She studied him.
“You need a good night’s sleep.”
THEY SPENT AN HOUR in a dim concourse bar and then boarded the plane, which turned out to be unusually empty—no doubt because all the sane people in the world knew better than to climb into something that would in turn climb into that sky.
That insane sky.
The liftoff turned out to be even worse than Teffinger envisioned. The plane lifted off the runway and then got slammed back down immediately by a strong gust that kept it pinned to the asphalt. Then it lifted again, just before it got to the end of the runway, and bucked wildly from side to side.
Then it climbed.
Into a mean sky.
The lights of Denver got smaller and smaller and then disappeared altogether as the aircraft headed over the Rocky Mountains. Ten minutes later the twitching suddenly stopped and the plane got so still that Teffinger may as well have been at home on his couch.
No one was in their entire row, all the way across.
No one was in front of them.
Or behind them.
No one could see them from their seats.
London turned off all the overhead lights in that area of the plane. Then she put a blanket over Teffinger, unfastened his belt and slipped her hand into his pants.
“Do you want to do it in the bathroom or right here?” she asked.
Good question.
Right here would be a lot more comfortable.
Everyone in the plane seemed to be sleeping.
The flight attendant hardly ever came around.
Plus she looked like she’d understand, even if she caught them.
“Let’s try here,” Teffinger said.
London put a blanket over herself.
And wiggled out of her pants and thong.
Then she stood up.
Looked around.
Saw no one.
And climbed on top of Teffinger, making sure they were under the blanket, just in case.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Day Six—April 17
Sunday Evening
______________
RAVE AND PARKER took a cab from the LaGuardia Airport into the city just as the sun set and the lights came on.
“I’m jealous,” Parker said.
“Why?”
“There are certain things that you wish you could do again for the first time,” he said. “Seeing New York is one of them. Seeing it at night is even a bigger one.”
Rave squeezed his hand.
“I feel so small,” she said.
“That’s how it always starts,” he said. “Later it will make you feel big.”
Rave doubted that.
She felt like an ant.
Insignificant.
She could vanish off the face of the earth right now and the city wouldn’t change an iota.
“How could it possibly make me feel big?”
Parker cocked his head.
“Easy,” he said. “There’s so much to do and see—the shows, the architecture, the whole sensory experience that comes with just being here. You can do more things here, which means you can have a fuller life; and when you have a fuller life, you feel bigger. You feel bigger because you are bigger, inside.”
The shows.
She pictured herself on stage.
On a big stage.
With a sea of faces hanging on her every breath.
“I want to play here someday,” she said.
“That’ll be your choice.”
“You think?”
He nodded.
“There are ten million radios in this city,” he said. “Later this summer, every one of them will be playing the song you wrote this morning. Next summer, they’ll be playing one you haven’t even written yet.”
He chuckled, as if he’d just heard a joke.
“What?” she asked, curious.
“I’m not going to start being nice to you just because you’re going to be rich and famous someday,” he said.
She laughed.
“You’re too much.”
She turned back to the lights.
And realized that right now, this minute, she wanted to live more than she ever had before; there was too much life ahead of her to die.
She held Parker’s hand, leaned into his ear and whispered, “Don’t let me die.”
He squeezed her hand and said, “I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She exhaled.
THE CAB DROPPED THEM OFF at an incredibly luxurious building in Manhattan’s upper west side. They walked across a vaulted contemporary lobby to a reception area where Parker told a nicely dressed woman, “My name is Parker. I’m here to see Twist Anderson.”
The woman nodded.
Expecting him.
“Floor twenty-seven,” she said.
“Thanks.”
Three minutes later, they stepped out of an elevator and knocked on one of four fancy doors on the 27th Floor—2702.
A woman opened the door.
A woman about Rave’s age—extremely attractive; short, stylish blond hair; blue eyes; a thin pricey dress that clung to a curvy body; a glass of white wine in her left hand; slightly intoxicated.
“You’re looking good, Twist,” Parker said.
She said, “You too,” gave him a hug, and then looked deep into Rave’s eyes.
Then, to Rave’s amazement, the woman kissed her.
On the lips.
Rave must have had a look on her face because the woman laughed, grabbed her hand, and said, “Come in.”
The space was huge, with lofty ceilings and a wall of windows that showcased a galaxy of city lights. Furniture was minimal and beige. Splashes of color came from strategically placed pillows, lamps and artwork. A white piano occupied a corner.
Two women sat on a couch at the far end of the room.
Drinking wine.
Smiling.
Watching.
Suddenly Parker kissed Rave and said, “Enjoy. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Her heart raced.
“You’re leaving?”
He chuckled and said, “Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.”
Chapter Seventy
Day Six—April 17
Sunday Night
______________
OVER EXPENSIVE WHITE WINE, Rave learned a lot in a very short time. Twist was a vampire by night and an associate attorney in a mid-sized law firm by day. Unlike Parker and London, who always referred to themselves as bloodline descendents, Twist called herself a vampire. Rave wasn’t sure if that was just a shortcut in the woman’s dialogue or whether it meant something more.
Twist was actually her real name.
Twist Anderson.
One of the other women—the one with the thick red hair and the pale indoor skin—was Katherine Zale, nickname Kat.
Kat wasn’t a vampire.
She was Twist’s lover.
And a good choice, at that. The woman oozed sex in a way that Rave couldn’t quite put her finger on. She was attractive but not over-the-top stunning; feminine but not overly endowed; in good physical shape but not hard-bodied; articulate but not scholarly. Maybe it was her eyes. There was something about the woman’s eyes that seemed to be able to look right into your soul. However she did it, the fact remained—she oozed sensuality.
The other woman was Natalie Fox.
She was a bloodline descendent in her mid-thirties; petite; with long raven hair, engaging green eyes and lots of expensive jewelry.
Rave liked all three of them.
But if she had to live with one of them on an island forever, it would be Twist.
All three of them were longstanding acquaintances with Parker, London and Forrest.
Rest his soul.
“THERE ARE A COUPLE OF REASONS Parker brought you here,” Twist said. “The biggest reason was to find out if we accept you. I think I can speak for all of us by saying tha
t we’re already past that.”
“No problem,” Kat said.
The other woman, Natalie, nodded.
Rave didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but did know that she’d rather be accepted than not; especially since she already, mysteriously, felt a connection with them.
“One of the other reasons is to find out your views on immortality,” Twist said.
The word startled Rave.
“Immortality?”
Twist nodded.
“We’ve done a lot of research on immortality,” Twist said. “The old vampires weren’t immortal in the way that you hear about in the movies. They couldn’t grow a new hand if it got cut off. They couldn’t self-heal a wound if someone stuck a knife in their stomach. They didn’t have any magical powers like that. They were just as susceptible as everyone else to mortal wounds and the effects of outside influences on the body. And, it goes without saying, they couldn’t change shapes, or fly, or turn themselves into bats or anything like that.”
Rave listened.
“Okay.”
“But they were different from others in one important way,” Twist said. “You’ve heard that they lived for hundreds of years. That part of the myth is actually true.”
Rave studied her.
To see if she was joking.
She wasn’t.
“Really?”
“There are several well documented cases,” Twist said. “There was something about their internal makeup that was extremely resistant to aging. If they didn’t suffer a mortal fatality, they could in fact live for a very long time. How long, we don’t know, because they eventually all got killed. But a very, very long time, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll be honest with you,” Rave said. “That’s hard for someone like me to believe.”
“Is it?” Twist asked. “Think about it. Take a five-year-old kid. He doesn’t suddenly wake up the next day fifty years old. It takes time. There’s a degenerative process that takes place.”
Rave nodded.
That was true.
“Everyone in the world is used to a degenerative process that roughly works the same on all of us,” she said. “When we’re five, we’re young. When we’re eighty, we’re old. But the bottom line is that there’s something in our makeup that causes us to get old at a certain rate. The only thing different between us and the old vampires is that they had something in their makeup that changed the rate. And like I said before, we don’t know how much it changed. Maybe it extended the human cycle three-fold; or maybe it was ten-fold. We don’t know. But we do know for a fact that the rate was different, dramatically different—different enough that they could literally live well over a hundred years and still look young.”
That actually made sense.
And Rave said so.
“Asian women are a good modern-day example,” Twist added. “It’s not that hard to find a 60-year-old Asian woman who doesn’t look or behave or feel any older than a 30-year-old American woman. Aging is not uniform. It’s not set in stone. It’s not one-size-fits-all. Mortality is not one-size-fits-all.”
“True.”
“Of course, the most obvious difference in life cycles is the one between the species. Humans have a much longer cycle than dogs which have a much longer cycle than insects. Compared to a fruit fly, human beings are almost immortal.”
Rave cocked her head.
“So where are we going with all this?”
“We’re talking about immortality,” Twist said. “And let me back up for a minute and say that immortality actually isn’t exactly the right word. I don’t believe that even the old vampires would live forever. I believe that they had a natural life cycle, like every other living creature, that would eventually end even in the absence of a mortal wound. But since their cycle was so long, let’s just refer to them, for the sake of discussion, as being immortal when compared to normal human beings.”
“All right.”
“SO THE QUESTION IS THIS,” Twist said. “How do you feel about immortality? Would you take it if someone handed it to you?”
Rave laughed.
“Sure,” she said. “Give me a handful.”
“I’m serious,” Twist said. “How would you feel if you could live for two or three or four or five hundred years?”
Rave cocked her head.
“Let me see if I have this right,” she said. “I could live for, say, three hundred years if I want to; but I could also kill myself at any time, if I chose?”
“Right.”
“Meaning that I wouldn’t be forced to remain alive if I didn’t choose to,” she said.
“Right.”
“And you want to know how I’d feel about that, if it was an option?”
“Right.”
“You’re basically talking about the fountain of youth,” Rave said. “I can’t imagine a rational person who wouldn’t take that in a heartbeat, if it was an actual option.”
Rave drained the rest of the wine from her glass.
Twist filled it back up.
Then hers, Kat’s and Natalie’s too.
“Here’s the reason I ask,” Twist said. “Bloodline descendents of vampires have the immortality gene inside them—sleeping and dormant, but there.”
Rave sipped wine.
And couldn’t argue.
Conceptually, at least.
“The secret is to wake it up,” Twist said.
Rave smiled.
“That would be nice,” she said. “Except how do you do that?”
“We’re working on it,” Twist said. “In fact, we think we’ve already partially succeeded. Parker is taking the lead in the whole thing.”
“My Parker?”
Twist nodded.
“After we learn how to fully wake it up, and become immortal if you will, the next step is to figure out how to bring others with us.”
She ran her fingers through Kat’s hair.
Then kissed her.
“So how are you waking it up?” Rave asked.
TWIST STOOD UP, grabbed Rave’s hand, and led her to the bedroom.
The three women removed Rave’s clothes.
Every stitch.
And laid her on her back on the mattress, with her arms stretched out to her sides and her palms facing the ceiling.
Rave didn’t protest.
She felt safe.
She felt loved.
“The secret is in the blood,” Twist said.
The other women removed their clothes. Then Twist did something to each of Rave’s forearms, and to her stomach; something that didn’t hurt but started a small trickle of blood at each location.
Then the three women sucked her blood.
Slowly.
Lovingly.
Rave stared at the ceiling for a while.
Then closed her eyes.
And concentrated on the sensation of the women’s lips and mouths on her skin; especially Twist’s mouth, which was on Rave’s stomach.
She had never felt more secure.
Or more loved.
Or more right.
And realized that her life had changed, yet again.
Chapter Seventy-One
Day Seven—April 18
Monday Morning
______________
MONDAY MORNING, TEFFINGER got up early and jogged down Market Street in downtown San Francisco as a cold ocean wind did its best to chill him to the bone. He planned on doing three miles, but only did two. Even now, before dawn, the city was buzzing with drivers who were no doubt trying to beat the even more oppressive traffic to come.
Because of the time constraints of last night, Teffinger hadn’t called ahead to tell anyone from homicide that he was coming in this morning.
So he was prepared for a little delay when he showed up.
He checked in with the receptionist, explained who he was and that he was investigating the disappearance of a woman by the name of Jena Vellone in Denver, and got directed to the he
ad of the homicide unit, a thin, pale man with a twitchy right eye.
A man by the name of Mark Yorke.
A man who didn’t impress Teffinger much.
A man with a weak jaw.
A man who didn’t drink coffee.
Or offer any to Teffinger.
Teffinger kept his friendliest and most professional face on as he explained the situation, anxious to get out of the guy’s office and into a room with the file.
The file on Barbara Rocker.
Who disappeared last year.
And who had been on a billboard, the same as Jena Vellone.
“Time is of the essence,” Teffinger emphasized.
The thin man stood up, smiled, escorted Teffinger to a bench in the hall and said, “Just let me make a few quick phone calls. There’s coffee in the kitchen, which is right over there.”
“Beautiful, thanks.”
Teffinger got a cup.
Drank it on the bench.
Got a second cup.
And drank it on the bench.
THEN THE THIN MAN OPENED HIS DOOR and said, “Come on in.”
Finally.
“We have a problem,” Yorke said.
Teffinger wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the corner of the man’s mouth raised just a touch as he spoke, as if he had started to smile and then forced it down.
“What kind of problem?”
“I talked to your chief, a man by the name of F.F. Tanker, just to verify that everything is on the up and up,” Yorke said. “He said that the case you say you’re investigating, involving Jena Vellone, doesn’t belong to Denver.”
Teffinger swallowed.
Tanker would have had no choice but to say that.
He couldn’t tell anyone that Teffinger was on the case only in an unofficial capacity.
“He said that the case actually belongs to Cherry Hills,” Yorke added. “So I called them up. They told me that you don’t have authority to be investigating the matter. In fact, according to them, you’re actually a person of interest. You were the last person to see the missing woman alive. And her blood was found in your vehicle.”
Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) Page 17