He eyed the opaque tubing that ran from her mouth and arm to the hooks overhead and from there followed the cords to the socket in the wall.
“Hmm.” He mused on what he should do.
Such marvels the world had produced over the centuries. Modern medicine was truly miraculous. She was obviously being kept alive by artificial means. He bent to pull the cord from the wall but stopped before the tip of the first prong popped out of the socket.
“No,” he whispered in the quiet room. “On second thought” —Francesco rubbed the fresh stubble that grew along his chin— “there may be some sort of warning device.” Something that would give him away. Couldn’t risk that.
“Might as well do it the old-fashioned way. I’m sorry, Mrs. Lyons.” His whispers fell upon deaf ears, but he grinned. “I need Vincent back in California as soon as possible. I’ve grown fond of him, you see, and I’ve some business that requires his assistance. Rest well knowing that your son is in good hands.”
Taking her silence and immobility for assent, Francesco bent over her withered body. His eyes stung from the sickeningly sour smell that escaped her dry, parted lips. But her odor did nothing to dissuade him from his intentions. Stretching his mouth over her throat, he began his task.
***
Her head ached, a thunderous clattering between her ears. She lay in a ball, her knees tucked to her stomach and tangled within a mass of torn silk. Her arms rested at odd angles over the ground.
Slowly, she lifted her head, now heavier than she’d ever known, away from the moist hard surface. The air was cool and fresh and her nose was battered by a dozen fragrances, too many to sort out, but the most pungent was that of fresh soil and greens, pine needles perhaps.
At first, she couldn’t see anything in the darkness. After what seemed eternity, her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and Scarlet could make out the shadows of tall pine trees circling her and a broken fence of bent black iron a few feet to her side. Directly before her, a short stone wall blocked her vision.
She whimpered with each movement as her fingers curled into the cold, crumbly surface and she brought a shaking hand up to her face to see that it was muddy and caked with black earth. She lifted her torso up as far as she could and saw that she lay atop a mound of freshly piled dirt. Thoughts or perceptions of what had become of her weren’t possible, and her body slumped like a rag-doll upon the mound.
As she lay with the side of her face pressed into the clammy soil, she listened quietly for something, anything that would tell her where she was. In the distance, a loud orchestration of crickets chirped from the depths of the tall grasses. And nearby, perhaps at her fingertips, the deep-throated bellow of a frog.
Slowly she moved her body until she was sitting hunched over with her legs stretched out before her, lost in a pile of ragged pink silk and cream lace. Everything ached; her back, feet, arms, stomach, and head. Scarlet steadied herself against the ground fighting the rampant vertigo, knowing for a flashing second that something had gone wrong.
She swiped a dirty hand across her face. The gray sky offered enough light so she could see the front of her dress was dirty and torn. The intricate lace had ripped in large slashes and the ribbons on her bodice were crushed and muddy. Squirming around within the confines of the cumbersome dress, she brushed dirt from her face and neck, which fell down between her breasts and squished between the whalebone stays.
Revolted by the whole situation, Scarlet turned and used the short stone to pull herself up. Under her weight, the stone prop gave, sinking into the soft ground and she nearly fell before carefully pulling herself up and staggering to her feet. Able to stand without falling, she bent to examine the square piece of stone that jutted from the ground. It was smooth and cold under her fingertips and there were indentations where something had been carved in it. It was a tombstone!
Shocked at her discovery, she spun around and scanned the darkness. Two additional tombstones stood to either side of this one, though the ground before them was overgrown with long grass. Beyond and around two sides of her, loomed the thick blackness of a foreboding forest.
She realized with a start that this was not Vince’s yard.
Fear rushed up her spine with wicked claws, threatening to push up a scream. Where was she? And how had she gotten out of the crypt?
She fumbled with the tattered lace that hung from her elbows, and glanced nervously from one tombstone to another.
“Gary? Vince?” She called out cautiously, fearing her voice might be heard by the wrong person—or thing, for that matter.
She searched the darkness but could see no signs of the refurbished mansion. In fact, there were no houses anywhere. And where were the palm trees? There had been clumps of them in Vince’s yard.
An owl hooted its eerie question behind her, and she twirled in the direction of it, nearly falling across the grave as she did. Standing still in the darkness, she awaited another cry from the owl, but the woods were silent. She was alone. No houses or friends. No animals.
I hope there are no animals.
“Something strange is going on.” She felt little comfort at the sound of her trembling voice.
She went over the night’s events in her head in an attempt to determine what had happened. Just moments ago, she had been in the darkened crypt. It had been just a while ago, hadn't it? She remembered feeling weak and the comforting buzz that had accompanied her near-fainting in the cold crypt. She had thought the dress was holding her, caressing her. And then the calmness had come, so serene and relaxing. And after that, no memory. She couldn’t remember, but yes, she had called out as the tremendous rush of wind hurtled around her body. And now . . . she was here.
And where was here?
Feeling a queasy faint gnaw at her, Scarlet’s body sagged. The cool air made her tremble and as she lay staring up at the starless sky she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to bring warmth to her blood. Remembering Sebastian’s instructions, she breathed deeply, wishing for warmth, and it came quickly.
“Sebastian, help me,” she called out quietly. “You always said you’d be there for me. I need you.”
She waited, silent and still, listening to Sebastian’s voice in her head.
Trust me, ma cherie. I love you. I will never let anything harm you.
“Please help me. I promise I’ll try harder to love you, Sebastian.”
No answer, only the steady cricket chirps.
She leaned up on her elbows, noticing the bent sunglasses that Vince had propped on her head, now half buried in dirt. She plucked them out and shook the dirt from them.
Squinting at the tombstone, she could make out the delicately carved cherubs dancing across the top of it, their blue-gray granite cheeks highlighted by the cold sliver of moonlight. There was an inscription on it, the words carved deeply in flourishing French script, reminding her of ancient love letters.
“Marie Elisabeth Debonet, 1750-1769.” She mouthed the words again, not sure how to decipher the information. And then it hit her. “Oh, my God. This can’t be.”
Scarlet shuffled to her feet and stared at the cherubs, one dancing in the moonlight, its eyes closed in bliss, while its partner seemed to be laughing at her. She reached down and grabbed a handful of dirt, letting it sift through her fingers like sand in an hourglass.
“This is a fresh grave.” She traced her fingers over the date carved into the cold stone. “1769,” she repeated, feeling her body shake.
Terror released, Scarlet’s scream segued into tears. She cried loudly, not caring whether anyone or anything heard her.
“Sebastian!”
Chapter Eighteen
People passed before his eyes in a fog of bright colors and muffled voices. The elevator doors opened and closed to let out another herd of fuzzy travelers, each intent on their schedule, not noticing the distraught man sitting by the lobby door. Vince hugged his arms across his chest and let the back of his head hit the lobby window with a thud.
T
he lobby was crowded for this time of night. He figured there must be a restaurant in that direction, but the idea of keeping food down didn't sit well. His stomach quivered just to think of it.
He barely remembered how he’d gotten here from the hospital.
“God help me." He said the words over and over, hoping for an answer to his misery. The lobby was humid following a steamy summer rain, and his tee-shirt stuck to his chest from the heat and his sweat. But he shivered now as he recalled the doctor’s perplexing words.
“We’re not sure what happened exactly. There were . . . complications."
Complications? Those words from a trained medical doctor, how could there be complications? His mother was dying of cancer, yes, but she had seemed cheerful just weeks ago before he had left for California. She hadn’t looked like she had one foot in the grave. Well, all right, maybe a toe or two, but he never expected it to happen so fast. Less than six hours after he’d arrived in Minneapolis. Didn’t most cancer patients go slowly and about when the doctors expected they would?
“There was a lot of unexplained blood loss.”
Vince pulled his hands over his head and tried to squeeze the words from his mind. His mother was dead. Dead because of some doctor’s neglect. And Gary wonders why I never go to the doctor. Those bastards should have been paying attention to her. She should never have died this way.
“Vincent?”
Vince jerked his head up. It was the man from the plane.
“Are you all right?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Vince muttered, pushing the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He realized that his words were less than kind but it didn’t matter, he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to anyone right now.
“It seems we’re staying at the same hotel. Quite fortunate, I’d say—to see a familiar face, that is. But what’s the problem, Vincent? You seem upset.” Francesco sat next to him, pushing his knee next to his, and ever so lightly touching Vince’s leg with his fingers. “Is it your mother? How is she?”
Pressing firmly against the pain in his left temple, Vince stared at the man’s hand resting nonchalantly on his leg.
“She died early this morning. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry. My sympathies are with you, having lost someone dear to myself recently. But you look near death yourself. Let me buy you something to eat before you pass out; you are near exhaustion. Perhaps it will do you good to get some warm food in your body and to relax.”
“No, I can’t eat. I’ll be fine, really.”
“Then perhaps a good stiff drink?”
Vince stared at the reflections of passersby outside the window. A drink? Now there was an idea. “Kinda strange that we both ended up in the same hotel, huh?”
The man tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders. Maybe it was fortunate that they were in the same place. It might help to sit down, throw back a few shots, and forget the nightmare of his mother’s death.
“If you’d rather not?” The blue in Francesco’s eyes was outlined by a ring of white, making them somehow unearthly.
Vince said, “Sounds like a good idea. A drink would probably do the trick.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Once inside the small tavern, furnished with wooden benches and lush green ivy threaded over the thick ceiling beams, Vince relaxed and tilted a straight shot of whiskey past his lips.
“You had better take it easy.” Francesco tipped his wine glass toward the light and Vince smiled at his deep burgundy reflection. “A little will do you much better than a lot. You’ll be feeling much worse by morning if you overdo it tonight.”
The man was right. Vince slid the empty glass back and forth between his hands on the table. But right and wrong didn’t matter after the crap he’d taken from the doctors. “My mother is dead, man. And the doctors have been giving me the run-around about it. I think there was malpractice, I can’t be sure. But something strange happened to her. So I’ll decide when I’ve had enough.”
“And when will that be?”
He shrugged. “When I’ve lost all feeling in my brain and when you have to drag me out of here by my toes.” Vince felt the heat burning in his throat and smiled drunkenly, pleased that the alcohol was taking effect so quickly. “Oh, by the way, I’m in room three-oh-two. And when you’re dragging me, please take the elevator—I don’t think I could handle my head banging against the stairs right now.”
Francesco nodded. “To change the subject, when will you be going home?”
“Soon as the funeral’s over. A couple days, I guess. I’m going to see if one of mom’s friends can take care of her apartment and things. I don’t want to go there now. Too many memories. We were close before I moved to California. Man, I don’t know, I feel as though I abandoned her . . . left her to die.” Another shotglass of whiskey arrived and Vince motioned for a repeat. “So, you must live in L.A. too, huh?” The need to change the subject was strong. “When are you going back?”
“A few days. My business here is soon over. It’s quite possible that we’ll be on the same flight home.”
Vince eyed Francesco’s clothes. Designer suit, manicured hands; must be some business hotshot. And the way he nursed his wine, barely drank a drop to Vince’s shots of whiskey. What was he after? Ah well, didn’t matter. At least it kept his mind from other things.
“So, what do you do, Vincent? From your dress I’d guess you are some sort of musician. Am I right?”
“What do you think, everyone whose hair is longer than his shoulders and who wears ripped t-shirts is in a band?”
“No.” Francesco blocked Vince’s mistrust with a gentle hand to his and a thoughtful smile. “I just sensed something different about you. Something special. You must possess some talent for the arts.”
Vince stretched his legs under the table and leaned against the padded wooden bench. “I sing for a band called Wild Child. We should be putting our first record out soon—that is, as soon as I get back home and lay down the vocal tracks. But I have a feeling that you’re not really into heavy metal.”
“Heavy metal?” Francesco tried to act casual, though Vince suspected the evident confusion.
“Rock n’ roll. You know—ah, maybe you don’t. I suppose you listen to country crap. I hate country music with a passion.”
Francesco nodded in agreement. “I’ve probably heard it, this heavy . . . steel, and would know it if you pointed it out. I’ve just arrived in America recently, you see. I’ve lived most of my life abroad.”
“Cool. Yeah, I’ll have to play our demo for you later. You might get into it.”
“I’d enjoy that, Vincent. I’d like to hear any style of music you’re interested in.”
Vince nodded and a silly whiskey smile affixed itself to his face. “Whatever. So what is it that you do—Francesco, was it?”
“Yes, Francesco Volierre. I haven’t exactly decided yet, er, I mean, I’m vacationing right now. Taking a break from my usual work.”
“Which is?”
Francesco pushed another shot of whiskey toward Vince. “Yes, well, I’ve recently acquired a piece of land. Yes, that’s it. And I’m renovating an old castle that stands on the property. I haven’t started yet, but soon, after a piece of unfinished business is completed I’m going to devote my time to creating a home for myself, and whomever I should care about at the time.”
“Sounds cool. A castle. You stayin’ there right now?”
“Yes, I am. I prefer a quiet and restful life. Simple things please me, Vincent. Material possessions are of no interest to me.
“Then that makes you one of a kind Francesco. Not too many people these days will do without their precious material things.”
“Over the years, I’ve learned to live without.”
“You sound a lot like me. I mean, I’ve never been poor, or homeless, but I grew up knowing the meaning of ‘getting by,’ you could say. It was just my mom and me. And I tell ya, a
waitress doesn’t make much even with all the overtime Mom put in.” Vince sighed, running his finger around the rim of the shot glass. “That’s why I pray to God that Wild Child makes it. It would be nice to live high and glorious for a change. Just to see what it’s like, you know.” Vince tipped the thick-rimmed glass over, sloshing it around the puddle of whiskey on the table.
“Well, Vincent.” Francesco laid a hand over Vince’s. “I sense good things in your future. In your veins runs the blood of a very rich man indeed. Soon, my friend, I suspect you shall reap the rewards of your family’s blood.”
Vince pulled away and righted his glass. Kind of a strange man, talking about his family and blood that way. The world was filled with weirdos worse than Francesco. Besides, he looked harmless enough.
***
“What have we here? A sweet mademoiselle.”
A craggy voice woke Scarlet from her soil bed and she blinked her eyes open in shock. Whoever was speaking, was speaking French.
The dawn’s mist filtered a few early morning rays of dim light through the thickened forest and she turned her head to see where the voice had come from.
A few feet away stood a gangly old man, whose grizzly yellow beard tipped with gray, hung down to his chest. His clothes, strange to her, were tattered and soiled and the toes of his black buckled shoes were ripped at the seams. Stunned and still half asleep, she could only watch as he closed the distance between them to an uncomfortable foot.
He poked at her skirts with a decaying wooden stick. “Tell me what a pretty lady like you is doing sleeping with the dead?” He laughed, exposing an uneven row of yellowed teeth.
Scarlet turned over and shrank back against the tombstone. Why was he speaking French?
“This is my lucky day. Yes, it is!” He bent over and reached out a gnarled hand with cracked dirty fingernails.
The chilling touch from his hand shook her from the last vestige of sleep, and in a second her nails slashed across the vagrant’s face, sending him reeling back and grabbing at the red oozing wounds.
“Oui! I’ve found me a wild one!”
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