I just needed to know when to go there. I figured it would be nightfall, I told Ballard, before–– But Lennox surprised me again. I turned and he was standing on my balcony; I motioned for him to get inside. It was morning, after all. What was he thinking?
“The streets are so narrow and the buildings so high,” he said, “I can move around unless it’s midday.” He looked at the map on my wall. I had forgotten I had put it there.
“I’m e-mailing Ballard,” I said.
“Have him meet us at my house in half an hour,” said Lennox. He went to the map and poked around on it with his fingertip, then caught sight of the iron roses, and my bed.
I was behind him. “You don’t have to rush in and out when you come here,” I said. “I like it when you visit me. In fact, you don’t visit me hardly enough.” It was true and I felt good saying it.
I felt like we needed to confess certain things to each other.
I pulled a multicolored tack out of my desk drawer, and said, “I’m here,” and put it into the map where my room was located. “You can visit me anytime.”
“That gives me an idea,” he said, ignoring this. I pretended to be hurt; I wanted him to touch me.
Instead, I went to the bathroom and got dressed in jeans and boots, because I didn’t know what we were going to be doing, and I put on a T-shirt that said ‘bella’ on it, which meant ‘beautiful girl.’
I wished he would see me for who I was, who I could be, with him. Which was his.
When I came out, he noticed me, finally. There was this heat between us; it made my breath go ragged. “You look beautiful,” he said.
“One problem. I think, if we go past my landlady, she might lock me in a convent or something. I’m not supposed to have guys in my room. She’s kind of flesh-eating.”
“That won’t be a problem,” he said. Before I knew it, he was climbing down the balcony, with me hanging on to him by my arms and legs; I buried my face into the cool of his jacket and squeezed my eyes shut. No one noticed anything. I saw what he meant. Shade was everywhere.
“Come on,” he said, and led me to his car.
This was something else I noticed for the first time. Ballard probably hadn’t seen me through the vehicle’s glass––it was entirely opaque. I was sure light couldn’t penetrate it. It reminded me of the topmost floor of Club Change. Hadn’t the third floor also been entirely non-see-through-y?
“Just a precaution,” he said, and started the engine.
Now that I had him alone, I didn’t know how to behave. I had spent half the night tossing and turning, and was suddenly uncomfortable. Had I sobered up? Would I stop thinking about a future that could never be, once the realities of it revealed themselves, by the light of day? No, I told myself. I was not prepared to end this. To end us.
“You said last night that vampires have rules. What are these rules and who enforces them?”
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” he said.
“What if I don’t care?” I said.
I played a little fantasy with myself. MTV Crypts. Like I was going into the den of a vampire and he was going to give me a tour.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping in a coffin?” I asked.
“Actually, I do sleep. But I prefer beds, not coffins. I don’t like reminders of death. I know that I’m not alive, strictly speaking, but I do not want to forsake my humanity altogether. There is nothing more against life than lying in death.”
“How old are you?”
He frowned. “Full disclosure?” he asked.
“Nothing else,” I said.
“Old. But not that old. Compared to the millennia some vampires have seen, what am I to them? However, for a vampire, I am very young, not yet...”
“What?”
“It’s difficult to explain,” he said. I squirmed with pleasure that he would even want to. “We have a rite of passage, vampires, called the Agonies. It is administered when that vampire is ready, but always before the first century.”
“What happens if you’re not... ready?” I asked.
“Do you really want to know?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“If a vampire fails to pass the Agonies, and I assume they are... that vampire is destroyed....”
“Vampires die?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it.
“Everything dies. Including the three that almost got you.”
“You killed them?”
“It’s my job,” he said.
“So what are we going to do today?” I finally asked.
He seemed to brighten somewhat––the former conversation forgotten about. “Since Ballard and you seem to be so keen to get into what I can only describe as impossibly dire peril that includes finding out about the existence of bloodsucking creatures of the night, including yours truly, I thought you could help me with a problem I have. It will need the same kind of proficiency in skullduggery, you and Ballard seem to possess in so great a quantity,” said Lennox.
“Neat,” I said.
He reached over and grabbed a device from the glove box. It happened again. When our skin touched, there was an electric pulse that shot through every fiber of my entire being.
“Whoa,” I said.
“I know.”
I looked and a huge gate was opening soundlessly before us. It led down a short stretch, to a courtyard. But that was nothing to the building. It was huge and ancient, and very Roman. It had all the trappings I associated with authentic Roman architecture, including ivy that scaled the face of it in every direction.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
I nodded. “It’s beautiful. The crumbling plaster, everything.” For all I knew, it dated back to the Renaissance; which was not atypical. And it was his.
“Actually,” he said, “it’s my friend’s. I’m just house-sitting.”
Vampires house-sit?
“This friend... She wouldn’t be a girl, would she?” I asked transparently.
“No. He’s more of a teacher, Occam.”
“Oh,” I said. Weird name.
I looked and Ballard had appeared. He saw our car. I tried rolling down the window, but it wouldn’t budge. “They don’t go down,” said Lennox. “One of my friend’s fail-safes. As much as he can, he’s made this place vamp accessible.” He honked and Ballard understood. As Ballard followed behind us, the gateway rolled back into place.
That was it. We were trapped inside, together. I nearly squee’d.
* * *
The courtyard of Lennox’s three-story mansion was filled with orange trees in the center, potted wisteria and other flowers on the outside, and had a set of stone steps that ran to the second floor, in a zigzag.
I could see the pale rosy brickwork beneath the plaster and the faded wooden walkways that ran entirely around the U-shaped interior of the courtyard. The windows were all lead glass with intricate design work. They had trefoils––arch shapes I associated with churches. From the upper levels you could see past the cypresses to Tiber Island. It was vampiric without seeming so. Understated.
Not drawing attention to himself was something I imagined Lennox found both easy and difficult. Easy, because he obviously had money, and could afford to sequester himself from the likes of me. Hard, because if he ever went out, it would be impossible for people not to notice him.
I was beginning to recognize a kind of uniform attractiveness in vampires. I had seen five so far, all of whom were definite eye candy, even the women, though it pained me to acknowledge it. Something told me Lennox could take his pick.
He was way too beautiful for me.
Ballard and he hit it off immediately, which was nice. I felt bad that I hadn’t informed Ballard of my relationship with Lennox, which was still only half formed in its outlines, but I hadn’t known there was this much to tell.
He didn’t mention it. It was not a problem. Ballard was here for me.
“Obviously, my Uncle Risky knew vampires. So did your parents,” he s
aid to me, when we had a second to ourselves. Lennox was giving us the tour.
“How about it Ballard? Do you get that vibe thing from him?” I said, pointing my chin at Lennox’s retreating back. Lennox was busy pointing at everything, showing it off.
“He points like a rude American,” said Ballard, “but I don’t get the creeps from him, no.”
It was good enough for me. “Excellent,” I said.
Finally, the tour was done. It was time to get to work.
He showed us into the huge private library on the third floor. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, in endless stacks as far as the eye could see. There were oil paintings: most of them dark and shadowy, with contents too gruesome to describe. And in the center, a huge desk filled with papers spilling out everywhere.
It looked like command central. But for what?
Without asking, Ballard went over to them, and pulled out the newspapers I had seen before. All the articles seemed to be written by the reporter, Emmanuela Skarborough.
That didn’t begin to cover the contents of Lennox’s library table. There were also pizzas and cokes. “I don’t suppose you’re hungry,” I said. I noticed Lennox popped the top off something unfamiliar looking. I finally caught a glimpse.
Blood-in-a-Cup.
“Full disclosure,” he said, seeing me eye it, and took a sip. Ballard grimaced slightly. Then a bunch of pictures of dead people spilled out of a manilla folder Ballard had opened haphazardly.
“Victims,” said Lennox, “but not from me. And that’s what we need to talk about.”
* * *
We worked all day that first day. Lennox could very succinctly state a problem, as well as enumerate the finer points, while Ballard was good with the research, and coming up with ideas. Both of them drew sensible, logical conclusions. Conclusions I did not like one iota.
“This is what we know so far,” said Lennox. A small pile of blood cups had grown up around his spot at the table. When I inquired about them, he said it was like the difference between sugar and saccharin, “A matter of taste.”
I took that to mean he didn’t drink human blood.
“This is what we know so far,” he said. “Somebody is killing people. The police are stumped, but I have a guy on the inside who says they’re drawing some interesting conclusions. Basically telling me to watch my back.”
“They think it may be vampires?” I asked.
“Precisely.”
“What do you suspect?” said Ballard.
Lennox flipped through the papers. Was he seventeen? Eighteen? When was his Sire On Date?
“I suspect vampires,” he said, “or at least a vampire.” He held up the Skarborough articles. “Your cousin was calling him ‘the Exsanguinator.’ When I went to the morgue, I noticed holes in one of the victim’s neck.”
Ballard said, “Have you seen this profile?”
“It’s a workup,” said Lennox, “of who to look out for. Cops use them to get an idea of who they’re after.”
“What does it say?” I asked.
Ballard said, “It’s a guy, first of all. They’re saying he may have a Dracula fetish. I quote: ‘one of the thematic qualities of vampires that we have from the Victorian Era is that of blood and woman’s sexuality,’ end quote. It goes on to talk about broomsticks and how Satanist women had intercourse with the Devil.
“The occult is tied up with sex,” said Ballard. “Then it talks about the victim selection process and what he gets out of this. They’re women, so he’s heterosexual, and the act satiates his lust.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. It makes reference to sanguinists. Fetishists with a bent for pretending they’re vampires.” He looked up at Lennox.
“It’s a surprisingly large group of people,” said Lennox with distaste.
“The last bit,” said Ballard, “is about rage. And that the killer flaunts.”
“Naturally. They’re displays. But where, I think, the police trip up,” said Lennox, “is thinking he dumps the bodies. If he is a vampire, he does not dump the bodies, he takes them where they stand; and he’s a thirsty bastard, our guy. Vampires don’t ordinarily drain bodies. It’s called sucking and it’s frowned upon. Not least because by the time you get down to the dregs the soul has already left. Where’s the fun?”
He talked like he had experiences I didn’t want to know about. “Have you ever... anyone?” I asked, in a very small voice.
A shadow came over Lennox’s face, then. “I did not know what I was, when I was made. When I awoke I awoke with fire. It was as natural as taking a draught after a long day. It was not until much later that I even knew that I was a vampire. I was not self-aware. I was young and stupid. And I was sireless. By then, I had killed some people, yes.”
The second day was equally intriguing. I managed to get Lennox to open up some more about himself. Ballard was often in the room with us, studying and looking into things. Lennox spoke easily in his presence and withheld very little. I continued to dig.
Today it was the Lenoir. I had gotten Lennox to reveal the great Vampire Lords of the Underworld, as they became known in my imagination. Apparently Paris was their home. I recalled Club Change and the story of the First War.
“If it is a rogue vampire that is responsible for all these killings, why don’t the Lenoir do something?” I asked.
“That is why Marek is here,” he said. “He’s following his own leads. An independent investigation.” Then he explained to me about vampers.
They were the lowest of the low, when it came to Immortals. “But I doubt it’s a ‘vamper,’” said Lennox. “‘Vampers’ never get age on them. They fight and kill and die, squandering everything. They are led by their passions, and they are often mistakenly sired. Although I have heard of a vampire or two who sired one as a joke.”
Somehow, being so cavalier with immortality was beyond my ability to understand it. And regardless of what he said, vampires sounded mean.
“Oh, we are. Half the time, all we think about is the slaughter. That’s another thing. Vampires acquire grace, speed, as well as our strength and bloodthirstiness. But we lose something when we are begotten.”
“Don’t say your ‘humanity,’” I said. It felt like he kept trying to warn me against him.
“No. We are the middle-aged. The uninspired. For a vampire, time means nothing. You will never find a Rembrandt or a Picasso vampire. Being undead makes us dead. I think that’s why we favor European cities. It’s uncanny. Die in Tucson, come to Rome. With the rest of the monuments.”
“You’re not dead inside! You’re alive!” I said. I had to make him see. He smoldered at me; but I think part of him was joking.
His attractiveness had not abated for me; I wanted him but it was becoming more profound. And as we delayed, more monumental.
Bad thought of words, I choiced. Er...
I wondered who had made him––just not at their choice of making him, if that made sense––but thought better than to ask. It must have been someone who wanted a soul mate. A Lennox for their very own.
Had a woman made Lennox?
“If Paris is vampires,” I asked. “What is Rome?”
Ballard looked up from his newspapers. “I think I may have thought of something,” he said, waving them around. “Look at this. I’m going over the bodies, right? The people who have died?” He lifted up the photographs; I didn’t want to see. “And, get this. They’re all really young, right? Female.”
I nodded.
“But there is another set of bodies, in this folder here.”
I saw Lennox flinch.
“What is it?” I said.
“Nothing. Go on,” he said.
“And these are all twentysomethings and kind of middle forties, and men,” said Ballard.
Lennox said, “Those are something else.”
We watched as he drank a blood cup.
“And you say I withhold,” said Ballard, pointing.
“T
hat’s rude,” I said.
Lennox said, “I guess I was getting to it; I should’ve told you from the start. There are two––” he held up his fingers like a pair of snake fangs and picked a fly out of his blood cup.
“Ew. Okay. That’s gross,” I said.
“Sorry. Right. Where was I? There are two disparate death events happening simultaneously throughout the city. I and Marek are working on the other one. You wouldn’t know about it. So far there hasn’t been any linkage; I must’ve left the folder out. Nothing connects the young women being murdered to the men who are dying.”
He could tell this wasn’t going down.
I thought I heard Ballard say “Pussyfoot.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Explain,” I said to Lennox.
“Anyway,” said Ballard––
“But I have to interject,” said Lennox. “I find that crime is an underworld and murder is the skeleton it hides in its closet, yes? Marek is following some leads: snitches and so forth. Fairly unpleasant stuff. He and I think one may lead to the other. That is to say, finding out what is killing here may lead to who or what is doing the killing over there. The girls’ killer may give us the guys’ killer. Do you understand?”
Ballard said, “Look! I have a point. The guy killing these girls, whether he’s called ‘the Exsanguinator’ or, or ‘Peter Panico,’ for god’s sake, he’s just some dude preying on helpless young women.
“But who are the women?” he said. “Look at them: practically half of them are unidentified. They were taken from hostels mainly, where anybody can sign in with a fake ID or just make stuff up. They’re Jane Does. Homeless.
“Homeless,” he said again. “Then, look at the guys. Forgive me, but they left scruffy-looking corpses. Who are these guys?” It was a rhetorical question. “Let me ask you something,” he said to Lennox. “You went there, right? You saw this? At the––the––”
“At the morgue,” said Lennox.
“Did they smell bad?”
“What does that have to do with it?” I asked him.
“I wanna know, did they reek? Were they really foul? Hmm.”
The Wiccan Diaries Page 18
