by CK Dawn
Phoebe felt the opportunity of entering the symphony on Wally’s arm slipping away. “Stop asking about the box, I sent it back ages ago.”
Catherine walked across the apartment and peered into Phoebe’s bedroom. “Are you sure it’s not here
“It’s not here.”
Catherine stepped away from the bedroom and toward the window. “I see you have new drapes.” She rested her hand on the drapes that hid the view of the balcony and the lights of the city.
Phoebe thought she was going to choke. “Leave them alone.”
Catherine twitched the drapes aside and looked out into the night. Phoebe felt her heart leap into her throat. Where was Wally? Was he outside on the balcony where she kept the caged mice; or had he gone further afield tonight in search of a more satisfying meal? She hoped he wasn’t hunting through the landscaped bushes of the parking lot because he would be easily visible from the balcony. Catherine turned away from the drapes but Phoebe’s relief was short lived.
“That box is here somewhere,” Catherine said. “I’ve spoken to the delivery service and they say it hasn’t been returned.”
“I don’t have it.”
Catherine’s smile was as chilly as the blast of air that accompanied her as she walked past Phoebe and into the guest room. “I see you’ve redecorated in here. Do you have a guest? Whose clothes are these?”
Phoebe could hardly speak; her words came in a hoarse determined whisper. “Go away, I don’t want you here.”
Catherine turned her head. Their eyes met and for a moment Phoebe felt her sister’s regret. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this.”
“Then don’t.”
The moment of warmth was gone and with it the last remnants of Phoebe’s sister. This person standing in the door of the guest room was no longer the Catherine who loved her. For all the years of feuding and name calling between them, she had always know that deep down she loved Catherine and Catherine loved her, but in that instant she knew that the love was gone. Whatever had happened to Catherine; whatever had changed her outside appearance had also changed her inner being.
She felt herself descending into a familiar spiral of regret and self-pity. Catherine no longer loved her and if Catherine didn’t love her, then what was left? Catherine was all she had. Well, there was Wally of course, but Wally didn’t love her. Wally served her because of some arcane ritual that had allowed her to enslave him. How had she reached the point in life where no one, absolutely no one loved her for herself? She felt tears prickling at the back of her eyes. It was going to happen again; the long dark descent into self-pity. Unless she stopped herself now, she would once again be the loathsome, complaining woman she had been when her husband had divorced her. She would be the woman who stayed in bed all day trying to connect with her friends by telephone; friends who would eventually stop taking her calls. Only Wally and his cheerful Cockney encouragement stood between her and utter despair.
She felt a tear trickling down her cheek. “I need you to go now.”
Catherine ignored her. She was staring at the bed in the spare bedroom. Phoebe had done her best to disguise the box by draping it with a rose patterned coverlet and adding pink throw pillows, but the proportions were wrong. At first glance it might be a bed but to anyone who gave it a second glance, it was quite obviously the wrong shape, wrong height, and wrong length.
Catherine smiled without warmth. “Oh Phoebe,” she said. “You are going to miss him.”
The door buzzer broke the uneasy silence. Catherine left the spare bedroom and made her way to the front door.
Forcing her body to move with more speed than it had done for years, Phoebe managed to reach the front door ahead of her. She barred the door with her body.
“He can’t come in here,” she declared. “Not unless I invite him and I’m not going to invite him. He can’t cross my threshold.”
“You’re right,” said Catherine, “but it’s not him. It’s someone completely different. You might even be pleased to see him.”
She pushed Phoebe aside and opened the door. The two delivery workers stood outside with their hand truck. Ted was his usual sullen self, offering Phoebe a derisive sneer of recognition but Bill was actually smiling as he looked at Phoebe.
“Nice to see you again, miss. We’ve just come to pick up the box.”
Phoebe shook her head. “It doesn’t need picking up.”
Ted groaned. “Not again. First you don’t want it and then you do want it. Look, lady, we’re going to pick up that box. There’s a man downstairs that says it belongs to him, and he ain’t the kind you mess with.”
Catherine beckoned them forward. “It’s in the spare room. I’ll show you.”
Phoebe refused to move. “You can’t come in. I forbid you to come in.”
Catherine was cold and determined. “Forget it, Phoebe; these are just ordinary everyday delivery men, doing their everyday work. They’ve come for the box. It’s not yours and you can’t keep it.”
Ted took matters in hand and shoved his way into the apartment, pushing the hand truck. “Come on lady, just hand it over. I got places I gotta be. The dude downstairs is in a hurry and he ain’t the waiting type.”
Phoebe barred his way but Ted was aggressively determined to get the job done. He reached out to grasp Phoebe’s arm but Bill was ahead of him, pushing him aside.
“Leave her alone.”
“Oh yeah,” said Ted. “You gonna make me?”
“If I need to.”
The two men eyed each other and Ted backed away. “Do you think you’re still in the Marines?” he asked contemptuously.
“At least I fight my battles in person,” Bill replied, “and not hiding behind a computer screen playing warlord or whatever it is you do all night.”
Ted sneered but he stepped aside.“Semper fi.”
Bill bristled with indignation. “Don’t mock the marines , it’s un-American.”
Catherine stepped between them. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, that’s enough. The box is in there under the floral bedspread. Just load it up and take it away.”
Bill looked at Phoebe with an anxious expression on his pleasant face. “Are you sure this is alright, miss?”
Catherine gave Phoebe no chance to answer. “My sister is not well and sometimes I have to take care of things for her. She has a tendency to lose touch with reality. I really don’t want to talk about this in front of her but she has attachment problems. She becomes attached to the wrong kind of things. Now please, just take the box and go.”
“It’s no good to you,” Phoebe said. “It’s empty.”
“Then you won’t mind parting with it, will you?” said Catherine.
Phoebe lunged past her sister and grabbed Bill’s arm. “Don’t let them do this,” she pleaded. “I know it sounds crazy but I really need that box.”
“And why is that?” Catherine asked. “Go ahead, Phoebe, tell them why you need the box.”
All Phoebe had left was the truth. “It’s for Wally. He sleeps in it.”
“Wally sleeps in it,” Catherine repeated slowly and patiently. “Why does he sleep in it, Phoebe?”
“Because it’s his native earth.” Phoebe said. She continued to cling to Bill’s arm. “Wally’s a vampire but not the normal kind. He’s a sort of second class vampire. A slave really.”
Very gently Bill pried her fingers off his arm. “I think you’re getting a little overexcited, miss. We’ve all been reading about those strange murders but no one really thinks they’re vampire killings. Really, miss, you mustn’t worry about things like that. We’ll just take the box downstairs and give it to the gentleman who owns it.”
“Yeah,” said Ted. “You don’t want him coming up here to get it. He’s a nasty piece of work.”
Bill’s tone was soothing. “He’s foreign and a little excitable but he’s a customer and it’s his box. Now why don’t you just sit down, miss, and let us get on with what we’re doing.”
“Yes,” said Catherine, “sit down, Phoebe.”
Phoebe found herself unable to resist Catherine’s grasp on her arms as she guided her to an armchair and shoved her down into it. She held her down while she spoke to Bill.
“My sister is getting very excited and she is going to need her medication. Will you please hurry up and get that thing out of here.”
It was the work of moments for Ted to rip the fabric cover from the box and load it onto the hand truck. Bill held the door open for him as he wheeled the box away.
Phoebe tried to rise from the chair but Catherine held her down. She felt tears prickling beneath her eyelids. “Don’t do it. Please don’t do it.”
Bill stopped to give her and an understanding smile. “You’ll be alright, miss; it’s just a little misunderstanding. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
The door closed behind them and Catherine released her hold of Phoebe.
“The old guy likes you,” Catherine said. “Maybe he’ll be back to see you again.” Her lips settled into a cold straight line. “If he comes back, you’d better not tell him any more stories about vampires. Nothing says crazy like a story about slave vampires.”
Phoebe struggled out of the chair. “You know I’m telling the truth, don’t you?”
“Of course I do but no one else will believe you.” Catherine reached into the pocket of her coat and produced a slip of paper. “This is Raoul’s address.”
“Raoul?”
“Baron de Bressard. Wally’s master.”
“Is he really downstairs?”
“Oh yes,” said Catherine, “couldn’t you feel the chill in the air. Please, tell your friend Wally that if he intends to survive another sunrise he should be at the Baron’s house by dawn. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Phoebe sank back into the chair. “Catherine,” she pleaded, “don’t you understand what he is? How can you do this? What’s he done to you?”
“I don’t know,” said Catherine. “I find it hard to remember some of it, but whatever it is, I find I like it.”
“Oh my God,” Phoebe moaned, “he’s changing you. He’s changing you into one of them.”
The room began to spin around her. She tried to rise but her legs had no strength. The beams from the crystal wall lights seemed to fragment, breaking into multicolored shattered rays.
“Cat,” she whispered, “you have to help me. I’m going into shock.”
Her sister’s face swam into view. Phoebe saw a fleeting expression of real concern and felt Catherine’s fingertips feeling for the pulse at her neck. For a moment they were both silent and then Catherine stood back. Once again her expression was distant and unconcerned.
“You’re fine, Phoebe. You’re as strong as a horse.” She went into the kitchen and returned with Phoebe’s cache of chocolates. She dropped the box onto Phoebe’s lap. “Have a chocolate. I’ll let myself out.”
Five
WALLY
Wally moved as fast as he could across the Schenley Park Bridge proceeding in a series of leaps and bounds. To an onlooker it might have looked as though he was flying, but he knew that flying was beyond his abilities. After years of practice he could leap great distances, he could cling to walls and drop silently from considerable heights, but flying was reserved for a different class of the undead; a class that was well beyond his reach.
He scampered around the lights of the Phipps Conservatory and dropped down the steep hillside into the welcoming shadows of Panther Hollow. The moon appeared from behind the clouds and reflected briefly onto the surface of the lake far below and then darkness returned.
With eyes well accustomed to nighttime, ears that could hear the sonic call of a bat, and a nose that could sniff out a mouse at a hundred yards, Wally had no problem making his way through the stunted trees and bushes that crowded the hillside. He was aware of the presence of others of his kind. They were all around him, each concentrating on their own search for food.
He wasn’t sure what had driven him so far from the comfort of Miss Phoebe’s apartment and the security of the mice that she bred in cages on the balcony but he knew that tonight he needed to eat something wild. He needed the life blood of a larger animal. He was glad that he had never felt the desire for human blood. He had never stalked human prey, never sunk his fangs into the pale skin of a woman’s neck or hovered, gloating over a back alley corpse. His instincts told him that the other tormented souls hunting for blood among the winter undergrowth were as limited in their desires as he was. Like him they were slaves, condemned to serve evil, lifetime after lifetime, century after century.
He was in a hurry but etiquette demanded that he should at least greet the tortured soul perched above him in the lower branches of a tree. “Salutations,” he muttered.
Something rustled in the undergrowth.
“Mine,” said the figure in the tree, “I saw it first.”
“I know,” said Wally. “What is it?”
“A racoon.”
“Very nice. I wish you much blood.”
“Whose are you?” asked the voice.
Wally hesitated. It was a normal greeting. They never gave their own names; their own names had no meaning. All he knew of any other slave was the name of their owner. He decided not to answer.
“Whose are you?” the voice asked again.
Wally edged away from the tree. He saw movement in the bushes and a fat raccoon trotted out onto the path walking in the way of all raccoons, up on his claws as though his feet were hurting him. He heard the tree branches snap and a dark shape fell upon the unwary animal.
Wally moved on. He had the scent of something else. A deer. Oh, yes, that would be sufficient. If he could have the lifeblood of a deer he would be satisfied for days.
Another voice interrupted his thoughts. The shape of a girl appeared on the path in front of him. He saw that she had dark hair and dark skin that absorbed the faint starlight and gave back no reflection. So, he thought, she was an African. He had met Africans before; not very many, but a few. Unlike their Caucasian counterparts, their skin never turned deathly white, only charcoal grey, making their features hard to see at night, and night was all that he ever had.
“You didn’t answer him,” the girl said. Her voice was almost childish; she had been taken in her early teens.
“I don’t have to answer.”
She stepped closer. “Most people want to answer,” she argued. “Most of us take pride in our owners.”
“Leave me alone. I’m hunting.”
“You can hunt later.”
“No, I can’t. I don’t have much time.”
“So you do belong to someone.” She had an interesting accent, more English than American, with a hint of French, and something else underneath; an accumulation of years of adapting herself to the speech of her masters.
“Of course I belong to someone,” Wally said “All of us belong to someone.”
I don’t.”
“Well, lucky you,” said Wally. “You’d better get out of here before you’re caught.”
“We want to talk to you.”
“We?”
Another figure stepped onto the path. Wally drew in a long surprised breath. This was a man, a human, a being who was living out his normal lifespan. He smelled of cooked meat and sugar, and some other scent. Wally sniffed again. Incense? Did this man smell of incense?
“Don’t run away,” the girl said. “Listen to what he has to tell you.”
Wally took several steps backward. “Is he a...?” He didn’t even like to say the word.
“Yes, he’s a priest.”
“I’m not talking to no priest,” Wally declared. “What’s the matter with you? Did you bring him here?”
“No,” she said. “I found him here. Or I should say, he found me.”
“But he’s a priest. You know what they do, don’t you? They burn you with holy water. They can’t kill you but they can burn you, and it keeps on burning. I’ve seen it with
me own eyes.”
The memory of a young slave in Madrid flashed in front of his eyes. The slave was just a kid, newly made into a slave and like a naive fool he’d run into a church for protection, and the priest had burned him with holy water. The kid’s skin bubbled and hissed where the water struck him; flesh had peeled from his hands as he protected his eyes, but he didn’t die; he couldn’t die. How long ago was that? Wally asked himself. Two hundred years, three hundred, it didn’t matter; that kid was still a slave and still suffering with burns that never healed.
“Keep him away from me,” Wally hissed.
The priest’s voice was deep and soothing but filled with spiritual energy. “I don’t have holy water. I would never hurt you.”
“Oh yeah?” Wally filled his voice with scorn. “She might believe you, mate, but I don’t. I been around a while, and you ain’t taking me for no ride. You ain’t gonna burn me up.”
“He won’t burn you,” the girl said. “Tell him your name.”
“I ain’t got no name. You know we ain’t got names. I ain’t got no name, and you ain’t got no name, not no more.”
“I have a name,” the girl insisted. “My name is Tabita, and I am the child of Duhaga, King of the Banyoro, taken captive and sold into slavery.”
“You can’t say that,” Wally replied. “That ain’t who you are. Oh yeah, maybe you are the child of some African king, maybe you was a princess and you was sold into slavery, and you was shipped to the Americas, but that’s not your whole story, is it? You’re as undead as I am and you can’t be using your own name no more. That’s your human name, and you ain’t human no more.”
“I’m going to be human again,” Tabita said, “that’s what Father Simon is going to do for me.”
“No he ain’t. He’s going to burn you. If I was you I’d get as far away from here as possible.”
Tabita shook her head. “I’m free and I’m safe here. I’ve been here for months with Father Simon looking after me. He has my native earth and he’ll keep me safe.”
“If he’s so good,” Wally jeered, “why ain’t you human already? You’re not, are you?”