them as a board member, but I no longer go out hunting with them.” He smiled forlornly. “I’m afraid my bones are too weary for such shenanigans.”
When was he going to get to the part about Grams?
Patting his wife’s hand, Richard said, “I met Maxine one night after a show.”
“I was a chorus line dancer,” Maxine said proudly. “Best legs in the business.”
“It was love at first sight. I was older than Maxine by a few years—”
“Twenty-six, dear,” she corrected her husband cheekily.
“—but we fell in love nonetheless.”
A beautiful dancer and a man twenty-six years her senior . . . I wondered if Richard having money didn’t help grease the wheels of love some.
“Through my associates at the club, I’d made many savvy investments,” Richard said. “I had gone legitimate by that time.”
“Or else I would have had nothing to do with him,” Maxine said, which almost made me snort. Guess she wasn’t as opposed to criminal activity now as she was back when she was a gold-digging dancer.
“Okay,” I stated. “But I’m having a hard time connecting this back to Grams.” And I’m tired and I want to go back to sleep, I didn’t add.
“I was just getting to that,” Richard said. “Around the time Francine was a teenager, the practice of offering entertainment at dinner parties was quite standard. It was, at least, in our circle.” He meant rich people, I assumed. “Sometimes the host and hostesses would hire opera singers or magicians to keep guests occupied while dinner was being prepared.”
