The Chalice (Luna Vampire Series)

by Christine Asher

  For real, who knows what those douchebags forced me to drink! If it was blood, they probably gave me AIDS or hepatitis C. Those skeezy bastards! I sniffed at the dried goo, learned a big fat zilch, and ultimately discarded the thing onto the floor. Outrage, anger, and unfathomable indignation filled my emotions. And I swore to myself that one day I'd pay 'em back for putting me through this shit.

  In desperate need of a way to expend my excess energy, I decided to walk the circumference of my cell. It was a perfect square, about twenty feet long on each side, which meant that it took me exactly forty steps to make a full circle. And, yeah, I deduced this useless tidbit because after a couple laps I started counting. Why, not? I mean, I didn't have anything else to do. I certainly wasn't gonna talk to crazy kidnapper-guy. I also refused to get any more worked up.

  My efforts were successful at first, however, anger began seeping past my determination at around a thousand steps. By five thousand, I was fuming worse than ever. Seriously, how long would the demented asshole stand up there and, oh so patiently, wait on me? Fucking prick. Six thousand, seven thousand. When ten thousand steps came, I accepted the fact that my plan had failed horribly. He'd stayed quiet as a mouse during the entire cold shoulder session. And I couldn't take it for another goddamn second.

  "You're a liar, old man. A manipulative liar! You said that once I downed the crap in the chalice I'd be released. That was the deal. Yet, for some screwed up reason, I'm still stuck here. Why is that?" I heard nothing, absolutely nothing. And I almost punched the wall. Luckily, I quickly regained my wits and avoided breaking my fist. "I know you're up there, old man. I never heard you walk away. Answer me, you insane son of a bitch!"

  "I thought you desired the peace and quiet," he taunted in a real cutesy wootsy voice.

  "Oh, come on! Just let me out!" I yelled, resentment hanging on every syllable. "I held up my end of the bargain, now you hold up yours."

  "I've kept my word, child. I told you that after you drank from the chalice you'd have the tools to be able to leave the changing room. And that you do." He delayed a moment for dramatic effect before continuing with added sarcasm. "You can see the ladder, can you not?"

  "Of course I see the ladder. But how in the hell am I supposed to reach it? I can barely reach the ledge and the ladder is considerably higher than that."

  He sighed. "It's very straightforward, child. All you have to do is jump."

  "I can't jump that high," I screamed, motioning at the ladder fiercely. "Two feet, maybe, but not five."

  "With your transformation complete, you can travel distances much greater than a mere five feet. Why don't you give it a try?"

  "There's no way I can get up there on my own! You're such a liar! You swore you'd free me. Even so, now you're changing the rules, giving me an impossible task, and playing more of your stupid games. At this rate, I'll rot in this place." What bullshit!

  "I'm a man of honor. If you go for the ladder and don't make it, I'll lower a rope. I promise you that, regardless of the outcome, you'll be liberated from the pit. Nevertheless, you must humor me first by trying to reach it on your own."

  I'd grown so sick of arguing that I defiantly shut my mouth, stomped to the furthest point in the room, ran at full speed, then leaped with all my strength. And the events that followed truly astonished me. Not only did I reach the ladder, I ended up grabbing onto a rung that was over halfway up. I must've jumped over ten feet!

  Chapter 5

  I briskly ascended the steps of the ladder, eagerly craving my freedom. Arriving at the top, my efforts were met by a warm hand that politely provided assistance in a way reminiscent of the olden days. And, at long last, I finally got my chance take a peek at the old man.

  As it turns out, he wasn't really that old of a man. In fact, he only appeared to be around fifty, maybe fifty-five. And his features were incredibly striking. Well, for men his age, that is. The gray at his temples complemented his shoulder length brown hair perfectly, while the fine lines surrounding his eyes and mouth exuded sophistication.

  He stood a couple inches taller than me, which made him nearly six feet tall, and he wore an exquisite black suit. It reminded me of the kind of thing William would wear into the club. However, the old guy didn't sport a tie and his diamond cufflinks were extra flashy. All in all, he looked like a million bucks.

  "I must properly introduce myself," he announced haughtily as he stepped back into a deep bow. "I'm Tsedaka the Righteous, King of the United States." Then he rose to finish his introduction with a knowing twinkle in his eye. "I'm also your father."

  "Are you on crack?" I asked, scrunching my forehead in true wonderment. Seriously, these people were crazy, looney fucking tunes.

  And that's when he started laughing. I responded with an irritated glare, thoroughly disgusted by his boisterous display. Ultimately, he did regain his composure though. Thank god. It just took him quite awhile. Sigh.

  "Oh, my! I haven't had this much fun in years, perhaps a few centuries," he howled, pausing to chuckle again. "You're making my ribs ache, child. The expression on your face, it's so funny! And your thoughts..." He trailed off into another extended cackling session. Yeah, really cackling. I half wondered if the maniac was gonna collapse onto the floor.

  "At least somebody's having a good time," I grumped. "For real, I know you're not the king of the United States because we have a president. You're a white guy; he's a black guy. Likewise, you can't be my father. His name was Peter Smith, not Tsedaka whatever your last name is. So, yeah, you can't be him."

  "I am your father, Luna, and I've told you the truth regarding my station. As for my last name, well, my kind doesn't find last names to be particularly useful since we change them every decade or so. You see, Peter Smith was merely one of my assumed identities. I utilized it during my liaison with your mother those twenty-four years ago."

  Abruptly, he motioned toward the ceiling of the cavernous room and to a row of candles positioned atop a ledge encircling it. There were thousands of them, each one lighting the second he pointed in its direction. The otherworldly melding of instantaneous combustion and flickering light was breathtaking, magical even.

  Consequently, I gawked around the now well-lit space in a state of bewildered shock. Jaw slack, eyes the size of golf balls. The room, larger than a parking lot, ran about three semi trucks long and ten semi trucks wide. No wonder sound echoed. And it was built entirely of cement, exactly the same as my cell. However, in contrast, this room's walls were painted white and kept extremely clean. Additionally, dozens of Persian rugs and tapestries gave it a classy feel.

  A large chair, oddly resembling a throne, rested smack dab in the middle of the stage at the far end. It couldn't have been an actual throne, could it? Well, with these crazies it just might be. And with that thought, I had to suck in a deep breath to avoid the beginnings of giggles. Seriously, it looked as if it was a prop straight out of an Elizabethan movie. Strange, pure and simple.

  In fact, too many things were strange. I mean, how had he gotten all those candles to light simultaneously? It seemed far too authentic to be an illusion caused by a few strands of electric lights on a timer. And how did he keep reading my mind? Telepathy doesn't exist, yet nobody on this planet can make that number of lucky guesses. Plus, how'd I jump so high? And the night vision? Could some paranormal shit really explain all this? Nah. I shook my head in frustration. Maybe he was another David Blaine or Chris Angel. Either way, hella bizarre.

  "I hope my home pleases you, considering you'll be inheriting it," he mused, nonchalantly strolling over to the wall and flipping a switch. Shortly thereafter, a metal grate began rolling over the top of my cell. "I often wonder if I should've taken a more active part in your formative years. Alas, the past cannot be changed. And, regrettable as my actions were, Cynthia did a splendid job of raising you."

  "My mom's name is Cynthia," I confessed, my stomach twisting in knots. Could this guy actually be my father? I highly doubted it. They co
uld've easily discovered her name by digging through my trash or intercepting my mail while they were stocking me. Just in case, though, I decided to carry on with the ridiculous discussion. "Listen, old man. I need proof, cold hard evidence, before I'm gonna believe a single word that comes out of your crazy ass mouth."

  "I expected as much. So, I'm prepared to tell you the story of how your mother and I first met. It should further the credibility of my claim. Nonetheless, I prefer to discuss it in a more comfortable environment. Follow me." Then, with a graceful flourish, he about-faced and marched toward one of the room's two exits. And, yeah, I trailed along right behind him. I know, I know. Curiosity killed the cat. Sigh.

  We entered into a round, windowless hallway that resembled something from an industrial facility, or a government compound, or possibly even a squeaky clean sewage ditch. I had no clue. Our footsteps echoed while we walked, the floor's grating amplifying the sound. And, after a bit of this, I eventually determined that we were walking through a huge metal pipe. Yep, stranger and stranger.

  We proceeded at a leisurely stroll for a good five minutes, every so often hearing muffled talking as we passed intersections with smaller pipes. One of them, apparently leading to a kitchen, was filled with the most enticing smell of herbs and spices. My mouth watered and my stomach begged me to go down it. Although, sadly, we just kept walking. It took all my strength to keep pushing ahead. God I needed food!

  Several left turns later, we were dumped off into what appeared to be a run-of-the-mill living room, well, except for its absence of windows. One wall held an ornately decorated fireplace which burned strong and provided light for the room. The furnishings consisted of a brown leather couch and matching recliner, end tables, a coffee table, and Persian rugs similar to in the larger room. The walls, however, were decorated with paintings of landscapes, probably reprints of Monet's, instead of tapestries.

  "You're mistaken, child. They truly are Monet's," Tsedaka stated matter-of-factly, easing himself into the recliner. "He's one of my favorite painters."

  "How, how do you do that?" I stammered. "Did you hear my thoughts? Um, are you really telepathic?"

  The corner of his lip curled into a sly grin. "Why not have a seat first?"

  Totally annoyed, I flopped angrily onto the couch across from him. "Frankly, I don't know what to think about any of this crap. Maybe you do have some sort of psychic abilities or it might just be that you're unusually talented at reading body language. After all, I was looking at the paintings."

  Ignoring my disoriented babbling, he pointed to pair of glasses and a crystal decanter sitting on the end table. "Would you join me for a glass of wine?"

  I felt a tad strange even thinking about accepting another drink from my kidnapper, especially since the last one made me go into convulsions and pass out, but I craved fluids in the worst way. "Um, it's only wine, right? It's not laced with drugs or poison?"

  He sniggered softly, as though my questions were truly absurd. "Yes, Luna, it's merely wine. I give you my word."

  Despite having no reason to trust him, the prospect of quenching my thirst was extremely appealing. And I'd survived the chalice; it's possible that he wasn't gonna poison me. If I ended up being wrong? Well, I guess I'd have to take my chances. Sigh. "Okay, I'll have a little. Even so, remember, I'm trusting you. If you screw me, I'll never make that mistake again."

  He filled a glass and then handed it to me with a warm smile. "No need to worry, child. I assure you it's safe. You're dehydrated, be reasonable and drink." After which, he poured one for himself and swallowed a couple mouthfuls prior to delving into the story. "I met your mother in 1986. She was young in those days, innocent, and not yet hardened by life's pressures. Her tire had gone flat several miles outside of Lyndon. As a result, she was alone on the side of the highway, thumbing a ride. And, obviously, I stopped to provide assistance..."

  "That sounds a little farfetched, doesn't it? For real, why would she hook up with some stranger she met on the side of the road?" My mom wasn't the spur of the moment type of gal. She tirelessly planned every aspect of our lives, a total Type A personality. I didn't share my logic with him, though. Instead, I took a tentative sip of the wine which, by the way, tasted wonderful. Unfortunately, the tiny amount barely relieved my thirst.

  "You see, there was a prophecy about your mother and me. Our most revered seer, Michel, had the vision in 1791. It occurred a few months after our ship docked in the new world. We'd just come over from Europe to start our settlement. Back then, there were only a small number of us, the nobility. And we lived together in the same house.

  "Well, late one evening, Michel came to my bedside following a long night of meditation. Now, before I speak of his foretelling you must understand that it will sound fairly cryptic. I promise I'm not being coy; this is merely the nature of things." He paused and raised his eyebrows in earnest, apparently waiting for a response. However, when I simply gaped back at him in wordless confusion, he pressed on.

  "So, he woke me and these were his words: 'The moon will find its mate in two hundred years less five, a half blood daughter shall rise the throne, on a path of red tinged white with purple and black, she'll steer our race into its rightful place.' " He concluded his story by taking an unconcerned swig of wine, as if he'd explained it all.

  "What?" I asked, squinting at him in agitation. Seriously, he might as well have been speaking in Greek or Japanese. "You're making absolutely no sense. 1791? And a prophecy? Whatever, dude. You must think I'm a damn fool." How long had he been off his medication? Or the more appropriate question, how long had his 'seer' been off his medication?

  Without missing a beat, Tsedaka adopted his indifferent monotone and added, "There's another piece of evidence, child. This I must show you." Promptly, he removed his suit coat and rolled his shirt sleeve to the elbow. Then he held his arm out to me, palm facing up. "Do you see my birthmark? It's a moon, the same as yours."

  "Um, uh..."

  He nodded at me reassuringly. "I know this'll take some getting used to and I'm sorry for that. Regardless, it's the mark of my royal line and it proves you're my daughter, unequivocally."

  In that moment, my emotions were a disoriented hodgepodge of outrage, horror, and sadness. The instant he'd done the big reveal, my mind had been flooded with a memory from when I was eight years old. As a part of a school project, I'd asked my mom why she'd chosen my name. And she'd said it was because of my crescent moon. "I, uh, my mom told me that my father and I shared the same birthmark. But I, uh, I mean, I'm not sure..."

  "I realize this is a lot to process."

  "Yeah, it definitely is." Head spinning, I stared awkwardly at my hands in an attempt at focusing my thoughts. "Okay, hypothetically, if you're my dad, then how is it that you were alive in the 1700s? And I still don't see how a prophecy, or whatever, helped you find my mom on the side of the road."

  I scrubbed my hands over my eyes in frustration. Perhaps this creepy dude actually was my father; he did share my birthmark. And, honestly, it was one sound piece of evidence. How many guys had the exact same moon on their forearm? Granted, he could've gotten a tattoo, but it would've been impossible for him to discover the information by digging through my trash. Nevertheless, he was also certifiable. And, father or not, I didn't feel safe around him. He had kidnapped and tortured me, after all.

  Tsedaka frowned in disappointment. "Luna, I must remind you that it was your choice to refuse the chalice. Therefore, it was also your choice to prolong your suffering in the changing room. It wasn't mine. You tortured yourself and it almost resulted in your death. If you remember correctly, I saved your life by forcing you to drink."

  "Piss off, asshole. You're..."

  "I know," he interjected curtly. "You hate me. I'm a crazy lunatic. A kidnapper. A torturer. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Yet, before your charming outburst resumes, I think it's most prudent for me to address your questions. I found your mother on the side of the road because, all that year, I search
ed for her. The first time our eyes met, I knew she'd carry my prophesied child. And, I lived during the 1700s because I'm what you'd call a vampire. More precisely, I'm the king of all vampires in the United States. And you are their princess, the sole heir to my throne."

  "A vampire? Yeah right. You're such a deluded freak." I stood up, spreading my arms wide. "Something's going on around here, I definitely believe that, but it's not vampires." I briefly feigned contemplation. "Oh, I know what it is! You escaped the psycho ward!"

  Unable to control myself for even a second more, I busted into a fit of giggles. Vampires? Prophecies? And I'm a vampire princess? Yeah, okay, in what alternate reality? I got to laughing hard enough that I almost peed my pants. I probably would have if my body hadn't been so dehydrated.

  "I know this will take some time," Tsedaka snapped, suddenly rising to his feet. "Come with me, I'll show you to your rooms." And with that, he turned and headed back down the tunnel.

  I schlepped along for several paces until recognition smacked me in the face. Rooms? Huh? I thought I was being released. "Wait a minute," I hissed, rage shivering up my spine. "You said that if I drank the stuff, I'd be able to leave. That was our deal. I'm not staying here."

  I tensed my muscles and readied myself to bolt, to escape, when his hand snaked out and latched onto my elbow tighter than a vice grip. "The deal," he growled, "was that if you drank from the chalice you'd have the tools to liberate yourself from the changing room." He lurched forward again at a brisk pace. "I held to my end of the bargain, child."

  "This is fucking bullshit!" I yelled, blood boiling. "You can't keep me here forever. People are bound to start looking for me. And one of these days somebody's gonna call the cops, you sick piece of crap. I'll..."