“And the chance to become a vampire?”
Charles gave me another sharp look. “My, you do know a lot, don’t you? What else did Isaiah tell you?”
“It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. When I was catering that art exhibit at the Muse, I remembered what you’d said about the ‘lifetime achievement award.’ So I kind of put two and two together.” He continued to glare, and my heart beat a little faster. “That’s what you wanted from Hedda, isn’t it? And what you asked Victor for last night? But they both turned you down.”
“I see you have it all figured out.” Charles’s lips twisted angrily as he regarded the 16 Voices script. “That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? It’s not the crappy script. It’s the chance to become one of them.”
“No!” Horrified, I nearly shouted the word.
“Then you’re an idiot.” Charles crushed out his cigarette on the scarred tabletop and immediately lit another. “Do you have any idea what it would be like to live forever? To have the power they have? The money? The influence?”
Instead of answering, I asked, “Why did Hedda change Luquin instead of you?”
I wasn’t sure he’d answer, but he said, “Luquin’s been with her only half as long as I have, but his soul’s already drained down to the dregs.” An interesting answer considering that a few nights before he’d claimed that Hedda passed him over because she didn’t trust him. “Because Luquin was so close to becoming rogue, Hedda either had to kill him or change him.” Charles spoke with blood-curdling indifference.
“What about your soul?”
He thumped his chest. “Strong as ever.”
There had to be something to his boasting. He didn’t have Luquin’s empty eyes, or Geoffrey’s sense of defeat.
“So turning Luquin into a vampire was like a retirement present?” I asked. When Charles shrugged and nodded, I added, “Personally, I would have preferred a gold watch.”
“Well, here’s my goddamned gold watch.” Charles clamped his cigarette between his teeth and picked up Victor’s script. “By the middle of the first act, half the audience will be asleep in their seats, and the other half will be storming the stage with torches and pitchforks.”
“Like I keep saying, 16 Voices is incredible,” I argued.
“You don’t believe that!”
“Well, parts of it are incredible,” I amended. I thought back to the schizophrenic nature of the play. Just like with his outlandish staging, Victor had tried to build his play into something bigger and bigger by adding more and more characters. Unfortunately, all he’d done was bury the quality work under layers of dreck.
Charles curled his upper lip. “Don’t be ridiculous; this play is crap. In fact, it proves that vampires cannot produce art. They can try all they want, but without souls of their own, they’re only pretending. Only humans are truly creative.”
A sudden epiphany made me sit upright. “I’ll bet that Victor wrote some of the play – the good parts – when he was human, and added the absurd stuff after he became a vampire.”
Charles snorted. “The good parts. As if there are any good parts in this thing.” He held the lit end of his cigarette to a corner of the script. “I should do the world a favor and burn it.”
“Burn it!?”
I shrieked in alarm and nearly fell out of my chair. I’d never heard the playwright coming. One moment I was talking to Charles alone in the empty theater. The next, Victor was at my elbow.
Charles paled. He dropped the script and quickly stubbed out his cigarette. He tried to smile, but his eyes were wide with terror. “Victor! I was just telling Cassandra…”
The vampire snarled and grabbed Charles around the neck, lifting him up so high that his feet no longer touched the floor. “I should do the world a favor and destroy you!” Victor’s fangs lengthened until they curled over his lower lip.
“Stop it!” I begged. “Please!”
Charles clawed at Victor’s hand. His feet kicked madly, sending one of his loafers flying.
“Victor!” I grabbed the vampire’s arm, pulling with all my strength. He didn’t even blink.
“Who are you to judge my work?” Victor shook Charles until his head snapped back and forth, his vertebrae cracking like knuckles. Desperate, guttural sounds came from the director’s throat. “I am an artist!” Victor shouted. “It’s my work that judges YOU!!”
I clamped my hands over my ears. The last word rang throughout the theater as if it had been amplified by the speaker system.
Charles’s hands had slowed their frantic clawing, and his eyes were glazing. I sobbed out his name before remembering my necklace. As I fumbled for the silver cross, Victor gave Charles a final shake and let him drop. Charles, gasping for breath, landed in a heap on the floor.
Victor’s eyes flashed red. “The only thing saving your life today is Hedda’s affection for you, but if you ever set foot in Stuyvesant territory, I’ll flay you alive and smile while I do it. Now, get out.”
Charles scrambled on his hands and knees before regaining his feet. He fled the theater so quickly that he knocked over several chairs.
Victor slowly turned to me, his red eyes pinning me where I stood. The theater exits seemed miles away. There was no way I could make it out the door before he caught me.
“What do you think of my play?” His voice was like mercury: smooth but deadly.
My voice trembled. “I like it.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Victor slammed his hands on the table, splitting it down the center.
I swallowed, trying to coax saliva into my dry mouth. “I’m not lying.”
His razor-sharp expression didn’t change.
Although I was taking the biggest risk imaginable, I said, “I like it, but…” When he leaned closer, I covered my neck with my hands, feeling a rapid pulse beating beneath my fingertips. “…but it could be a whole lot better.”
He twitched. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell whether it was an ‘I’m going to kill you’ twitch or a ‘you have my attention’ twitch.
Hoping for the latter, I scrambled to explain. “There are too many voices, and that ruins the play. The noise from the bad voices drowns out the story. If you cut out the weak parts, you can showcase the good ones.”
The fact that I was still alive built my confidence, so I kept talking. “There are six really amazing characters. Those are the ones whose stories need to be told.” The script had fallen to the floor when Victor broke the table, and I reached for it without dropping my eyes from his. I flipped to the page listing the cast of characters. “See, each of those six parts works together to tell one, overall story.” I pointed to the ones circled in red. “But with these others in the way, the audience will never see how they fit together.”
Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, I filled him in on my plan. My excitement overrode my terror. The crystal’s energy re-ignited, setting my passion on fire once more. I didn’t have to pretend to love his play because I truly did love it. I explained about editing and changing the order of some of the dialogue. I raved about V5 and the powerful scene at the end where she decides to keep her baby, and V3 when he leaves his letter to his wife under her pillow.
When, finally, I had finished laying out my proposal, I nervously cleared my throat and brushed my bangs out of my face. “Well, what do you think?”
He didn’t move, but something flickered behind his eyes.
“Victor?”
“My God,” he said softly. “You are…” He closed his eyes. “Brilliant.”
I let out my breath. Now that Victor’s temper had fled, I once again saw the pompous playwright rather than the bloodthirsty vampire. Today, Victor dressed in a black, puffy pirate-style shirt paired with skin-tight leather pants tucked into red buccaneer boots. He’d also dyed his hair jet black with blue highlights and wore heavy black eyeliner and a shark’s tooth necklace. I smiled, amused.
When he opened his eyes, however, there was nothing laughable
about his expression.
He was hungry.
His fangs had retracted, but his lips curled in a terribly, toothy smile that reminded me of crocodiles and rabid dogs. “You are stunning, Cassandra.” He was breathless with awe. “In fact, you’re brighter than any woman I’ve ever seen.”
With horror, I realized that when he’d said I was ‘brilliant’, he didn’t mean I was smart. No, he was referring to the brightness of my soul.
Martin Nowicki came into the theater holding a sheaf of papers. “Here’s the financial reports you wanted, and just like I said, Mercury Hall does make a good profit.” He sounded smug.
Victor didn’t look away from me. “Get out.”
Martin frowned at the papers. “Of course, I doubt you’ll be happy. You seem to think we’re not pulling in enough business, but as I keep telling you…”
Victor’s head jerked around. “I said get out! NOW!!”
Martin immediately beat a hasty retreat to the lobby.
Certain that I was about to become the vampire’s next meal, I grabbed for the silver necklace. I could only hope it worked as well on him as it had on the rogue behind the Bleak Street. To my amazement, however, Victor’s sharp-eyed glare softened. He regarded me with wonder, as if I was a rare and delicate artifact he’d turned up in a garbage can. “You obviously know what I am.”
I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.
“Cassandra, please relax.” Although the vampire was now all charm and courtesy, my inner alarm bells were ringing loudly. Somehow, his good mood seemed more dangerous than his bad one. I wished I’d taken my own advice and smeared myself with garlic butter. “You needn’t be afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid.” I took two steps towards the doors. The nerves at the base of my spine tightened into a fist. My body shuddered with the effort it took to remain in control. “I just need to leave now. That’s all.” I wished my heart wouldn’t pound so hard. Every vampire in the city must have heard it.
He followed me step for step. “Please stay. Your ideas are marvelous.”
“I really can’t today.” The fist of nerves tightened further. I had to remind myself to breathe.
“Why do I have the feeling that once you step through that door you won’t be coming back?”
The greed in Victor’s eyes chilled my blood. I lunged for the door, but he moved like lightening to block the exit. When I whimpered, he hushed me gently, like a mother calming her child. “I’d never harm you. In fact, I want to offer you something amazing.” I squeaked out a protest, but he interrupted me. “It’s not what you think. I need a very small part of you, and in return, I will you so much!”
I grabbed my necklace and held it out. “Get back!”
He yanked my arm downward, snapping the thin chain. Vice-like pressure on my wrist forced my fingers to flex. The cross dropped to the floor. “We don’t need that,” he said.
He drew closer. “Please, beautiful Cassandra. Listen to what I have to say.” With one finger, he reached out and stroked my neck.
At his touch, horrible memories of the dark Cipher stage resurged. My knees buckled, and the world blacked out.
Chapter Fourteen
“He swears she’s regained her shine.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Nor do I, but he was certain.”
Slowly, I rose from the murky depths of unconsciousness. Afraid to give myself away, I kept my eyes closed and my breathing even. With my fingertips, I explored the hard surface on which I lay. Not a bed, but a table of some sort, covered in felt. The room had the cold, dank feel of a basement, and my nose twitched at the smell of mildew. Two voices, one smooth and one as raspy as a dying woman’s last gasp, argued in a corner. Hedda and Marcella.
“He also wants her to direct his play,” Hedda said.
“It’s no longer a play. He’s changing it into a musical.” Marcella’s grating voice was bitter. “Charles says he’s doing it to mock me.”
“You know that’s not true.” Hedda spoke gently, as if trying to soothe a child out of a temper tantrum.
“Isn’t it? Performing a musical for a woman whose voice has been stolen? Whose identity, whose soul, was ripped from her body? And I have you to thank for that.” The long silence following this was fraught with tension, like the moments between a suicidal person leaping from a building to the sickening thud he made when landing.
When Hedda finally spoke, her words were so quiet I had strain to hear. “Please, my love,” she begged. “I’ve told you a thousand times how sorry I am. I was only trying to save your life!”
“You can apologize a thousand more, but it won’t make any difference!” Marcella’s fury turned my blood to ice. “My voice is gone forever.”
“If I could change it, I would. I’d do anything for you. You know that.”
“Really? Then get rid of Victor. I want him gone now!” Marcella dropped her voice. “You should have let me get rid of him when I had the chance.”
“Don’t say that! Not even in jest.”
“I’m not joking. We both know that he’s not here because of any damn play.” There was a soft whisper of fabric against fabric. “You could get Isaiah to kill him for you. You’d have no blood on your hands.”
I fought to keep my breathing even and my fingers from clenching. It wasn’t enough to ruin Isaiah’s life, Marcella wanted him to do her dirty work as well. If only I had a stake!
Hedda hushed her. “You know I should turn you over to the Stuyvesants for even saying such a thing,” she murmured. “It’s treason.”
“You’d never turn against me, my love.” The last two words carried a sour whiff of irony. “Would you?”
When both women fell silent, I risked slitting my eyes open. To my embarrassment, the vampires were entwined in a passionate kiss. That explained why Marcella was Hedda’s favorite, and why I couldn’t go after her.
The room’s mustiness finally caught up with me, and I sneezed explosively. The women broke apart as I sneezed again.
So much for pretending to be unconscious. I sat up, realizing I’d been lying on a dealer table. Blackjack, as a matter of fact. To my surprise, I wasn’t in a subterranean vampire dungeon, but some kind of gaming room. Blue velvet drapes covered the walls. A long, leather-padded bar filled one side of the room, and a small stage and parquet dance floor took up the other. Green-glass lamps hung above several pool tables. “Where am I?” I asked.
“Under Mercury Hall,” Hedda said. “Are you familiar with the term ‘blind pig’?”
“Isn’t that where they used to sell alcohol during Prohibition?”
Her smile widened. “Very good. At one time, people from all over the city came here to drink and gamble.” She ran her hand lovingly over the wooden edge of the gaming table. “It was quite popular back in its day.”
The musty room needed a good airing, but it was elegant in a Roaring Twenties kind of way. “It’s actually nicer than upstairs,” I said.
“I believe you’re right. Martin thinks the grungy look suits the younger clientele better, but I prefer more sophisticated surroundings.”
I swung my legs over the table, and carefully felt my neck. To my relief, there were no raised lumps, nor was I plagued by queasy, light-headed feeling I’d had at the Cipher. Apparently, Victor hadn’t fed on me.
Marcella, who had remained silent during our exchange, stood at the end of the bar with her back to me. Her black hair had been left naturally curly, but gathered in an elegant up-do that exposed her graceful neck. The lacy bodice of her red peignoir dropped low between her shoulder blades, and her legs were covered with yards of filmy material. The effect was both old-fashioned and sexy.
“If you need me, I’ll be in my room,” Marcella said flatly. Keeping her back to me, she swept one of the blue curtains aside and disappeared behind it. Hedda’s mouth tightened at her lover’s rudeness, but I was glad. If Marcella had faced me, I couldn’t have hidden my hatred.
Relieved that
Marcella was no longer in the room, I moved from the dealer’s table to one of the padded barstools. Hedda took a seat at one of the lower tables. “So you were the stage manager for County Dracula,” she said. When I nodded, she smiled. “Tell me, what do you think of my little Bleak Street Theatre?”
“I love it,” I said. “It’s beautiful and elegant.” It also had the power to restore my shine. Not that I would tell her. “They don’t build places like that anymore.”
“Indeed they don’t,” she agreed. “The chandelier alone took two years to construct. It cost me thousands, and that was back in 1833. It’s called a five-tiered wedding cake chandelier because it looks like an upside down wedding cake. I think it was worth every penny, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Definitely.”
Her eyes grew distant. “In its glory days, the Bleak drew crowds in the thousands. Getting tickets required months of planning. We did eight shows a week.”
“Eight!” My head ached to think of what the stage manager’s job must have been like.
“It’s hard to imagine now, isn’t it?” She smiled sadly. “Once talkies became popular, live theater attendance dropped to half of what it had been. Nowadays, I worry that theater is a dying art.” Her expression clouded even more. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep the Bleak Street’s doors open.”
The poor ticket sales for County Dracula had made me worry about the same thing. “Maybe it’s the plays.” Since we were growing friendlier, I risked being more candid. After all, honesty had worked with Victor. “I mean, County Dracula? The Scent of Ketchup? The titles alone are enough to drive away audiences.”
Hedda stiffened. “You didn’t like them?”
“Some of County Dracula wasn’t too bad. But The Scent of Ketchup? Seriously?”
She didn’t move, but if looks could kill, I’d just witnessed my own murder. “I wrote that play,” she said.
Oh. Shit.
I put my hand to my neck, already feeling the tear of her fangs. One, repetitious prayer played in my head: Please oh please oh please, don’t let her kill me!! “I didn’t see it,” I confessed. “I shouldn’t judge a play by its title.”
Stage Fright (Bit Parts) Page 15
