Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1)
Page 8
“I refuse to be a slave to time for another second,” she said. “Tomorrow, I’ll do what Nikolai asks of me and possibly the day after that, but he’s mistaken if he thinks I’ll remain his pet informant forever. I’ll see this mess through to the end and then I’m cutting my ties to him. My future can’t wait any longer. It’s time to reclaim everything I lost.”
She smiled as if she had regained some control of her life. The city lights winked mischievously back at her.
Just as she was about to retire to bed, she spied a window propped ajar below. When had she opened it? She would never open a window on so cold a night. Her heart began to scream with panic. More than likely, a fierce gust wrenched it open.
Slender hands poked out of the window below and slowly closed it.
Vivian reeled away from the balcony, feeling her pulse pound through her quivering fingers.
Someone is in the house with me. She lunged for her phone, ready to punch Nikolai’s number.
“Where the fuck did I drop it?!” she roared.
She spun toward her bed, flinging aside newspapers, journals, and books. The bottle of wine cascaded to the floor, pouring forth its spiced contents.
“Downstairs,” she breathed. “I left it on the table downstairs.” She lurched to a stop at the door. The gun Nikolai gave her lay waiting on the nightstand. Without a thought, she grabbed it. She had never fired a gun before, and the steel felt wet and clammy in her palms. What if it wasn’t loaded? She didn’t know what an empty gun felt like compared to one stuffed with a fresh clip.
Perhaps this intruder was no more than a vagrant searching for a place to hole up for the night. It couldn’t possibly be the killer who stitched up Krista. Nevertheless, she timidly tiptoed down the stairs, spiraling down to the lower level.
She dashed to the table, where she vaguely remembered discarding her phone.
Her heart stalled several beats when she saw it was no longer there. In its place was a scrap of notebook paper.
Follow me.
“What the hell is this?” she demanded. “Some kind of sick joke?” Her head jutted to the left as something seized her attention. A candle beamed at her from the dining room, licking at coarse shadows. With a quick glance at the windows rusted shut, she followed the light. The moment she reached the candle, another flaming candle hissed to life further down the hall. Her entire body bristled with anticipation. Whoever entered Vesely Manor was luring her away from the bedroom, beyond the comfort of the estate.
“Where are you?” she demanded. The raw caress of the wind answered her.
The door to the Sea of Fire had been propped open, goading Vivian to set foot in the unforgiving wilderness. Not one to shy away in the face of a challenge, she stalked through the door. The lake burbled passionately in the uncharacteristic heat of the night. She scanned the bank, expecting someone to rear up from the darkness and drag her toward the waters.
The gnarled trees were iced with the last tinge of sunset, dwindling down to the kiss of night.
A silhouette lingered on the bridge, bearing a candle in its hand. The figure had unwittingly turned its back on her.
Second mistake, Vivian thought. The first dire mistake was intruding on the manor. Slowly but deliberately, she tiptoed across the ashen sand. She fingered the trigger of her gun, feeling the weight press smoothly into her skin. She had the upper hand now on this unsuspecting fool.
“You look very beautiful,” a female voice whispered. She froze. The voice was so gentle it rolled over her like a feather in the breeze. The candle illuminated the speaker’s soft features, revealing a woman only a few years older than Vivian. Untamed, chestnut hair flowed down her back in a ponytail. She was modestly dressed in a scarlet blouse and a sleek black skirt that rustled against her contours. A scarf curled around her shoulders in a slash of crimson that cut through the night.
Her emerald eyes plunged deep into hers.
“You were watching me last night,” Vivian said once her tongue regained its function. “Who are you?”
“Camilla. And you? What are you doing in my family’s manor, Vivian?” For a moment, neither of them spoke. Vivian scanned her face, trying to match it with a name. Could she have attended class with her in college? She didn’t strike her as one of her previous clients either. She would remember an exotic face like hers. Vivian’s phone chimed like musical dice and she slapped at her pockets. At once, she realized it was ringing in Camilla’s hand.
“It’s for you.” She flicked her wrist and Vivian barely caught her phone before it could smash against the bridge. She fumbled with it and pressed it to her cheek.
“Hello?”
“Vivian, where are you?” Nikolai demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“…I’m at the manor.”
“I’m just checking in to make sure everything is okay. You were pretty shaken up at Grigorshire.”
“Yeah, well, you can imagine why.”
“Hopefully this is the last dead body you see for a while. I can’t say the same about myself, considering my sordid profession. Now what do you plan to do next?”
“I guess I have no choice but to return to the outskirts—”
Vivian didn’t continue that thought. She noticed the woman watching her closely, trying to pick up the expression on her face. Did she know what morbid business they were discussing? She was staring intently at the phone, captivated by some detail.
She couldn’t hear Nikolai, could she?
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, sorry, Nikolai. Can I call you back later?”
“Fine. I’m turning in for the night. We’ll keep in touch.”
Vivian snapped the phone shut and spun toward the stranger.
“How do you know my name? Were you looking through my phone?” The mysterious woman smiled.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it… Call it a journalist’s intuition.”
Vivian’s molten eyes widened in disbelief.
“So you’re Camilla Vesely.”
SIX
The pristine lake whispered to fill the void in conversation.
She was hardly what Vivian imagined Camilla to look like. When they traded secrets over the phone, she vividly pictured a woman with her hair tied in a neat bun and horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Needless to say, Camilla hardly fit that image.
“How did you get in here?” Vivian demanded, not about to lower her guard. Camilla looked the part of a harmless girl, but she learned long ago not to take a person at face value. Camilla flashed a disarming smile.
“The family key.”
“You used to live here?”
“If only. I wasn’t even allowed to set foot in this manor. At least, not until everyone passed away.”
Vivian glanced at the manor as if a roiling disease might ooze out of the entrance. She opened her mouth to demand answers when Camilla’s musical laughter rang forth.
“I’m the illegitimate daughter of James Vesely. While I was never allowed a close relationship with my father, I stopped by every now and then to adore the manor; the way the first snow blanketed the courtyard, the statues glistening in the rain … the gardens bursting to life every spring.” She gazed vapidly into space, her eyes iced over in reverie. “And you? Why are you sleeping in my father’s bed?”
“I didn’t think anyone lived here anymore.”
“That doesn’t excuse trespassing.” Vivian’s eyes narrowed at the blunt accusation.
“I wasn’t trespassing. I have a key.”
“Really? And who gave it to you?” Vivian hesitated, biting down on her tongue.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m a journalist. There’s no such thing as too long a story. I’ve listened to politicians ramble for hours about how they’ve single-handedly paved the way for civilization. I can spare the time to hear your story. After all, I think you owe me an explanation if you wish to continue living in Vesely Manor.”
“Fair enough. Where should I begin?”
“You called me the other night, asking about the girl who disappeared—Krista LaCroix. You were never a classmate of Krista’s, were you?”
“No, sorry.”
“Then why did you ask about her? Morbid curiosity?”
“I don’t exactly make a habit of calling journalists late at night to inquire about murders.”
Camilla folded her arms, waiting for Vivian to elaborate.
“Okay, I’m not a friend or classmate of Krista. I’m not some voyeuristic freak who takes an interest in disappearances. I’m a prostitute.”
She savored the shock that lanced across Camilla’s face. Her pleasure veered toward regret in an instant, recalling her cruel descent from a shy school girl to a streetwalker.
“I never anticipated doing anything like this with my life. Hurting people for their money. I always wanted to attend college for nursing, but I had to pay for it out of my own pocket. I turned to stripping for an easy way out. I’m sure you can imagine the pride my parents felt when they found out. Mom and Dad wanted to send me to a special program for sex victims.”
Vivian shivered against the clawed wind that plucked at her clothes.
“You specialized in pain and pleasure?” Camilla asked.
“Not my proudest moment, I know. But I learned early on that the only way to survive is to offer something no one else will. One night, I took it too far.”
She shook her head in disgust, begging the images to depart her brain.
“I couldn’t tell you exactly what happened that night. I don’t remember if I was high or not, but I was dealing with a customer. Before I knew it, he was bleeding to death on the streets. I don’t recall hurting him, but I must have. A detective named Nikolai witnessed the whole fucking thing and arrested me for attempted murder. I don’t even know how I was capable of inflicting that kind of damage to a person. I’m not completely sure what stopped Nikolai from throwing me in prison with the rest of the trash. Maybe he took some twisted pity on me or his ears perked up when I said I would do anything. In a matter of minutes, I handed my life over to him as an informant. You’ve probably known longer than me that several young women have vanished in Prague. Nikolai wants me to find out…”
She bit her tongue. Should she divulge the horrifying truth about the victims? Camilla absentmindedly licked her lips, eager to sink her teeth into whatever crumbs of information Vivian could provide.
“…He wants me to find out what’s happening to these women.”
“Believe me, Vivian, the police know what’s happening. Either Nikolai is lying to your face or you’re lying to me.”
Vivian hardly expected such boldness from a tame girl. It took her a moment to bounce back from the accusation.
“You’re afraid to tell me, aren’t you?”
“Camilla, you have to understand the kind of position I’m in. I’m standing on a razor’s edge right now. Nikolai forbid me from telling anyone.”
“Under these circumstances, I think you owe me an explanation.”
“Damn it! I don’t have a choice! I never asked to chase down these missing women. If I don’t do as Nikolai says, I’m condemning myself to prison!” Flustered, she leaned her arms on the bridge and dropped her head into her hands. Why did everyone demand so much of her?
She just wanted to go home and forget about this entire ordeal.
Camilla’s voice sounded gentler now.
“You still haven’t told me what brought you here.”
“Nikolai gave me a key to Vesely Manor. I suppose he thought I could stay here unnoticed.”
“So… you’re doing all of this in the hopes you can return to school?”
“This may be my only chance to piece my life back together.” She gazed into the Sea of Fire as if to catch a glimpse of her future. Camilla’s eyes met hers in the misty reflection. Vivian was hardly expecting the smile on her face.
“What?”
“Not many people would go to such lengths to redeem themselves.”
“Redemption? That’s pretty dramatic,” she scoffed.
“I really mean it. You might be surprised how many people give up on themselves… or one another.” The silence hung between them as they leaned over the bridge. The candlelight wavered mysteriously. “To be perfectly honest, I never finished high school.”
“But how did you get a job as a journalist?”
“Sheer luck. I showed some promise with an article I submitted about abuse in orphanages. Then my phone rang one morning and the editor in chief wanted to have a little chat.”
“It must be nice to work legally.”
“Prostitution is only illegal in certain districts. That being said, you didn’t choose the right place to ply your, um… trade.”
“Yeah, well… how is journalism treating you?”
“It’s an exciting job, but it’s just enough to get by.”
“I see…”
The candlelight hissed out.
“What’s it like?” Camilla asked. “To be a prostitute?”
Vivian expected a recorder to materialize in her hand. She smiled.
“There’s not much of a difference between a whore and a journalist. You sell yourself for whatever you can get.”
* * *
Nikolai peered through the rain-spattered windshield, resting his palms on the wheel. Imagery from the autopsy lingered in his mind like the bitter aftertaste of cheap wine. He was glad to be rid of the medical examiner’s office, but his destination did not enthrall him either.
Only an empty house awaited him at the end of the gnarled road paved with leaves. Some of the rooms inside remained shut for years now, sealing away a part of his past too painful to revisit.
He rarely ventured beyond the sanctity of his bedroom or study. Occasionally, he would explore the kitchen and try his hand at cooking meager meals, but he often strayed to the nearest diner for a hot meal and idle conversation with women.
He barely suffered any human contact since the first of many homicide reports crossed his desk. The LaCroix investigation had become his mistress, jolting him from sleep, demanding every fraction of his attention, leaving him an empty husk of a man. In some ways, he invested more devotion to this case than any previous marriage. But like every relationship, it took its venomous toll. In Nikolai’s case, that toll arrived at midnight.
Trudging into his house, he poured himself a glass of Becherovka. It glowed enticingly like stray embers flickering in a green void. Is this what he was reduced to? Solace in a bottle?
In truth, there were more degenerate reasons that made him lift the glass to his lips.
It seemed to be the only thing that drowned out her voice. The musical chime of his daughter’s laughter. Nikolai reclined in a buttery leather chair. Sometimes he still imagined he could see her skipping down the hall. Emily’s brown hair would flutter behind her as she disappeared around the corner. He could see her so vividly that sometimes he swore she was still alive.
The awful truth remained that she had been taken from him. And there was no way of bringing her back. He threw back his head and the liquor burned all the way down.
* * *
Camilla gracefully swept away from the bridge as thunder bellowed from the pregnant skies.
“I could take you on a tour of the manor, if you haven’t already explored it from top to bottom.”
Rain pecked Vivian on the cheek and she looked up at the puffy clouds. They grumbled malevolently, urging her to seek shelter behind those ancient walls.
“Sure, why not? You don’t seem like the psychopathic killer type, so I should be fine.” Tha
t comment set Camilla back on her heels.
“How would you know if I’m dangerous or not?”
“You’re a journalist, for God’s sake! What are you going to do? Club me with your recorder?” Vivian laughed.
“I’m not helpless, if that’s what you’re suggesting—” Camilla abandoned that thought as lightning slashed the sky. “You and I will continue this conversation later.”
Weaving through the statues, they ducked inside the entrance.
Needles of rain pounced on the manor. Vivian had always enjoyed the sound of rain and the sky’s fury as a teenager. Seething storms offered her the perfect excuse to cuddle up in bed with a mystery novel and a gigantic teddy bear.
Now the lash of wind and rain heralded another kind of feeling: abandonment. Her body and soul had been forsaken to the elements of the city. Even the cold rain had leaked through the ceiling in her old apartment, kissing her fingertips and waking her from childhood dreams. At least the new roof over her head repelled the storms that crashed over Prague.
Vivian turned her attention to a large, vintage portrait on the wall. The aristocratic woman wore her pride with pearls and jet gleaming in the dark tresses of her hair. A lynx pelt draped across her creamy arm, the animal’s eyes replaced with sumptuous rubies and diamonds. Rolling valleys faded under the cloak of night behind the woman, setting the tone for a seductive moon in the fractured clouds.
She bore the same grimacing expression that scarred so many people’s faces in early paintings. Her feline, amber eyes were so life-like that they could skewer her soul. Sometimes she wondered if people were incapable of smiling centuries ago or if some illness froze their mouths in perpetual scowls.
“Were her lips sewn shut?”
“Lady Danica Vesely wasn’t known for her smile,” Camilla chuckled, proudly flashing one of her own. “She did, however, establish one of the first Magdalene asylums in Europe.”