by Addison Cain
“You’re not listening to me!” And that had to be part of the torment. Those kind eyes so full of pity as I paced and told my story day in and day out. “I’ve been locked away. There was this book full of entries written in my hand. A box full of notes about demons and hell.”
“You were released from the sanitarium, into the care of your husband and his staff. He loves you, and he’s concerned, which is why I was called upon. You’re very much alive, and though not many may find Manhattan to be heaven, it is a far cry from hell. At least for most.”
Pointing—the glass of my windows bright with morning sun, where people walked in multitudes, where I watched them in utter confusion for days—I cried, “This is not the right world!”
Where were the slender cracked roads and cable cars? Everything from my view was paved and shiny. My eyes took it in with such precision, despite the fact that this room loomed high over the city. Women wore trousers! Men failed to make way for them. Nothing, at least the room that was slowly turning into an odd amalgamation of this new world and my former apartment, smelled like cheap cologne or piss.
“You have the influence to change the world. Wealth beyond measure. The donation made to the diocese will go far to rebuild crumbling churches, extend community outreach. This world is not right, I agree. Change it.”
“You don’t understand what I’m saying…” Because he would not listen. According to him, Vampires weren’t real; there was no desecrated church at the heart of the city filled with evil.
And I was falling for kind, brown eyes. The soft tenor of a patient holy man. One who had offered absolution, the Eucharist, the blood of Christ. I was falling for the trickery.
Because this was hell.
“Father Patrick, I think it’s time for you to leave.”
I knew he used the door, as I could see him holding it for our guest, but I had been so frustrated, so distracted, that I failed to notice just who had come into my room. Rocking back in my chair, out of it so quickly it toppled, I was at the window, wringing my hands, desperately trying not to look directly at the father of evil.
“Ahh, Vlad. Good morning to you.” The older clergyman stood, shuffling toward the door. Pausing to add, “We’ve read through more of the book of John. She had questions I’ve yet to address. Considering your theology expertise, perhaps you can enjoy a discussion together on John’s finer points.”
“Noted.” Vladislov gestured toward the door, polite yet brooking no refusal. “Leave.”
Not once had the priest questioned such rudeness. It seemed much more than daily prayer could be bought for whatever sum the diocese enjoyed at Vladislov’s expense.
Rebuilding churches.
When the door clicked shut and it was just the two of us, he offered a smile. One I could feel, for I still only showed him half my face and tried my best not to look.
He spoke aloud to my private thoughts. “The catholic faiths do love their glitter. I agree the fortune should be spent on the message, not the architecture where limp men try not to ogle the patrons.”
Dry lips parting, I dared to defend. “Celibacy keeps the heart close to God.”
“But my heart is here.” Fingers carded through my hair, the length cut as short as it had been my last night at the Super Club selling cigarettes. Bobbed and angled to land with a sweep at my cheek. A comforting familiar thing in a world of absolute strangeness.
Such as how the man could cross a room so quickly I had not seen him move.
I used to scramble, in those first days when he’d touch me. Cower and cry. I used to feel a heartbeat of pain between my legs, recalling what a demon had done to me in a room Father Patrick had sworn never existed. A room I would understand if only I would keep taking my medication.
Now, I just froze and waited for torment.
In its place, I got a kiss. One on the top of my head. A kiss and a soliloquy. “The book of John was actually written by a woman. When the Christian biblical canon was compiled—the various known gospels sorted through—only four were chosen to tell the message and story that best suited a clear agenda. Her name was stricken, and John was given credit in her place. Isn’t that fascinating? The account of the disciple who loved your Jesus the most was written by his wife. Which brings me back to the topic of celibacy. He was not celibate.”
I could feel myself splitting down the middle already. “Please.”
He took my hand in his, the hand of a man. Veins upon the back, large and warm. Not burning-hot, coal-black inferno.
In place of talons were trimmed nails.
But I knew what he was underneath.
“Would you prefer I came to you that way?” The whisper at my ear was intimate, unwelcome, and sent a shiver down my spine.
Quick to answer, breath left my lips. “No.”
“Why won’t you look upon me then?”
The father of lies could manipulate his voice in such a way that it stirred me to act. That I felt his longing as if it were honest.
Up went my gaze.
He wore his hair long, in ordered waves any woman would covet. Though handsome, his face was also not. A strange combination of desirable and forgettable. His eyes….
Hooking a finger under my chin, gently encouraging, he murmured, “There’s my daring queen.”
I burned, thoroughly, inside and out. Felt it so much deeper than just the flush that ran from my chest to my roots. Those eyes….
“You are safe with me. Safe enough to muster the courage to step outside that door and eat your breakfast at the table… in my presence.”
And somehow we were already moving, my sandaled feet walking over the rug, though it felt I left my mind behind me. Still lingering at the window, staring down at a world one hundred years past anything I knew.
Until I was at that window. As if I had always been there.
And Vladislov stood at my door, looking down at his empty hand with an open blend of delight and disappointment playing across his brow. “Utterly remarkable.”
Grinning, his attention dragged from his hand straight to where I stood. “Well then, this changes a great deal. So, I apologize in advance.”
Before I might shriek or rally, before I could even begin to understand how I had gone from one place to another in the blink of an eye, he bore down on me. A wave of indescribable power that scorched all it touched, stole my air, and then retreated.
Prickles of ice stole over what had been burnt. What I imagined had been the stink of sulfur teasing my nose with a distinctive crispness.
Pine.
Snow.
Mountains at my feet and a dimming sky overhead setting a distant lake to glitter.
“How?” My breath steamed, a puff that dissipated on a breeze.
“Easy now.” Arms came around my middle, steadying a body too cold and too stunned. Warming me with brimstone fire. “Why eat breakfast there, when we can enjoy ourselves here?” Lips came to my ear. “And just so we’re clear. If you try to mist away from me, I will follow. Can’t have my sweet darling wondering the world all alone. You never know just what might try to gobble you up.”
There was a very clear threat in his growl, the beast closer to the surface than the skin of a man he wore to fool the world.
What was there to say when the air was so cold breathing was growing difficult.
To the sound of rending cloth, the size of what stood at my back transformed. Moments later, wings enfolded.
Shivering ceased. A cocoon of vileness tightening as if to deepen the embrace.
“Maya was to serve as your breakfast, followed with some fresh coffee and a scone. She was overjoyed at the opportunity, has feasted upon female virgins for days so her blood would bear a fruity roundness.” The beast at my back chuckled. “I know, excessive for a breakfast. I can’t imagine what she’ll plan should I ever ask her to provide your dinner.”
Nuzzling into my neck, the feel of his cracked, searing skin somehow velvet soft with artic air to cool him, h
e purred, “But I will always be your dinner. And maybe tonight, you’ll be brave enough to do more than sip me from a crystal goblet?”
Under those membranous wings, massive hands of fire moved up and down my arms. “Maybe you’ll sip from a fingertip, my wrist. When you’re truly daring, I’ll give you free rein of my throat.”
After each private morning mass, a priest told me my ravings were due to a condition. That no sin lay on my soul, that my confessions were delusions soon to be rectified by my faith in God’s goodness, mercy, and medication. He left, and medication was delivered. Blood. Served on a silver platter in an ornate goblet.
Utterly irresistible, I swallowed it down in great gulps. And felt full, healthy, confused at my inability to fight so deep a craving once my eyes or nose were tickled with what waited on that gleaming platter.
Then I spent my day with a talkative devil in the guise of a man. Who I tried to ignore, since pleading had gotten me nothing but a lemon cake topped with raspberries covered in black blood.
An odd combination I had practically torn from his hands in my physical inability to refrain.
Thinking of that cake now…
Gums tingling, I felt the part of me that brought the most shame try and fail to lengthen. The thoughts of blood, of blood that didn’t come from rats or make me vomit, left my mouth to water.
Laughter moved from the beast into me, more of those stroking hands, my body rigid and famished.
“The cake was brilliant on my part. You’ve thought of it so often I was concerned it might be some time before I’d be able to impress you so greatly again. But now… my sweet soul has developed a new talent much more quickly than I anticipated, leaving me with endless ideas.”
Heaven, help me.
“Would you like to stay, enjoy the view… with a drizzle of black blood on top?” He was ever the tempter, and I smelled a drop of blood bloom in that icy air, unsure which part of him had been pricked. But certain I was being toyed with. “Or would you prefer to dine on Marquita, back home, at the table?”
The option of remaining sequestered in my room was not offered.
Yet before I might choose, a thumb dragged over my lips. Chilled cheek cupped in the palm of a monster, I tasted eternity. And opened my mouth for more.
The devil always won in hell. I was learning that daily.
Sucking his fingers because there was no resisting such flavor, his groan weakened my knees.
By the time I was full, sleepy, and drawn into unnatural serenity, I found my legs hooked over his arm, my ear to a chest of cracked pitch. Cradled. Like the heroes did in films once the actress swooned.
Warmed by wings that ended in hooked talons so sharp there was no denying they could tear through flesh.
And I began to burn, engulfed in flame for the split second it took for the mountains and ice to vanish and for my room to form around us. There hadn’t even been time to scream, and already my skin had mended.
But my clothes were badly scorched. And Vladislov’s? His were hanging from his human form in tatters.
“How would you feel about a party?” All smiles, he clapped his hands as if he struck upon the perfect idea. “Tonight! Yes, rest now. I’ll handle everything. And I promise you, no corny shopping montage will be included.”
And he poofed away, like a puff of smoke, leaving the scent of pine and firewood.
Falling flat on my rump, I stared at that spot that moments before held the shape of a man, certain I was completely insane… or he was.
4
Pearl
It looked like some movie prop dagger. Curved, the ivory handle etched with figures worn down by ages of handling. Old.
Brandishing the weapon like a dinner knife, a blade gently tapped the goblet of a chilled glass of white wine. Which, considering I’d been told to expect the toast, startled me to the point I twitched.
And then blushed in embarrassment when every pair of eyes in the room darted to and from me so quickly it almost seemed imagined.
The party’s host, Vladislov, greeted his—or as he continued to remind me, our—collected guests with a smile. “Welcome to our little soiree. As each of you has been given explicit instructions addressing the theme of tonight’s fun, I will not insult you with a repetition of the rules. Only to say this. If anyone touches or so much as brushes up against my bride, I will end you and your entire bloodline.” Jolly, completely unconcerned with the level of violence just threatened, his smile grew. “Are we clear?”
Cheers came as if such an insane declaration only enhanced the drama and pleasure of the handful of vampires in attendance.
“To Pearl!” A man bearing silvered hair and a thin moustache raised his glass—one filled with a far more viscous red liquid.
And cheers arose, my plain name sung as if in praise.
These creatures were as crazy as their king, holding up crystal goblets full of pungent blood. As the only person in the room who ate or drank food, as a Daywalker, what they drank would make me ill. And what I drank was done in private.
Servants in black-tie, tails, each bearing a platter with a single hors d'oeuvre, entered, leaving Vladislov to amend his singular warning with another. “If any of you try to eat any of the special treats for my Pearl, you won’t care for those consequences either. They are not for you, no matter how tempted you may be.”
How often did this man threaten to kill his friends?
Again, no open animosity on the faces of the twenty or so gathered in the apartment’s grand room. Only attentiveness as they looked me over, as they lightly chatted and touched one another a great deal. A brush of the arm, a peck on the cheek.
A staged production where every last player was dressed as if they were patrons of the finest club from the 1920s. The ladies: beaded gowns. The gentlemen: starched waistcoats, white bowties, satin lapels in perfectly tailored tuxedos. The music, coming from a source I could not find, was no record. Instead, it was clear as if the singer sat at the empty piano seat across the room to entertain us all.
“Ahh, live music would have been a nice touch. I’m sure someone here has some talent at something.” He handed me the stemmed glass of white wine, brushing his fingertips over mine as I took it, because I needed a drink. The host, just as spectacularly dressed as the room, eased ever closer. “Olivia, the one in the red dress, dear. She was some kind of performer a decade here or there, though I have no idea if she was even awake during the 1920s.”
“The music is fine.” This whole charade was already too much.
I was even wearing a dress so exquisite I’d been nervous just to put it on. Nervous of leaving my strange room. Or standing next to Lucifer—
“My name, darling, was never Lucifer. And as much as I am trying not to be insulted, considering the situation, I really…” He paused, rubbed his thin lips together, and chose his next words as if they were foreign on his tongue. “I really beg that you think of me as Vladislov. Or anything kinder than comparing me to that prick.” For good measure, and while tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he added—as if infinitely proud of himself, “Please.”
And the room was enraptured.
“I, um.” I put the glass of wine to my lips and drank, fortified by cool, crisp nectar of the gods. “I um, don’t know how you…”
How he kept reading my thoughts as if such a thing were natural.
And in my distraction between wine, embarrassment, nerves, and general sense of being completely overwhelmed, I allowed him to grasp my fingers and bring my knuckles to his lips for a kiss.
“I have many talents, as do you. As do my guests this evening. Normal talents you’ll navigate beautifully with a little practice.” Flicking his fingers, he summoned a servant bearing a beautiful tray with a single treat on top. “Canape?”
“Vladislov.” I’m not sure if I had ever spoken his name before.
I couldn’t do this. Be here with demons playing dress-up, who I had been told would be dining in their usual style
when humans were brought in for sampling later.
“Deep breath. Drink your wine. Look at me.” The orders were effortless. The way he subtly squeezed my fingers, familiar.
Those eyes….
Lifting the snack from the tray, he held it to my lips. “So long as I am with you, my soul, there is nothing ever to fear.”
I ate, unsure what a canape was. I ate from the hands of Luci—
“Vladislov.” With a wink, he smirked. “We’ll work on it.”
Acidic tomatoes, something savory I couldn’t place. The flavors on my tongue paired with the wine and left gooseflesh on my arms, because a drop or two of the host's blood brought all the culinary glory together. Almost as delicious as the various immortal blood vintages I had been served over the weeks.
Probably from the very donors in this room.
“You look lovely, Pearl. The most beautiful woman ever to walk the earth. And I would know,” he added with a chuckle. “I’ve walked it for ages. Never thought I’d be quite so pleased to be robbing the cradle.”
Men only gave compliments when they wanted something, most likely to lure a girl into sex.
“As much as I would love to lure you into bed, that was not my goal in the praise. I love you and simply cannot help myself.”
Bed? The last memory I had of a man taking me to bed was so utterly awful the canape was about to come up.
Like a snap of fingers in my mind, what was in one instant horrible and so real I could smell the damp of the cell and feel the burn between my legs, was gone. Just gone.
“Now that, I will stop. I’d rather not fiddle where too much has already been done, but no thoughts of that nature will ruin your party.”
The book. The journal. All the entries and explanations of a mind wiped clean each day.
Another mental snap.
“Not tonight, Pearl. All of this can be discussed tomorrow. Tonight, be in the present. Get to know your kind. Feel safe.”
And instantly, I did.
Contrition was in his voice, in his countenance. “I apologize. Really, I’d prefer not to, but you require a bit more than handholding to progress into our future.”
