by Margaret Carter, Crystal Green, Erica Orloff, Patricia Rosemor
“What did you think?”
“If Alex hadn’t been there, I would have thought I was losing it. Burnout. Or the aftereffects of too much beer the night before.”
“What did Alex think?”
“We didn’t really talk about it. I mean, we stood there and kept scratching our heads. We couldn’t figure it out. But we’re guys. We’re not touchy-feely. Without even discussing it between us, we both sort of figured it was one of those things. But in the meantime, I had this little voice inside me, this gut instinct, that wondered if the guy was…you know, a vampire. Or else a really good magician.”
“I wish I wasn’t what I am.”
“I don’t.”
“How could you not?”
“Because if you weren’t immortal, we never would have met. You would have died a long time ago, and I would still be wondering why I can’t seem to make a relationship work.”
“Because you were waiting for me.”
“That’s right. I told myself on the way over here that I couldn’t have been wrong about you. We’re both on the same side.”
“We are. It’s just you do it within the confines of the law, and I handle justice within the parameters of my own code of justice.”
“So now what?”
“Now we go to bed.”
Flynn leaned in to kiss her. “So one day I’ll be old and you’ll still be young and beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t sound like a bad deal to me,” he whispered in her ear, kissing her neck and nuzzling into her hair. “You smell so fantastic.”
She smiled at him, feeling both happy and melancholy. One day, she would be young, still beautiful—if she survived Marco—and Flynn would be old. She would watch him slip from her, to illness or senility or just plain age. As she led him to her bedroom, she realized that being a vampire, for her, was about mourning. She mourned for the sun she could never see, and for the people she had lost over the years: her parents, John, Hsu, Shen…even silly George Ashton, the diplomat.
In her bedroom, Tessa bolted the doors, explaining how the room kept her safe. Then she undressed seductively, standing naked before him.
“I forgot how perfect you were.”
“Your turn. Are you going to show off your scars?”
“Sure. Sympathy points.”
Flynn unbuttoned his shirt. He was still bandaged at his incision sites. Tessa moved over to the bed, turning down the luxurious comforter. She lay down and patted the bed next to her.
Flynn slid into the bed next to her, rolling with difficulty onto his side. They were stomach to stomach, chest to chest.
“Just hold me, Flynn.” Having someone in bed with her felt strangely new. Tessa snuggled into Flynn.
A short time later, she heard his breathing grow rhythmic and heavy. She leaned up on one elbow. “Guess those painkillers caught up with you,” she whispered, moving his thick, curly hair from his brow. In his sleep, he looked innocent, peaceful. Tessa watched him for some time, hoping and wishing the peace they had behind closed doors could somehow continue into their waking lives.
“I think I may have turned into a vampire, too,” Flynn said to her at dusk of the following night. They had both slept through the rest of the previous night and most of the day.
“No, I think the painkillers had something to do with it. At the tail end of our conversation last night, you were pretty glassy-eyed.”
“I know. That’s always what amazes me about people who do drugs. They actually want to feel fucked up.”
“I’ll take my reality straight up.”
“Me too. Though a little less reality today wouldn’t be too bad. Jesus, I’m sore as all hell.”
Tessa looked at first one clock, then another, then a third. The sun had set, thanks to encroaching winter. The moon, a crescent moon according to the Farmer’s Almanac, had risen. She rolled over and slid into the crook of Flynn’s arm.
“I need to handle Marco alone, Flynn.” He clenched his jaw, and immediately she reached her fingertips up and stroked his cheek. “Don’t get so tense, Flynn. I’m not watching you get shot again. Or worse.”
“Look, you expect me to handle this vampire crap. Well, I’m a cop. It’s like I have internal radar that lets me know where and when to get involved.”
“Uh-huh. Like Spider-Man?”
“Kind of like that.”
“Well, in this case, when you get that ‘vibe,’ keep away from my club.”
“I can’t believe you’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. Just how would you kill a vampire?”
“I haven’t had to deal with that in the line of duty before. I suppose I’d shoot him through the heart.”
“Ordinary bullets won’t work.”
“Stake through the heart?”
“And how would you get him to hold still long enough to do that?”
“Get him while he’s sleeping.”
“Uh-huh. You saw the security system on my door, the locks I have. The twenty-first century is a vampire’s friend. High-tech security, light sensors.”
“I’d cover him in garlic powder.”
“Uh-huh. Like some kind of culinary challenge? Murder by garlic?”
“Won’t work?”
“Some vampires have a violent reaction to the ingestion of garlic—but some don’t.”
“Lemme guess. Marco doesn’t.”
“Gosh, you’re a bright boy,” she teased.
“What, then? How do I kill him?”
“You don’t. You leave that to me. In general, if you chop off their heads and destroy the head by burning it or burying it separately from the body, that usually does it. Fire…trap them in a raging fire. Or expose them to sunlight.”
“So I can tie him up and take him out in the sun? And that would kill him?”
“Yes. But you forget the strength of a vampire is twenty times that of a mortal. He’d hardly come willingly, and you’d be unable to tie him up.”
“Fine. Head chopping it is.”
“Flynn…just stay away.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t. It goes against every code I follow, every belief I have. My father ran into a burning building to save an infant on the third floor, knowing full well it was probably futile and he’d leave his own son without a father.”
“What happened?”
“Saved the baby by lowering her down in a makeshift setup with blankets. He got out just before the building collapsed. Died of smoke inhalation.”
“So you grew up without a father.”
“Yes and no. He wasn’t there in the sense that I had him around to play catch with, go to a Yankees game with. But he was always there, this presence. I was the son of a hero, and it has colored everything I’ve ever done the rest of my life.”
Tessa listened to Flynn and then laid her head on his chest, avoiding the bandaged area. “All right. But promise to be careful.”
“Careful’s my middle name.”
“No, it’s Salvatore.”
“What? How’d you find out? I hate my middle name.”
“Hospital bracelet.”
“No fair.” He squeezed her tight, making her laugh.
“You know, I could stay here all night, but I’ve been AWOL from my own club quite a bit lately. I better go downstairs tonight.”
“I’ll go home. Shower, shave. I’ll come back later or in the morning.”
“Not morning.”
“Right. Tomorrow night.”
They both climbed out of bed. Flynn fished something out of his pocket. “Here.” He handed it to her. It was a small electronic device on the end of a nylon necklace.
“This won’t go with my outfit,” Tessa deadpanned.
“Very funny, wise guy. Do you even know what it is?”
She turned it over in the palm of her hand. “No.”
“It’s something detectives use. You press this.” He show
ed her a button. “And it’s like a call alert. I have a beeper and it will go off as an SOS. A 9-1-1. Meaning you’re in trouble. I’ll be the only one who gets the message, and I’ll come right away.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
“Well, I’ve gotta keep tabs on you. This is some serious shit.”
Tessa walked him to the door of her loft, kissed him goodbye, then went back in her bedroom. She placed the electronic gadget on her dresser. All these years, she’d managed to defend herself just fine alone. She wasn’t about to use Flynn’s device. And if she had her way, Marco would be dead long before Flynn ever returned to her club.
Chapter 22
Tessa watched her rack of designer clothes spin around and decided vintage, perhaps, was not the best choice—just in case. She was jumpy. Around every corner she half expected to confront Marco or Jules or some half-turned freak.
She dressed in leather pants and low-heeled black boots, topping them with a black cashmere sweater. She twisted her hair on top of her head in a ballerina’s topknot and went to her dining room table. There, she replayed the torturous scene of Hack’s death. The fleeting shadow was Marco; she was sure of it.
She tried to imagine Hack alive, but couldn’t. The first time she had viewed the clip, she had felt a rush of insanity and fevered anguish. Now, she had gone to a place inside herself that was cold. Hack would be avenged. She went into her do jang and took two swords. She’d hang them on the wall of her office, ready and waiting should she need them.
Staying in that mind-set, she descended the elevator to the club and went into her office. She leaned the swords against the wall, settled into her desk chair and turned on her computer. A short time later Jorge knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Jorge greeted her warmly, but his eyes were wary.
“What is it, Jorge?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to say welcome back.”
“I see it in your eyes. I know you want to say something.”
Jorge inhaled deeply, as if trying to choose the right words.
“Come on. Tell me.”
“I know you’re in some kind of trouble.”
That’s an understatement, Tessa thought. “Maybe.”
“I come to you with my problems all the time. When I wanted to adopt—even though I was exonerated, we were having a tough time—I came and talked to you about it. When Delorean had a lump in her breast, I came and talked to you about it. And Cool…”
“What about Cool?”
“When his mom died, he came and talked to you about it. When he broke up with that girl—the one who had the drug problem, who overdosed over him—he came and talked to you about it.”
“I know. You know I care about all of you. I don’t have any family. The Night Flight is my family.”
“But you don’t talk to us.”
Tessa pushed her chair back from the desk and looked straight at Jorge. “I’ve been so accustomed to my solitude, Jorge, that I’m not used to relying on other people. There’s a score I have to settle—and I don’t want anyone else I love getting hurt. When I can tell you about it, I will. And that may be soon.”
“Promise?”
“Buddhists vow not to speak untruths, Jorge. I’m learning to rely on my mortal family.”
“Your what?”
“Nothing.” She waved her hand. “I promise if I need your help, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Okay,” Jorge said hesitantly.
“I promise.”
“You know I was in prison.”
“Yes. I was aware that made it onto your job application.”
“Yeah, well, I hung tough. So don’t you be worrying that I can’t handle whatever action comes this way.”
“I never doubt that. I just want you all to be safe.”
Jorge left her office, and Tessa looked at her watch. She gave it five minutes before Cool came and handed her some variation of Jorge’s speech. She smiled to herself. The two men were as different as two people could be. Cool was a ladies’ man, a white kid from a rough neighborhood who found an escape from his alcoholic parents in music. Jorge was a Puerto Rican from Spanish Harlem. His family was intact and loving and never missed a court hearing when he was unjustly accused. He was deeply religious, devoted to one woman, and a dedicated family man. He worked at the Night Flight Club because of his size and his keen eye—not for the music. He hated what Cool played. But they had become friends.
True to form, Cool arrived within ten minutes.
“You got a minute, Tess?”
She leaned back, bemused. “Don’t you have to man the turntables?”
He smiled. “Listen…” He moved over to a speaker in her office with volume control. He turned up the sound from the club. “That’s an extended play Moby song. I’ve got eleven minutes.”
He lowered the volume again and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Let me guess, Cool…you’re worried about me.”
“You could say that. You’ve been outta sight, boss lady. We’ve been worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit. You in some kind of trouble? You…you having some trouble with the mob?”
Tessa burst out laughing. In New York City she was used to dealing with shakedowns from everyone from the sanitation union to the Teamsters to the mob. But she never caved. “No, darling. I am not in trouble with the mob.”
“Okay. ’cause whatever it is, Jorge and I got your back.”
“I appreciate that,” she said sincerely. She had underestimated their devotion. “And I promise if I need your help, I’ll let you know.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
“I better go before Moby runs out.”
“Dead air would not be a good thing.”
“I hear you.”
“Yeah, well just make sure I hear you.”
“Good one.”
Cool left her office, and Tessa looked at the plasma television on the far wall. She picked up her remote and tuned it to channel 99. Immediately, the club’s dance floor came into view. Plugging in channels 100, 101 and 102, she was afforded views of the hallway by the bathrooms, the area by the DJ booth, and the velvet rope.
By clicking on a button in the lower left of the remote, she could zero in on any area of the picture on the plasma screen and zoom. Suddenly a couple grinding on the floor was the focus, or, with another click of the button, she could see the up-close, glassy eyes of someone high outside the velvet rope.
Tessa saw a shadow pass the dance floor. After a century, she knew better than to doubt her instinct and vision. She thought of Hack’s analogy. “Bull’ seye,” she whispered.
Using the plasma screen and the remote, she tried to capture different views of her club using picture-in-picture technology. Soon, her screen was divided into four views, each one a different perspective. But she could never focus on that shadow. It was always a blur. A flash.
She remembered, before she ever met Marco, her eyes occasionally playing tricks on her. As a mortal, she would convince herself that the blur on the corner of her vision field was tiredness. Her eyes playing tricks. But now she knew it was something far more sinister—the shadows of evil at play amongst humanity.
Tonight was the night. She could feel it. The shadows had gathered at Night Flight. And she was ready.
Tony Flynn looked around his apartment. After a night in Tessa’s place, it was truly depressing. It wasn’t just that he had bad taste—all right, perhaps his taste was bad, he conceded to himself—but he had so little. It was barren. No pictures on the wall. A single couch, a television on a makeshift table made from plywood and concrete blocks. A small card table and chairs for the occasional poker night. It wasn’t a home. And most of all, Tessa wasn’t here.
When he had arrived back at his apartment, he’d showered and shaved, put on some fresh clothes. He then settled on his couch and mindlessly flipped through channels on television, even
tually settling on a basketball game. But his mind kept going back to Tessa and the unbelievable, yet undeniable truth that she was a vampire.
For a minute, Flynn thought he was going crazy.
“Next thing I know, I’ll be seeing Spider-Man,” he muttered to himself. But then he would remember the guy on the roof and the two dead hookers.
He and, he assumed, Alex, had convinced themselves they’d been seeing things. They didn’t even report the guy on the roof who disappeared into a cloud of fog. For one thing, they’d both probably be sent to the departmental shrink. For another, they just found a way to forget it. The human mind worked in mysterious ways. Somehow the guy on the roof was too difficult to comprehend, so he and Williams blamed the whole thing on fatigue. It was the same thing with Tessa. Part of his brain wanted to shut down. There was no way what she said was true. But then, he knew what he saw at that warehouse.
Flynn was nothing if not pragmatic. Why, he finally asked himself, was a vampire impossible to believe? Why was it any harder to believe in a vampire than it was to believe in a man who would lie next to his sleeping, pregnant wife each night while underneath his yard lay a kidnapped girl, his sexual plaything?
And the Charles Moreno case hadn’t been the worst. It had just been the first case to really test his faith in a God, in humanity.
Over the years, he’d seen a lot of things he preferred to forget. Most of his waking hours, he did forget. But then he’d come back to his apartment and try to sleep, and the images haunted him. A little girl raped. A mother who drowned her infant while high on crack. A wife-beater who knocked all the teeth out of the mother of his children. Kids on crack as young as eleven. Hookers dying of AIDS. Young men selling blowjobs, homeless when their families threw them out for being gay. Mentally ill sleeping on the streets. Children murdered in their beds.
Was a vampire any more unreal than the depravity of man?
Flynn rubbed his eyes. He picked up the phone and dialed Tessa’s cell.
“Hello?”
“It’s me. And I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. But stay put and get some rest.”
“You wearing your calling device?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, let’s test it out. Beep me.”