by Tara Moss
Oh boy. There was little doubt of whom he spoke.
‘Jay is . . . well . . .’ I stopped next to a bench. ‘Jay helped me get to know New York a bit. He was nice to me.’
Jay Rockwell and I had found ourselves in the same elevator together and, later, at a party for the beauty cream BloodofYouth (now discontinued). Jay had been one of the first people I’d met in Manhattan and he’d taken me on my first ‘proper’ date, ever. I recalled how he’d driven me home through this very park in his Ferrari, and remarked that I ought not be so silly as to venture through the park at night by myself. At the time, I’d taken some serious offence at his patronising comment. It had seemed a cruel reference to my humble, small-town upbringing. Yet now I did exactly that most evenings after work. Walking through Central Park was simply the quickest way home from the subway station at 103rd Street in Spanish Harlem. Rightly or wrongly, after everything else I’d seen, the common dangers of Central Park seemed relatively insignificant. And though things hadn’t got particularly serious between Jay and me – Jay’s memory had been erased before things could get serious – I’d probably always have a soft spot for him. Even if he didn’t remember me.
And things couldn’t get serious with Luke, because he was not really human. That was the real issue here, wasn’t it?
‘Yes, Jay is an attractive man,’ I said honestly. I couldn’t lie to Luke. ‘And you are very handsome. But you and he are very different. Jay doesn’t know me like you do. In fact, he doesn’t know me at all, as you may have noticed.’
I watched Luke’s beautiful face. He did seem a bit sensitive about being dead.
‘Can we sit for a moment?’ I asked and took a seat on one end of the park bench. Luke sat next to me as I’d suggested, though I noticed we weren’t touching.
‘Are you okay, Miss Pandora? Are your feet tired? I can carry you,’ he offered. We had walked quite a distance from West 34th to here.
I shook my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, though the thought was rather appealing. Luke was strong enough to sweep me up effortlessly. He’d done it before.
‘May I take your hand?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
Lieutenant Luke took my hand in both of his and looked me in the eyes. ‘Miss Pandora, I am your spirit guide. Perhaps . . .’
We hadn’t had this conversation before but, of course, it was coming. The obvious questions. Could Luke and I really be more than friends? Could a romance between us be anything but doomed, when I was nineteen and he was twenty-five plus one hundred and fifty years? The gaps in age and mortality were an issue. Weren’t they?
‘You are alive. You must enjoy everything of life,’ he said earnestly. ‘It would not be right for me to hold you back. It is natural if you want to spend time with Jay. It is normal that you should want to be in the company of living men, like him.’
‘Shhh,’ I said, and held a finger to Luke’s lovely mouth. I couldn’t handle this relationship talk. Not right now. I’d waited all month for this date, and I just couldn’t believe Jay had walked into the middle of it.
‘Let’s not talk about all this right now—’
Suddenly Luke jerked his head away, as if hearing something in the distance that I could not detect with my ears. When he finally turned back to face me, I saw a flicker of serious concern in his eyes. ‘Miss Pandora, there is a strong presence in the mansion,’ he said gravely, appearing to concentrate on that thing I could not hear or see.
I sat a little straighter on the bench. ‘What kind of presence?’ I asked. ‘My boss Skye again?’
Lieutenant Luke had alerted me to Skye’s apparent visits to Spektor. It seemed likely she’d been summoned by Athanasia, whom I hadn’t seen for a while.
‘Or has Athanasia risen?’ I asked nervously.
She was Sanguine. And she’d tried to eat me. At the thought of her I pulled my collar up higher on my neck.
‘No. Neither of them,’ Luke said. ‘This is something very powerful.’ His chiselled jaw clenched.
‘Celia’s friend Deus?’ I asked, but Luke did not answer.
He appeared to glaze over, looking back in the direction of the house.
‘Are you okay?’ I was becoming concerned.
‘Miss Pandora, something is not right,’ he managed in a strained voice. He did not look at me.
And then he stood suddenly, as rigid as a statue.
‘Luke?’
I leapt off the bench and stood in front of him. Lieutenant Luke looked right through me, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. Was his face turning . . . pale? ‘What is it? What’s going on?’
He didn’t answer.
Was he turning white? My goddess, he was. ‘Luke, what’s happening?’
I reached for him and to my horror my hand went straight through his. I tried again and both of my arms passed through him. I glanced anxiously around but could see nothing or no one that could be causing his reversion to ghost form. And we were still in Central Park and nowhere near the mansion. Was anyone seeing this?
‘Luke!’ I cried.
It was no use. In seconds there was nothing left of him.
Luke was gone, his cavalry sword on the grass at my feet.
Ijogged the rest of the way through Central Park in my flats, carrying Lieutenant Luke’s sword. I was alone in the park far later than usual – it was nearly eleven o’clock – but I figured any nefarious types would think twice about messing with me with a gleaming blade in my hand.
By the time I hit the little tunnel that led to Spektor I was winded and working hard to keep myself from freaking out. I emerged onto Addams Avenue clinging to the hope that Luke would be there, even in ghost form, waiting for me just beyond the mist.
He was not.
I stopped on the edge of Addams Avenue and caught my breath. Strange clusters of fog drifted like tumbleweeds across the dark street, seeming in turns to grow arms and legs, to walk on ghostly feet, before dissolving into mist again. Faint, flickering lights could be seen in the windows of a few of the old brownstones. Harold’s Grocer was open, as always, lights burning brightly, and as I passed the old-fashioned sign at the front I thought fleetingly of going inside and asking for Harold’s help. But what could he do?
Looking ahead, I thought I saw a couple of figures, just outside the mansion. I squinted. I hoped one might be Luke.
Oh dear.
No. Not Luke. Not Celia. I recognised the figures ahead as a couple of local Spektorites known only to me as Blonde and Redhead. The former wore a hot-pink leather minidress that showed off her enviable long legs and arms, and the latter wore a black pencil skirt with a cinched satin bustier. Both were loaded with enough designer costume jewellery to make Madonna jealous and neither wore coats, despite the crisp spring night air. Blonde and Redhead were ridiculously attractive, as you would expect of those who get paid to model things for a living. Well, not for a living per se, but their looks could sell ice cubes to Arctic explorers. At a glance you would swear they were two of the most gorgeous, if underdressed, people you’d ever seen. But I knew better. These two were what was left of an undead pack of supermodels, led by Athanasia, my nemesis.
Athanasia, their leader, had ‘gone to ground’ to heal after an incident involving some garlic bread I had hand-delivered to her face.
Their kind were Sanguine. Vampires to use the politically incorrect term, which in this case was awfully tempting. The existence of the Sanguine was not well known. The Sanguine community saw to that by removing human witnesses, or at least the memories of those witnesses – a policy that brought its own complications – complications like erasing Jay Rockwell’s memory. These two were not very nice, though they certainly had been pretty popular during the New York fashion scene’s so-called vampire chic trend a few months ago (now uncool again), not that any of the photographers and designers who’d hired them had any idea their vampirically pale skin was vampiric for the obvious reason.
Hmmm.
My
great-aunt Celia had a peculiar agreement with the powerful Sanguine known as Deus – the one I’d have to face at midnight – and that agreement involved allowing the unused floors of the mansion to be available as a kind of halfway house for wayward vamps, hence the boarded-up windows. It was not an ideal arrangement for me, as a warm-blooded breather, but it was her house and her rules and that was that. She had to have her reasons. Though most of the Sanguine I’d met did not exactly impress me – actually, they positively terrified me – I had met a couple who weren’t so bad. One, Samantha, was almost a friend. Almost. I mean, how good a friend can someone be if you’re never really sure they won’t try to neck you? And Deus was terrifying but he seemed kind of reasonable. But there was little that was reasonable about these two women and their leader Athanasia. They didn’t play well with others and they really had a problem with me. I’d staked Athanasia (unsuccessfully . . . oops) and that was even before the garlic bread incident. In fact, the only thing stopping these two from attacking me right now was Celia’s protection as mistress of the house. Anyone who laid a hand on me risked eviction and I guess there weren’t too many places like Celia’s around, so these two weren’t keen to leave their cosy accommodations.
Nonetheless, they sure enjoyed taunting me.
‘Well, if it isn’t Miss Country,’ Blonde said, sneering as I approached. She posed in her mini as I passed her, jutting out one hip. The leather squeaked a little. Maybe it was Pleather.
‘Look at her. She’s so pathetic,’ Redhead said.
I need to find Luke and I don’t have time for this, I thought.
I tried to pass her to reach the front door but Redhead blocked me and I instinctively raised the tip of Luke’s sword a touch. She stood proud and defiant, her pale, flawless hands on the tiny waist of her cinched bustier, ivory fangs blatantly hanging over her painted lips. She clearly didn’t feel like getting out of my way, sword or no sword.
She looks hungry, I thought uneasily, glancing at those fangs.
‘What do you want?’ I said.
‘When Athanasia gets back, you’re history,’ she warned me, bending down to speak right into my face. Her breath smelled like a butcher’s shop. Then she poked my shoulder hard. Her manicure was pretty, but sharp.
‘Yeah. She’s gonna rip your throat out!’ Blonde chimed in, moving closer. They were now on either side of me.
‘I’m sure that will be just lovely,’ I said, trying to keep the situation under control. ‘But in the meantime I was wondering if you could tell me if you saw a man in a uniform pass by here? I’m looking for him.’
Even before they replied I could see from their faces that they hadn’t seen Lieutenant Luke, which was disappointing. Then again he had reverted from his human form and the undead, like most of the living, did not generally see ghosts.
‘Thanks anyway,’ I said, hopeful that Luke was already in the house. I tried to continue past Redhead, holding the sword ahead of me.
‘Bet you don’t even know how to use that thing,’ she said, taking a deliberate step to block me again. ‘You stupid cow.’
It’s not worth it, I reminded myself.
‘Ha ha ha. Cow! She does look a bit bovine. Or like a fat little piggy. Oink, oink. Little morchilla,’ Blonde taunted.
Morchilla. Blood sausage.
Not. Worth. It.
I really didn’t need this kind of hassle, not now. I knew I should ignore them. I was not fat, or farm-animal-like, though admittedly, sometimes I was a little insecure about hailing from Gretchenville. They were just running through insults to see which ones would stick and I supposed if they’d planned to kill me and risk being thrown out of the mansion they would have done it already. I gritted my teeth, wishing they’d just finish their taunts and let me pass. What if Lieutenant Luke needed me? I had his sword, which should surely give Sanguine some pause, shouldn’t it? I mean, wasn’t it Celia who’d explained that stakes were only for holding vampires down while you beheaded them? In my experience, Celia was never wrong, and the kind of blade I was holding could surely be an instrument for head cleaving, if you were into that sort of thing. Yuck, but still . . . Life or un-death, right? Both of them had sharp fangs hanging out of their pretty faces and things were not looking good for me. As Fledglings, their impulses could spiral out of control.
At least my pockets weren’t empty.
I slid my left hand into the pocket of my coat. ‘Oh, oops,’ I said, and pulled out a handful of uncooked white rice. The grains hit the steps outside the mansion with a shimmering bounce. Immediately, Redhead’s eyes were averted by the movement. She got down on her knees.
‘Oh! One, two, three, four, five . . .’
Seconds later Blonde was also on her knees. ‘One, two . . .’
Fledgling Sanguine had an obsessive compulsive need to count, which had led to the centuries-old – and wise – belief that scattering seeds or rice in graveyards and outside homes slowed the progress of the undead. I suppose that legend was where Sesame Street’s Count von Count came from. In some versions of the folktale, Sanguine counted a single grain per year but, sadly, that wasn’t the reality. Fledgling Sanguine counted pretty quickly – rice, pumpkin seeds, carrot seeds, poppy seeds, millet, sand – but still they counted. Until they grew out of the habit, that is, which, lucky for me, these two clearly had not.
By the time they’d counted to ten, I was inside the mansion. The lights were off – Blonde and Redhead were probably being energy-efficient – and I had to grope around on the wall to find the switch for the chandelier. Once it was on and I could see I was alone, I moved across the lobby with haste, got in the lift and pressed the button for the penthouse, wondering when and if Athanasia would return.
Mostly though, I hoped Lieutenant Luke was okay, and that he was in the house somewhere. Our date could hardly have been more disastrous and I couldn’t help but feel responsible.
At half past eleven I knocked and entered my great-aunt’s penthouse. Once inside the safety of those walls I stopped, leaned against the door and felt a blue mood descend over me like a fisherman’s net. I didn’t even sing out my usual greeting.
My great-aunt still had the curtains pulled open in the large lounge room and I could see the full moon and the faint dots of blinking constellations above the Empire State Building beyond the veil of Spektor’s eternal fog. Somehow the stars always looked brighter here, despite the fog.
Celia was in her reading nook and she peered around the corner, registered my expression and said, ‘You need a cup of tea.’
Always the tea.
She walked into the kitchen, Freyja trailing behind her. I slipped my flats off and noticed for the first time that I had earned some fresh blisters from all the walking and running across the city. Hanging my head, I watched Celia put the kettle on, her every movement calm and practised. Freyja purred against my ankles, her albino fur feeling soft and warm. She sat down at my feet and stared intensely at my hand with her large, opal eyes. She meowed. Her tail twitched.
She was staring at Luke’s sword.
I should try, I thought.
‘I’ll be with you in just a moment,’ I said, and ducked back into the lounge room.
‘Take your time, darling,’ my great-aunt called back.
I stepped up to the arched windows to stand directly in the moonlight, uncertain about whether or not that would make a scrap of difference. Spektor was quiet outside, and only the sound of the boiling kettle broke the silence of the house. I took a few deep breaths and tried to centre myself. You can do it. You can. Eyes closed, I lifted Lieutenant Luke’s cavalry sword into the air and said his name with purpose. Seconds passed. I tried to concentrate, tried to feel his arrival, but there was nothing. No chill in the air. No Luke. My ring did not warm up or flash with heat.
‘Lieutenant Luke,’ I declared again, pointing the heavy sword towards the moon. I took another deep breath. ‘Luke?’ His name choked in my throat.
Finally I lowered my ar
m and when I opened my eyes I saw that Freyja had followed me out of the kitchen and was looking at me strangely. Celia was still preparing her tea, seemingly unperturbed by my failed ritual. Actually, she always seemed unperturbed. There was a high-pitched whine as the kettle boiled, and when I joined her again she was engaged in the task of filling a beautiful antique teapot, steam rising up around her. I watched her from the doorway, my shoulders hunched. The penthouse had filled with the rich scent of fragrant tea leaves.
‘He’s not coming when he’s called, is he?’ Celia remarked without turning.
I nodded to myself, feeling a sting in my eyes. ‘You haven’t seen him, have you?’
‘No. I haven’t seen your soldier since you two left.’ She shook her head, the widow’s veil shifting on her perfectly coiffed black hair.
I placed Luke’s sword lovingly on the round kitchen table. Where could he be? What had called him? What had happened to his human form? Was he a spirit again? If so, why would he not communicate? Since my first night in Spektor we’d been in regular contact. He’d said I could call on him anytime, and I’d soon realised that he meant it. It’s true, we did not communicate every night, but he’d never once failed to arrive when I’d asked for him.
Perhaps I’d taken that for granted.
I folded my arms over my chest, realising my coat was still on. ‘I’ll hang this up.’
My great-aunt approached me with a cup of tea. ‘Drink,’ she said. ‘You will feel better.’
I took the cup and saucer, and sat down on her leather hassock. I sipped once. Twice. It was rejuvenating.
‘Deus will be here soon, and you shall speak with him,’ she said.
‘Do you think he’ll know what happened to Luke? He just . . . disappeared when we were in Central Park.’
‘I am not sure.’
These weren’t words my great-aunt used often.
‘Before he . . . disappeared,’ I said, my heart constricting with the words, ‘Luke told me there was a powerful force here at the house.’
