Adduné (The Vampire's Game)

by Wendy Potocki

  She heard his voice blasting from behind her ordering her to come back. Obviously, he couldn’t take a hint. With complete disdain, she continued her descent down the stairs in a leisurely, decidedly sensual manner. She didn’t stop until she had reached the confines of her office. She saw that her office was clear of museum riff-raff and that she was alone – almost. She called into the shadows and waited. Velvet emerged unblinking from the hidden corners and jumped into her arms. She rubbed her forehead against the top of her cat’s head relaxing to the familiar purr that told her he was content. She kissed him between his ears and on his belly no longer bearing the scars of disease and human intervention.

  She sat at her desk with Velvet on her lap, stroking him from the top of his head to his relaxed haunches. She wondered if Jake was still talking to her at the top of the stairs. It was enough to make her face curl-up in a smug, self-congratulatory smile.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Good evening, Reggie,” Bonnie said giving him the customary welcoming home hug and peck on his cheek. She held him tightly by his shoulders browsing his face. Her face held the same expression used when window shopping. “My goodness, you’re looking rather peeked. Is everything alright, darling?”

  Reginald looked into the brilliant blue eyes of his beloved wife. She’d aged, but it had all been for the better. She had metamorphisized from a very pretty young girl to an uncommonly attractive older woman who could still turn heads with her confident smile.

  Reginald held her in his arms and rubbed his hand lightly over her back.

  “I’m fine, dear. Just a little tired.”

  They parted and gazed into each other’s faces in the manner of school children experiencing love for the first time.

  “Well, then, do try to retire early. I know how you are about working into the wee hours. I think you’re in bed, but when I roll over, I see someone has snuck downstairs to do some casework. You’ve paid your dues, darling. It’s time to enjoy yourself and that includes getting enough rest.”

  “You’re right, Bonnie. You always are.”

  He nuzzled her face, grazing his check against hers.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Reggie,” she responded quietly as her husband planted a light kiss on her brow. She patted his hand to communicate that they were not only husband and wife, but old, old friends.

  She smiled and gave his rounded cheek a playful pinch before she bustled away to tend to dinner. Dinner wouldn’t burn in their household – not with Bonnie around. Reggie took his leave and retired to his study. It was much like the rest of the household. The majority of the furnishings had been picked out by Bonnie, but they were peppered with Arthur’s antiques. They were mostly gifts. Having them around was a double-edge sword, but Reginald wouldn’t have it any other way. He would take memories of Arthur anyway he could.

  He bent down and took out the notes buried in the back of his desk drawer. He sat looking at them the same way he had every night since the two mysterious deaths. He did the same today. First, spreading them out on his desktop … and then subjecting them to scrutiny and careful examination. Trying to think what it was he’d forgotten. He was sure that if he could remember, he’d be able to tie the two deaths together in one neat package replete with a big, red bow. Everything would be explained … but how? With what? A distant event that had slipped and fallen out of its place in his memory?

  He remained still, silently perusing the last words of the two lives that had touched on a tangential curve. What had they in common? Just that one word? He held the handwritten note from Figgs. There in the right-hand corner was the number 1. Reginald tried to remember any previous written correspondence he’d received from Figgs. Perhaps Figgs always numbered his pages. Reginald had thrown away Figgs’ other correspondence and couldn’t be certain. Reginald only numbered pages when there were more than one, but then Figgs wasn’t him, was he? If he were, he wouldn’t have been talking about vampires in coffins.

  His wife’s familiar voice pulled him away from his musings. It was calling him to dinner and he was duty bound to attend even though his appetite had deserted him. He would force something down since Bonnie took great trouble to ensure a hot, steaming meal was served nightly. They had more than enough money to hire a cook, but Bonnie preferred to take the matter of meals into her own capable hands – especially now that their two children were grown and had children of their own., Bonnie reserved the right to use help for special occasions – and Reginald never objected – as if he could refuse her anything.

  He entered the dining room seemingly in a good humor. He felt no compunction to reveal that he was preoccupied. What good would it do to involve his wife in such machinations? No good. He’d leave her out of the mix the same as he had left her out of all the legal matters he’d tended to all these years.

  He took the folded napkin tucked under his plate and unfurled it until it covered the whole of his lap. He had noticed straight off that she had fixed his favorite – roast lamb. She always served it with a special, proprietary mint dressing that never failed to delight his taste buds. And he wasn’t alone in his opinion – everyone who sampled it fell in love. They never failed to pester her for the original recipe. He’d told her many times she should bottle and sell it. It never failed to bring a cheerful smile and a gracious thank you. Reggie knew that everyone likes to be appreciated. He used that simple motto often in his long life and it still held true. It was one of the reasons his services had been in high demand and why he had a wide circle of friends.

  He sat picking at the food. He chewed each mouthful many more times than one hundred, but still had an overwhelming sense that the meager portions of food were not masticated enough. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he’d had gastric bypass surgery. Tonight, his stomach seemed unnaturally reduced by staples. Whatever amount he took in seemed too much and drastically out of proportion with what his body required. It was from the tension. He’d often get this identical sensation when working on stressful cases or taking on a seemingly insurmountable workload. He wouldn’t be forthcoming about it to his spouse who merrily chattered about the day’s happenings.

  Bonnie played her part beautifully. She never let on that she noticed his eating patterns change as some wives were in the custom of doing. The only comment she had ever made on the subject was early in their marriage. He had been worried about a pending case and had lost his taste for food. He felt his drastic lack of appetite required an apology to his wife. He was afraid she might take it personally – as if not eating were a reflection of the quality of the meal. He offered a lengthy, heartfelt apology. After he’d finished, she merely quipped, “that he was adult and could best judge his own appetite.” He still remembered that moment and how her perspective on things validated he’d made the right choice in selecting her as a wife, lover, and friend.

  She continued, blithely conversing about the details of a party she was planning. It was to celebrate a close friend’s anniversary. Reginald came in and out of listening to her – not because he didn’t care, but because he couldn’t control his priorities. Right now they were on solving the mystery of why those men took their lives in a way that made sense to him. The occult was very nice in stories, but it didn’t account for real life motivation in matters of such grave importance. His mind flashed to what Miranda had said about drugs. It might conceivably account for Herbert Pinckus, but William Figgs? He doubted very much illicit drugs had ever made Figgs’ acquaintance.

  This was what held his attention captive all the while Bonnie excitedly spoke about the anniversary party. She was having it catered … and renting a hall. Then there was the long list of invitations to be sent out. It was being kept a secret as the celebration was to be a surprise. He could hear from the enthusiasm in her voice that she was throwing herself whole-heartedly into making it a grand affair. Normally, he would have given her the respect to listen to what was important to her, but he couldn’t right now.
Their interests were running on separate tracks, as there was now something that overwhelmed his waking thoughts. It wasn’t normal for him to feel this way or to isolate himself. Marriage was a two-way street and both participants counted equally, but even knowing that, he couldn’t wait to get back to his study. There was something about the notes … about those words … about Arthur Perry’s activities … it was haunting him.

  He hated to use that word. It was too close to what those men had been implying, but it was true. Those men, their actions, and what they wrote were all compelling him to search and dig in the past for a lost piece of the current puzzle. He waited until an appropriate moment to give his wife his sincere approval of her ideas. Her exemplary creative talents ensured the event would be an unqualified success. He excused himself from sharing his wife’s jovial spirit, opting instead to brood within the womb of his private four walls. He wondered if it were a mistake to keep this secret. Wasn’t that what those two men had done? Kept secrets that filled them with an unnamed terror that eventually overtook their sanity? Reginald slowed down his pace, but didn’t stop walking. Nor did he reverse his course.

  He moved a small table to the side of his favorite high-backed chair. He then settled in it with a snifter of brandy. The chair was a gift from Arthur and dated back to the 17thcentury. Arthur had gone on and on about the styling and Moorish design. Evidently, it was most influential in the 11th through the 16th centuries, but Arthur assured him it remained popular to this day. Reginald accepted Arthur’s opinion on it. In spite of Reginald being involved in the business of antiquities, it was from a strictly legal aspect. He remained ignorant of the details that went into identifying an antique, a style, or a craftsman. The only time Reginald could make a solid assumption was when a painting was signed with a famous name. Even that was not assured since there were such things as forgeries as Arthur was quick to point out.

  “Reggie, you have to be careful. This business feeds a nest of vipers waiting to fleece you blind.”

  Reginald rubbed his hand over the chair’s massive oak framing. It went so perfectly with the regal red velvet of the upholstery. The fabric was original to the piece and made it all the more special. Reggie rested his feet on a footstool that was a companion piece. It had been reupholstered in a material that complemented the chair. It had too much wear and tear to survive the cruelty of history’s time.

  Arthur had given him the chair for his 47th birthday. It had immediately gone right in front of the fireplace in his study. He loved nothing more than lighting a rip-roaring fire and settling back with a brandy in hand. It’s what he was doing right now. Sitting – with the two notes in hand – scrutinizing them and trying to remember. He placed them down on the small round side table that he’d dragged over from the sitting area. He lifted the snifter and drank hoping the liquor would loosen up what was inside.

  In spite of the note’s alarming topics, he gave them a great deal of weight. These were the last testaments of two people’s lives. He understood the gravity and importance of the documents. To him, they were as important as any priceless antique. He was all about people and not things. He knew it was yet another character trait that set him apart from what had made Arthur tick.

  Reginald focused and turned on a tunnel vision type of concentration to find out what it all meant. The glass rested lightly on his stomach as his mind kicked in with theories. He was open to the possibility that two people became despondent about life at approximately the same time, but he didn’t think it was a coincidence. A serendipitous occurrence wouldn’t account for the eerie feeling he had when he went to sleep at night. It’d cropped up soon after having that talk with Figgs. What Figgs had said stayed with him. The uneasiness was now a constant, unwelcome companion. It was there when he went to bed and when he awoke in the morning. He felt it every single second of the day – even when in the sanctity and safety of his study. Was it only Arthur’s friendly ghost? And if it were, why had Figgs given it such demonic proportions? The two men’s matching stories proved something was going on far beyond both being depressed with their lot in life. If they were depressed, why turn the subject to coffins and not keep it on the unfairness of life or employers? What on God’s green earth would possess them both to suddenly raise the specter of … Reginald stopped himself from even thinking about the word, but not for long. It was there – rising up in his consciousness like a hand breaking through the ground in a futile attempt to prove that the dead body buried was still very much alive.

  Vampires.

  There it was. The word he hadn’t wanted to discuss even with himself and there was not a blasted thing he could do. He soon paid the price, for although it was summer, he felt a chill run through his bones. What was it about that word that evoked such emotions and fear? It wasn’t as if they were real. He quivered in response to this last thought. Rather than dwell on why, he merely got up and refueled the fire. The night demanded it and he acted as its obedient slave rather than question its need.

  The new log and some additional kindling rapidly caught fire. He warmed his hands as he squatted before it on the hearth. When he felt the warmth sufficient to chase out the chill in his body, he stood and gave the fire a few pokes. He watched ashes fly off the tinder and fall blackened and dead into the charred lifeless remains. He drew the metal firescreen in front of the blaze. It clattered along the veined marble hearth. Reseating himself, he quickly downed more alcohol feeling momentarily flushed. He was comforted by the flames performing their dance of death before him. His muscles relaxed and the ache that had been plaguing him finally was purged and set free. A sigh meant to signal good riddance was breathed heavily into the air as Reggie swirled his remaining brandy until an eddy formed. He gazed into the center of the vortex he’d created with the mere shifting of his hand. It reminded him that something was always there – underneath the surface of the waters. Always an eye of the storm. Always a center. Staring into the glass he strove to discover what it was. What was he trying so hard to remember? What? He drank in more of the rich amber colored liquid. Perhaps if he drained the glass of the spinning waters, what remained would be his answer.

  The clock on his mantle ticked away as he continued his quest. It was another gift from Arthur – this time for his 40th birthday. Reginald had spotted it in a small, out-of-the way, little thrift shoppe that littered London. Arthur had disparaged the clock saying it couldn’t be authentic. And if it weren’t genuine, the price was outrageously high for an inferior, modern day copy. He quibbled with the shopkeeper as Reginald stood embarrassed and to the side. He hadn’t liked witnessing the spectacle, but that was the risk you ran when you went anywhere near antiques with Arthur. Arthur had given the clock a close inspection, and him a chastising primer on antique clocks for merely expressing interest.

  “Well, it’s a good fake, I’ll give the thief that poses as a shopkeeper that. Pierre Gavelle indeed!” he grumbled in retaliation to the shopkeeper’s claim that it was indeed made by Gavelle.

  “I’d have to remove the blasted bell to see if the forged name of Gavelle is on the backplate. I doubt it’s the handiwork of Gavelle L’Aîné or even 18th century. The metal casting methodology had not been sufficiently developed to produce this type of craftsmanship. That puts it at least mid to late 19th century. Then I’d have to check the name of this piece to see if this faked replica has a twin that is the original Gavelle. Then there’s the matter of the pivots. For it to be truly French, they would need to be small and not the larger variety used in England.”

  He had gone on and on much to the chagrin of the shopkeeper … and Reginald. Reginald had only liked the handsome design and innocently inquired into its pricing. He could have cared less about when, where, or who designed it. He wasn’t a decorating expert like his wife, but felt the clock would look smashing on his mantle. The styling of it was so different than anything he’d seen, but when Arthur threatened the shopkeeper with calling the authorities, Reginald gave up about seeing it in
his study. Arthur had stormed out, Reggie sheepishly following. He offered a weak apology to the old shopkeeper who looked as if he would have demanded a duel if given the option. Reginald had been thoroughly embarrassed and made a promise to himself to never go back to the store, and to cross to the other side of the street if he saw the poor, irate shopkeeper. He had no idea that the blustering was all for show. Arthur had him completely fooled.

  “Oh, Reginald, you take things too much to heart! It’s all part of the game! You should have seen your pasty face all white with shame! It was for show and to drive you away from the sale. You would have overspent, but you have a keen eye. Of course, I knew immediately that it was a French Louis XVI mantel clock circa 1771. And please do describe it properly. The white marble base is set on four ormolu toupee feet – inset with an ormolu mount. And those are not poles! They are black marble pillars that are ornately decorated by exquisitely carved ormolu laurel leaves that turn in opposing directions. Those are two classical urns sitting on top of them and not baskets! The white enamel dial is signed and strikingly decorated with gold floral motifs around the dial inset. Its movement is an 8 day duration – it strikes the hours and halves on a bell, flat-bottomed plates. It has a visible silk suspension pendulum. Now do you have all that?” Arthur had asked pounding him on the back.