Seize the Night

by Christopher Golden

  Since then I’d followed Claudio’s instructions to the letter, hoping for a loophole.

  I’d first met Claudio in his home. I’d been expecting an office building when I got the call to set up the appointment, but it turned out that he did business out of his Manhattan brownstone. I was wary—I was hungry for a job, not stupid—but I’d relaxed after seeing other people bustling around the requisite amount of office equipment. Besides, I’d known professionals ranging from literary agent to lawyer who conducted business out of their homes. It was, however, an indication that this might not be the kind of corporate-career job I was hoping for. The next was Claudio’s response when his secretary escorted me to his private office.

  “Mr. Mendoza?” I said, offering my hand.

  He blinked several times. “You’re Taylor Blake?”

  I suppressed a sigh, realizing that he’d assumed I was a man. “That’s right.” I was still holding out my hand, and he rose to take it limply, as if my female bones might snap from a firm grip.

  He was shorter than I was, even if I hadn’t been wearing high-heeled pumps, and not particularly attractive. His teeth were yellowed, and his skin pale and pockmarked. If I’d met him socially, I would have passed him by, but I was there to interview for a job, not to choose a lover, and his clothes, watch, and overdone jewelry said money.

  I needed a job. Badly.

  I’d taken two pay cuts in order to survive multiple rounds of layoffs at my old company, only to be out of work anyway once the place shut down, and with only a skimpy severance package. The ones who’d been laid off earlier turned out to be the lucky ones—they had first shot at the jobs in our field. By the time I hit the market, I was burned out by that last year of frantically trying to keep the company going and tainted by association with a failed firm. Now that my job hunt had stretched into its ninth month, I was more than a little desperate.

  Claudio and I sat, and he referred to the résumé on the desk in front of him to go through the usual queries about background and previous experience. I wasn’t overly impressed with him. For one, he needed me to explain common business terminology like downsized and outsourced. For another, he asked too many questions about my personal life.

  I shouldn’t have answered of course, but he had an accent, South American I thought, and I knew that business was run differently in other countries. I’d once had an elderly Swiss man ask why he should hire me when I was going to quit my job to get married and have babies within a couple of years, and a British headhunter had wanted to know what my father did for a living, as if he could determine my place in the class system that way. So telling Claudio that I was single and without close family didn’t seem too far out of the ordinary.

  I did dodge his questions about other relationships, but that wasn’t so much observing proper boundaries as it was not wanting to admit that my friends were primarily work-related. That meant I’d had to lay off many of those I’d socialized with, hardly a recipe for bonding. As for the rest, contacts who couldn’t help me find a job were of no use to me. Once I had my career moving forward again, I would make time for such things.

  Finally, Claudio got down to describing the position he was filling, and I knew immediately that it wasn’t what I’d hoped for. I’m an executive, and I’m at my best when working with a large staff and a good number of direct reports. What he wanted was a business manager—a high-level one, given what he told me about his finances, but hardly something to help build my future. The person he hired would be working directly for him, sharing his secretary, without a single direct report.

  Still, it was a job I could do in my sleep, and I tried to wax poetic about what I would be able to accomplish for him, but I could tell he wasn’t enthused. I knew damned well it wasn’t my résumé, because if anything, I was overqualified, and since Claudio was so out of touch with business, I couldn’t imagine he was bothered by my association with a dead firm. When he remarked that the previous manager had been a man, I could only conclude that he was uncomfortable with the idea of having a woman handle his money.

  Since I wasn’t planning a sex-change operation, I didn’t really expect to hear from Claudio again, so I was elated when he called two weeks later and asked for another meeting. Apparently he’d reconsidered the idea of working with a female business manager, because he requested that I come back to the brownstone late that afternoon. I hesitated just long enough to make it sound as if I were juggling other appointments, when in fact none of the headhunters I’d spoken to were even returning my calls.

  The brownstone was much quieter that day, which I assumed was because of the hour, but I was too excited to worry about it, even when the secretary popped in during the meeting to announce that she was on her way out. The discussion with Claudio went for two solid hours as he posed specific questions about what I would do in various circumstances. He gave me far more detailed information about the businesses he owned than he would have if he hadn’t already decided to trust me.

  At last, Claudio said that he’d found no one whose business acumen could match mine. Moreover, he needed someone he could work with closely, on a personal level, and he was sure he and I would be completely compatible. I could hardly believe my luck when he handed me a formal offer letter, with a salary better than what I’d made at my previous job and substantially beyond what I was willing to settle for at that point.

  I told him that I’d have to think it over—I knew better than to sign a contract without reading it carefully. There was one provision I immediately had concerns about: a probation period of up to six months. I was going to suggest that I come back the next day to discuss final questions but then thought of the pile of overdue-payment notices waiting at my condo. The sooner I signed, the sooner I could pay those bills. So even though it was a rookie mistake, I said, “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I’m extremely excited about this position, and I’m happy to accept right now.” I signed on the dotted line.

  “Splendid!” he said, looking delighted. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight to celebrate?”

  One rookie mistake was enough. Going out with the new boss was no way to start a professional relationship. “I wish I could,” I lied, “but I have plans tonight. Maybe drinks instead?” I’d passed a likely-looking bar half a block away, so I wouldn’t even have to get into a car with him. And of course, had we made it there, I would have known better than to leave my drink unguarded with a man I didn’t know well.

  All my common sense added up to no protection at all.

  Claudio said, “A drink would be perfect.” Then he stood and looked into my eyes.

  The next thing I knew, I was in that room in that bed, smelling Claudio all over me.

  I went to the shower. My breakfast was waiting, and though my stomach rumbled at the sight of the pouch on the table, I knew if I slurped it down, I might not stay awake long enough to finish bathing. Claudio was drugging me, though either he was using progressively less or I was developing a tolerance, because I stayed up longer and longer each day. Still, I didn’t want to take the chance.

  The bathroom was small, with a shower stall instead of a tub, but I’d never run out of hot water and there was always plenty of high-end soap, shampoo, and towels. A couple of times I’d found perfume, but I’d decided I’d be damned if I’d make myself smell good for him. So I poured it down the toilet, then peed on top of it before flushing, a meaningless act of defiance that had cheered me for all of ten seconds. Apparently perfume was optional, because I hadn’t been punished for it. So far, it was the only loophole I’d found in the instructions, but that didn’t stop me from trying to find more.

  I spent my usual hour in the shower, took my time drying off, and brushed my teeth thoroughly, even though there was no sign that Claudio had taken me in the mouth the previous night. Then I put on the short red robe hanging in the bathroom. The only other choices were going naked or wrapping a towel around myself.

  Back to the room, where my choices w
ere nearly as limited: sit on the bed, sit on the floor, sit on the chair. Or I could run around the room, screaming and yelling and generally going berserk. I’d tried that more times than I cared to admit. Unless I destroyed something in the process, no notice was taken, so I’d given up that approach.

  Mostly I sat in the plain wooden chair and read.

  There was a stack of magazines on the equally utilitarian nearby table, all months-old issues of the Harvard Business Review, Bloomberg, Fortune, Forbes. They were the kinds of magazines Claudio would want a business manager to keep up with, so my inclination was to ignore them, but it was either read them, stare at the walls, or cry some more.

  I was sick to death of crying. I read.

  When I could stand the thirst no longer, I picked up the plump, silver pouch that held my meal. It looked like nothing so much as an oversized kids’ fruit-flavored drink, without the colorful label. There was even a straw taped to one side that I punched into it. I had no idea what the drink was. I’d spilled some on my finger once so I could look at it, but it was just red liquid, like fruit punch or something. But the taste . . . Ambrosia. Liquid crack. Pure, orgasmic pleasure. And apparently unexpectedly nutritious, because I never felt hungry afterward, though I wouldn’t have minded something to chew on.

  I could have made a fortune in a matter of months if I’d been allowed to develop that drink as a product—with nothing better to do, I toyed with new business models, marketing plans, advertising ideas. Of course, it was addictive as hell, which would be a negative in the marketplace, but I thought we could get around that. Maybe that was why I was there—a lab rat to see how long I could survive on the stuff. It had occurred to me that the rape was only incidental to Claudio, which infuriated me. I should have poured my meal down the toilet, but I couldn’t force myself to do it. Drinking it was the only bright spot in my day.

  If I ever got out, I’d see if there was an applicable twelve-step program. In the meantime, I squeezed every last drop into my greedy mouth, and licked my lips afterward.

  Some interval later, I realized that I’d read through most of the magazines, so a large part of the day must have gone. Yet I was just starting to feel the inevitable lethargy. It was definite. I was indeed becoming accustomed to the drug Claudio was using on me. I wasn’t sure what difference it made to my situation, but it still felt like a victory of sorts.

  I left the magazines stacked on the table, then stretched out on the floor, knowing I would be asleep in seconds. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but I never went willingly to that bed.

  When I awoke, for the first time in ages, I wasn’t alone. Somebody was beside me in bed.

  No, he was on top of me.

  In me.

  I screamed, and to my shock, so did he. I jerked back, and once he was out of me, I shoved him away as hard as I could. He seemed to almost fly off the bed, and his head slammed against the wall. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor.

  It wasn’t him.

  It was a man, but it wasn’t Claudio.

  I stared at him. I’d known other people came into the room while I slept because somebody had to clean, empty the hamper, restock the towels and toiletries, and of course dress me in those Halloween-party clothes. And I’d assumed it was someone other than Claudio because I couldn’t picture him mopping a floor, but it had never occurred to me that he wasn’t the one violating me.

  When the man didn’t move, I cautiously scooted out of bed, finally noticing that my costume du jour was a cheerleader getup. The panties that went with my bright-red-and-white uniform were on the floor, and I stopped to pull them on. I craved that small measure of protection.

  The rapist was naked. He was also out cold, and I saw a good-quality pinstripe suit, dress shirt, and boxers folded neatly on the chair. Still keeping one eye on the man, I rummaged through his belongings and could have cried when I found a cell phone. It had a password set, but of course every phone allows for emergency calls.

  Only there was no reception, none at all. I carried it to every corner of the room, even into the bathroom, hoping for one lousy bar, but there was nothing.

  I also had his wallet, and that gave me his name—Martin James—and a glimpse of some family photos. To my disgust, there was a picture of him and a teenage girl dressed much as I was at that moment. Of course I’d already known he was a sick bastard, so that wasn’t particularly useful information.

  Since I was fairly sure that my actions would be deemed worthy of punishment, even if the instructions hadn’t specifically said not to coldcock a rapist, I decided there was no reason I couldn’t continue to break rules.

  I ripped Martin’s powder-blue shirt into strips so I could tie him up. It tore easily—his clothes must have been cheaper than they looked. Even with him bound, I felt the need for a weapon, so I broke the leg off of the chair. It, too, was ridiculously easy to destroy. I was surprised it had held my weight as long as it had.

  Martin started to come to just a few minutes later, and the pained groans he made would have made me feel sorry for him if he weren’t a rapist. As it was, I was tempted to beat on him with my chair leg. I would have, if I hadn’t wanted answers.

  He finally managed to focus on me, and turned white. “You’re alive.”

  “No thanks to you. Was killing me the next part of your plan?”

  “What? No! You were already dead!”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Anemone & Lime guarantees dead women! What kind of rip-off is this?” He was actually indignant.

  “I’m so sorry to disappoint you,” I said as insincerely as I could manage. “Where are we?”

  “Are you kidding me? Look, I don’t know what you people are trying to pull, but you damned well better give me my money back.”

  “You actually paid to rape me?”

  “No, I paid to have sex with a dead woman. You’re not dead, so I want a goddamned refund.”

  “Anemone & Lime is a whorehouse?” Suddenly I pictured a whole procession of men taking turns with me—that was even worse than Claudio using me repeatedly. My stomach roiled, and I was grateful I hadn’t eaten solid food for so long.

  Martin continued to rant. “Just because I was late for my appointment doesn’t mean you can get away with cheating me. I paid big bucks—up front—for this service, and I want what I paid for.” He jerked at his tied hands. “I’m not some pathetic bottom paying for Mommy to spank me, so you’re going to untie me right now!”

  “What I’m going to do,” I said calmly, “is ram this chair leg up your asshole unless you answer my questions. Is that perfectly clear?”

  He swallowed visibly, twice. “Uh . . . yeah. I mean . . . yes, Mistress.”

  Fine, let him think I was a dominatrix gone rogue, as long as I got the information I needed. “So, Martin James, you’re a necrophiliac?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “And it was your understanding that I was dead, and available for your use. Correct?”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to ask how this facility had obtained such a fresh specimen?” As he struggled to come up with an answer that wouldn’t result in immediate sodomy, I said, “No, strike that. It’s not important. The fact is that I was drugged, not dead.”

  But he shook his head. “Lady . . . I mean, Mistress, I drove an ambulance to get through college, and I can tell a dead body from a live one. You weren’t breathing. You had no pulse. Your limbs were completely loose. You were dead. And then, all of a sudden, you weren’t.”

  “That’s impossible,” I scoffed. He started to say something, but I held up one hand to shush him so I could think. Martin had been completely convinced that I was dead, and given his background and proclivities, he wouldn’t have been easy to fool. Besides, I’d never heard of a drug that would be convincing enough—certainly nothing that could be used repeatedly without horrifying side effects—and I’d been drugged every night for as long as I�
��d been in that room, however long that was. I remembered Martin’s phone, and checked it. Then I blinked. “Is this date right?”

  He looked confused but nodded.

  If he was telling the truth—and I thought he was too afraid of my chair leg to lie—I’d been in that room for nearly six months. Six months. And in all that time, I’d been subsisting on nothing but a liquid diet. Even now, I was craving a pouch of that red liquid. “What time is it?”

  “Um, you’ve got my phone.”

  “Right.” I picked it up and checked it. It said five thirty-eight. “You came to a whorehouse the first thing in the morning?”

  “What? No, it’s nighttime. My appointment was at three, but—”

  I held up my hand to quiet him again. Had that been my real schedule all along? Drugged to sleep all day, awake only at night?

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in business, it’s to face the facts. What I had were the following: one, I’d appeared dead and suddenly I wasn’t; two, I was awake during the night and sleeping all day; three, I’d apparently survived for nearly six months with no food other than a liquid. A red liquid.

  It was impossible, unbelievable, but either I was insane or it was true. And I refused to believe that I was insane.

  Before I could ask anything else, there was a knock on the door and a male voice said, “Mr. James? Time’s up! I’ve fudged it for as long as I could.”

  Catching Martin’s eye, I whispered, “Tell him you’re almost ready to go. Nothing else!” Then I brandished the chair leg to remind him of what would happen if he disobeyed.

  He nodded and in a loud voice said, “Just putting on my pants.”

  “Put ’em on in the corridor, man. I’m going to get fired if I don’t get you out of there before lockdown.”