Blood Emerald

by Amber Anthony

  Matt smiled pleasantly. “And that should allow you time for your gymnastic workout with Anna.”

  Adam shook his head. “I definitely need a woman.”

  Rick nodded. “Right after this thing with Ronnie is settled, your sex life is our next priority.”

  Adam grimaced and looked between the two men.

  Rick carried on. “Now, who do we know in the Hollywood community who’s got access to Ronnie? They have to be a good sport.”

  Adam scrolled through the list of Gaoler members on his tablet. “Ah, Greg Reardon is a vamp, a great guy, and his sub is Jessie Gordon.”

  “Jessie, ‘the crane,’ Gordon?” Rick looked at the ceiling mural and imagined the young man floating naked in the clouds along with the angels.

  “The one who looks like an underage choir boy but fucks like a jackhammer?” Matt chuckled.

  Adam nodded seriously. “One and the same.”

  Rick picked up his phone. “That’ll work.”

  Chapter 21

  The television writer was coasting in this incarnation as Gregory Reardon. Greg had an endearing cleft in his chin to balance a full but receding hairline. His middle-aged everyman’s face let him blend into the Hollywood film industry. Not so handsome that he was threatening, not so homely that he belonged in Washington, D.C. The gay lifestyle was well accepted these days in Hollywood, and Greg enjoyed being his unfettered, flamboyant self. When he realized he was the oldest staff writer, even by mortal standards, on his new gig with a cable network, he chalked it up to working in an industry that worshiped youth.

  How hard would it be to write about the supernatural, when you were a three-hundred-year old vampire? He took hubris in writing a proper vampire, only to get shot down weekly by the network execs. After surviving February sweeps, Greg issued invitations to the cast and crew of Mystical Therapies for a weekend blowout. Rick’s call was therefore well timed.

  Greg watched with amusement as his ‘guest of honor’ struggled to park the mammoth Bentley in the politically correct, conservatively sized L.A. parking space. The setting sun laid a blanket of pink and orange over the luau party decorations. Hopefully, all the partygoers who stayed the entire weekend would drink and screw enough to keep them in bed till dusk. If not, Greg would have to find a surrogate to host pool-time during the afternoons.

  Bon vivant that he was, he stood in the doorway with a monster sized mai tai to greet Veronique. “Vivi, dear, you’ve had a whirlwind career. This time last year you were fighting to find a parking space at UCLA!” The paternal writer wrapped a platonic arm around the BoHo-chic actress and pressed the drink into her free hand. I happen to know you were in Colombia living off fatted donors when you weren’t peddling Humanité.

  “You know, I’m just counting my blessings,” Veronique agreed. “Yeah, I’d like to blow off a little steam. What kind of man-candy have you got roaming these glass halls?” She brushed her hip against his board shorts. Greg knew she hadn’t heard a thing he said since arriving, her gaze riveted from cock to cock to cock.

  “We’re not shy here, Vivi. If you feel the need for the setting sun on your buns, go ahead…” Greg sniffed her rutting hormones as she trotted in the direction of the pergola by the edge of the patio. She was as predictable as the tides.

  His instincts had been right when he’d tapped his sub to play her love interest. Jesse Gordon was a preternaturally youthful vamp, and Greg had him spray-tanned and groomed like the stallion he was. Jesse would be the perfect target of her ‘affections.’ He had the lean, lithe musculature of a swimmer, except his speed was impeded by the colossal schlong he could barely tuck into the blue-green Speedo that matched his bedroom eyes. Greg observed the greedy spider moving in for her conquest. Her fingers flew immediately to Jesse’s riot of dark chocolate waves. If she hadn’t been tanked on Humanité, Jesse would have had fangs by midnight. Sorry, sweet cheeks, he’s been in the Family since 1859, and he’s mine.

  * * * *

  It was the withdrawal hunger again. Veronique was rousted from her rest by the bloody hunger for some fresh O positive. She sat up, her sensitive flesh sliding across silken sheets. She was nude in a strange bed with no accounting of the experience. Blackout drapes leaked sunlight around their perimeter. It was daytime, and the last thing she remembered was the party Friday night.

  “Thank God you’re awake!” Greg stood at her bedside holding a tumbler that smelled like bagged blood.

  “Is that the best you’ve got?” she snapped. “And when did you become a member of the Family?”

  Greg frowned. “My dear, I’ve been a vampire for three hundred years. You were on too much Humanité to notice. But now, as you can see, it’s worn off.”

  Veronique developed a case of modesty and drew up the sheet. “What happened to me?”

  “I’m sorry to say that beautiful boy you partied with Friday night drugged you, and that’s not all…” His gaze shifted away nervously.

  “You’re scaring me, Greg. What’s going on?”

  “The little snot filmed the two of you having carnal knowledge and shopped it to TMI.”

  “What?”

  “Afraid so, dearest. Of course, all the mortals think he’s underage. We know better, but what can you do, out him as a vampire?”

  “They think I had sex with a minor?”

  “Yep. The studio’s after your head. The police are a sniffing around your apartment. This is a clusterfuck.”

  Veronique buried her head in her knees. “Oh, fuck me!”

  “That’s what he did. I’m afraid you’re persona non grata in Hollywood, maybe even in the United States.”

  Veronique submerged into self-pity as she drank the blood. “Everything was going so well!”

  Greg nodded sadly. “Dicks can truly fuck you up!”

  “Is there any hope of defending myself?”

  “Not that I can see. You’re more likely to wind up in jail, and sans Humanité, you’d have a rather unpleasant Polanski-esque time of it. If I were you, I’d get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “But where can I go?” Veronique could hear the whine in her own voice. “Back to Haiti?”

  Greg considered for a moment. “No, you’d never make it past the security checks, plus, they have extradition.” The two sat in silence and then he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got a friend with a yacht, but…”

  “I could change my appearance.”

  “No, the anti-terrorism software is too sophisticated for that. They’d catch you on the screening… but they’d never look for you in a shipping crate.”

  “A shipping crate is so coarse! Why not a coffin?”

  Greg considered. “Why not? We could send you to Mexico, you’d be safe there. You’d have a peaceful little rest. On his yacht it would take less than a day, and you’ll rise refreshed and free.”

  Vivi Morrison was dead. Long live Veronique Moreau. She picked up her dying cell phone, confirming her fate and then arranged a bank wire. “Is it possible to go back to my apartment?” Greg shook his head. “I need something to wear, I have a few things squirreled away…”

  “Give me a list. I’ll find a way in…”

  * * * *

  Once out of Veronique’s sight, Greg texted Rick. “She bought it! Departing via your transport at 2100 hours L.A. time. The pleasure was all mine. This stuff writes itself!”

  He received a return text. “Greg, you’ve been a real sport. I.O.U.”

  The writer’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Let me write your biography. You could play yourself, you’d win an Oscar.”

  His heart sank at the reply. “Dear boy, biographies are for dead people. Do a fictionalized version and you’ll win the Oscar.”

  * * * *

  Rick slipped his phone back in his pocket and smiled at Anna. “We’ll have a guest joining us soon.”

  She nodded. Rick walked from window to window, touching the new panes and recalling the ancient leaded glass. He approached the altar and ran a fond h
and over the carved wood, smoothed by centuries of similar touches.

  “You know, if the family hadn’t fallen into disrepute, I would have been sent off to life in the Church, rather than becoming the Duke.”

  “So you would have been a priest?”

  “Most probably.”

  “Anglican or Catholic?”

  Rick shrugged. “What does it matter?”

  “That’s true. If you’d become a priest, I wouldn’t be here.”

  He stared up at the almost life-sized Christ crucified above the altar and then turned and looked at the empty seats. “Neither would I.”

  Anna laughed, and kissed him quickly. “I’m glad it worked out the way it did. This space will be so pretty for weddings and christenings.”

  “It’s served that purpose for hundreds of years.” Rick knelt under the altar and worked a stone out of the floor. It lifted cleanly to reveal a six-by-six inch open space. A leather pouch lay inside, awaiting the return of a little boy’s hands. “I can’t believe it’s survived all these years.” He stood holding his childhood treasures.

  “What is that? How did you know it was there?”

  “I put it there. I’ll show you.” He led her to a pew and opened the now brittle bag with great care. Ten knucklebones and a disintegrating ball spilled out along with a crude wooden top and a marble knight from a long-forgotten chess set. He fished in the pouch with two long fingers and drew out an unmatched emerald earring. “These were the gaming systems of the 1500s. I played with them every day until I was sent to foster at nine years.”

  “So, these were your toys!”

  “Yes, my most prized. Understanding I also had my horse and my dog and the family.”

  “Oh, these are so sweet! I’m trying to imagine you as a little boy…that’s so long ago, do you still remember it?”

  “Uh, yeah. Do you remember being a little girl?”

  “Yes, but for me it wasn’t five hundred years ago.”

  “I get it. Let me tell you about memory, Cupcake. Years are not remembered in time. They’re remembered in experiences. So, I can’t ask you to remember exactly what you were doing on any day, unless it was a remarkable day. But you could tell me exactly what happened on a special day.”

  “Like New Year’s Eve?”

  “You bet. I’ll never forget it.” He balanced the bones in his palm affectionately.

  “I want lifetimes of memories with you.”

  Her words stopped him. “You know what that means…”

  “Yes. I want you to turn me.”

  Rick went dizzy with joy, unfamiliar warmth spread from his heart, throughout his chest as elation grew within him. He worked to keep his voice modulated. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  Anna straddled his lap, took his earnest face between her hands and smiled. “In this sacred place, I swear, I want to spend lifetimes with you.”

  Rick smiled back. “I guess we need to set a date.”

  * * * *

  Rick and Matt delighted in hearing Veronique’s impatient clawing at the coffin’s lid for at least thirty minutes before they unsealed her. The shock on her face when they opened the lid was gratifying. The two vampires leaned over her.

  “Well, our old friend, Veronique!” Rick said with false enthusiasm.

  “You!” she spat back.

  Matt drew her attention as he bent menacingly closer. “You’ve been a very naughty girl, again, Ronnie. Same old story, same old song and dance.”

  Veronique assessed her situation, seeking an escape route. Rick smiled broadly and shook his head. “Forget it. You wouldn’t get to the door. And I’d be very happy to behead you myself.”

  “What do you want, Rick?” she growled through gritted teeth. “You’ve taken my money, my job, everything—”

  “Poor, preyed upon psychopath.”

  “What do you want?” She crawled out of the coffin and stood defiantly before them.

  “I was at your trial, Ms. Moreau. I distinctly heard the judge say any further use of Humanité would end in termination,” Adam said pleasantly and turned to Rick “You voted on that new law, didn’t you, Representative Hiatt?”

  “Why, yes I did, Master Adam. It seems Ms. Moreau doesn’t take Council authority seriously.”

  Matt tsked. “That’s a sure way to be separated from your head.”

  Rick stepped forward, his face serious. “Last chance, Ronnie. You sign this confession admitting your illegal use of Humanité, and get out of our lives forever, or…”

  “Or?” she sniped.

  “Or, we’ll take you to Geneva right now and present a stream of witnesses to your illegal use of the drug and then it’s lights out.”

  Rick watched the wheels turn in her mind as she contemplated her choices. He saw the moment she concluded she had none.

  “Fine. Give me the confession and a pen.”

  Rick handed both to her and waited as she signed. He held his insurance policy with satisfaction. “This is no game, Ronnie. You stay away from us, from our women, and our business. I see your fingerprints anywhere near us and I’ll go medieval on your head.”

  “What am I supposed to do for money? You’ve left me nothing.” She spun on her heel toward Matt. “How about you give me that 1.5 million dollars back that I was forced to pay you?”

  Matt gave her a sardonic sneer. “I suggest you sell timeshares.”

  Rick stepped between them. “The jet is waiting to take you to Chad. They speak French there. I’m sure you’ll find some nice despot to take you in. Whatever, stay the hell away from us or…”

  “Yes, yes, I heard you. Where the hell is Chad?”

  “Good. Adam will take you to the airport. Adieu!”

  * * * *

  Anna jumped up from her computer and ran to find Cat. “You have got to see this!” She danced from foot to foot waiting for Cat to confirm her find. “Look at the second miniature down, the little boys. What does the catalogue label say?”

  “Miniature portrait of brothers Richard and Niall Fitzjarrald, 1520.” Cat read. She looked up at Anna and smiled.

  “Does one of them look like Rick, do you think? Could it be Rick as a little boy?”

  Cat studied the diminutive portrait. “They’re so tiny it’s hard to tell, but, could be. You’re the expert. What do you think?”

  “See those bones they’re playing with?” Cat squinted and nodded. “Rick showed me knuckle bones he prized and played with as a little boy. And he did have a brother named Niall, older by two years. Niall died shortly after this miniature was painted. Miniatures where like family photos, you know? Much more personal than the formal portraits. His family would have kept this miniature like we keep a phone photo…”

  “It’s for sale. Are you going to buy it for the history room? You should show it to Rick.”

  Anna dialed the contact number on the website. “I am going to buy it, but I’m not going to show it to Rick yet. I want it to be my mating gift to him.” She held up an extended pinkie finger to Cat. “Pinkie swear with me you won’t tell Rick or Matt. This is just perfect! I want something unique, something he wouldn’t buy for himself…”

  Cat laughed. “Okay, pinkie swear. See if you can get them to send it to Dublin. We can run into the city and pick it up.”

  * * * *

  The remodel of the entire estate continued apace, everyone in their group having distinct responsibilities. In addition to Anna’s curating historical elements, and Cat’s developing marketing literature, the women found their greatest enjoyment in decorating four floors of the castle. Meanwhile, in addition to managing a multinational corporation, Rick, Matt and Adam supervised the renovation of the outlying buildings, stables, and golf course.

  This particular night, the five of them found peace in gathering in the study over dinner. Rick was restless. The others watched him fret over a clipboard, drop it, and march to the bar to hastily pour a whiskey, add a few drops of A positive, and down it.

 
“This is grueling. You have to stay on these people to the letter.” He turned and leaned against the makeshift bar. “How hard is it? Measure twice, cut once. I swear these flooring specialists are extortionists!”

  Adam lowered his tablet and cocked his head. “You’ve built skyscrapers! What’s the problem with a few board feet?”

  Rick downed another drink and replaced the glass with a shove. “Not here. I think I’ve bought enough wood to cover the ceilings too.”

  Matt exchanged looks with the ladies and shook his head. “Oh, for the good old days when the only people you had to flog were your submissives.”

  Cat had a lap full of bridal magazines. “You know, the bridal industry will make us a small fortune. From what Anna has planned for your mating ceremony, I’m seeing a new revenue stream.”

  Rick pursed his lips. “Thank God this only happens once.”

  Anna circled him with the list of ceremony suppliers. She curled herself into his slack arms. “The ceremony only happens once, but think of the anniversaries. If the sixtieth year is diamonds, what will we exchange at a century?”

  Matt poked Cat with his elbow in an obvious stage whisper. “The high hard one.”

  Rick slanted him a dubious look. “I heard that!” He hooked Anna into a playful embrace. “What’s the gift for fifty years?”

  Anna consulted her list. “Gold.”

  “Then I’ll give you twice as much gold.” Rick kissed the top of her head.

  * * * *

  Veronique tapped an impatient toe in the filth of Chad’s International Airport. This country is completely unacceptable. Rick Hiatt had a vengeful sense of humor and he could think again, if he expected her to stay in this God-forsaken hellhole. She was eternally grateful that she’d had the presence of mind to keep her cell phone with her. She used the directory now and dialed.