“I think it’s a bit much for me to remember,” was Reginald’s terse reply.
All the guests at the birthday party, had laughed – and that included Arthur. He didn’t mind the joke being occasionally turned on him.
He heard the soft tinging of the hour. It was midnight and Reggie was no closer to the truth. He’d again wasted an entire evening in a fruitless search, but the clock … the clock … Arthur had been right in what he said. It kept perfect time and served as a metronome around which Reginald built his life. The extravagant timepiece knew his moods. It used its sounds to either urge him on into a lather of energy or soothe him into sweet slumber. Reginald treated it as a friend in much the same way he had treated Arthur. The clock differed in that he let it structure his life by slicing the hours into sections like that of an orange.
The gentle monotone was now lulling him into sleep. The dinner, the alcohol, the warmth of the fire and the nagging internal agitation that Miranda was in danger finally caught up with him. His eyes were heavy with needed rest. His arm fell limply to the padded arm of the ornate chair – his hand still clutching the now emptied bubble of glass.
The fire before him rose up in a tidal wave of brilliant oranges, purples, and reds, tangling together in an exotic mixture and sea of splendor. The room wasn’t English, but delightfully tropical. It contained not a trace of former frost as everything had melted away. His glass was magically refilled with a mixologist’s concoction of unusual liqueurs that made his body tingle from the taste. The flavors were all new to him and refreshingly agreeable. The side table was moved back to its original position, its legs firmly fitted into the dents in the rug they had carved out through years of territorial occupancy. Reginald was drifting off and floating downstream when he heard a knock at the door. It entwined with the final note of the bell ringing out the hour. It was Arthur. He was sure of it. Arthur was coming for a visit. It had been such a long time.
“Come in,” Reginald called out anxiously. He was feverish in the expectation of seeing his old friend. He heard the creak of the door as it opened agonizingly slowly. Reginald wished he would hurry, but what emerged was not what he expected. It wasn’t Arthur. How had he forgotten? Arthur was dead.
A tall stranger entered his study. He was the man that had stood on the other side of the solid, hardwood door. It was this man that he’d invited in. Reggie studied him. He possessed exceptional bearing and grace. Reginald found himself transfixed by the elegant movements and striking beauty. He knew this type of symmetry was reserved for Greek statues and the fairer sex. The bone structure, the skin, his coloring – all would happily reside on the face and body of a woman, but he wore it splendidly. In spite of it, he displayed all the characteristics of a virile, dominant male.
Reggie couldn’t look away – he was captivated by the man’s appearance. His eyes ravished the man’s face and form – studying each exquisite detail including his attire. The ornate costume complemented this sexual ambiguity in a way that was disturbing and yet pleasant. His garments only heightened his mystery and allure as they seemed of another time. Blue satin breeches that stopped at the knee, white stockings, high-heeled, diamond-buckled shoes. An embroidered silk jacket that would have been appropriate in the Court of Versailles. On top of his head was perched a white wig, tied back with a satin ribbon. The unannounced visitor looked as if he had stepped out of another century and walked straight into Reginald’s study. But who was he? How did he get in? And what was he doing here?
The stranger smiled and bowed from the waist. His right leg was out and pointed. He had a ballerina’s arch. He walked towards Reginald, but Reginald remained unconcerned. He was somewhat confused as to why he had invited him into his most private of sanctuaries, but was glad he did. The man exuded genuine charm. Reggie welcomed his company. It took no time at all for the stranger to make himself at home. He removed the firescreen and placed it to one side. He made his way towards Reginald the way a panther makes its way through the jungle. He lifted Reginald’s feet and dropped them to the carpeting. Reggie sat uncomplaining and compliant. He swung out his jacket tails and sat on the naked footstool that now had room for occupancy. He was directly in front of Reginald. Reginald glanced at the unprotected fire that looked as if it would explode.
Even a commanding fire couldn’t deter his attention – not when a man of such presence was before him. Reginald regarded the man as he would a work of art or fine painting. He examined him knowing he would hold up under close scrutiny. The man’s alabaster skin was flawless. His brows were dark and winged. His lashes black and so thick they looked mascared. There was a dark artificial mole on his high cheekbone that was in keeping with his style of dress. The oval face ended in a jaw line that was squared right under the lip line. It centered his face magnificently and kept him from looking womanly. It counterbalanced the full lips and eyes that were slanted and whorishly wanton. There was a raw sexuality and sensuality that added an exuberant, lusty excitement to his appearance. Yes, both men and women alike would desire him – would fall in love with him at first sight.
Reginald penetrated the man’s calculating, feral eyes. There was a ferocity of beauty buried in that chilling shade of blue. They were so markedly different from his wife’s blue eyes – almost diametrically opposed. This man’s eyes looked as if they each contained a vortex like the one he’d created in the brandy. As he stared, he realized that in the center, they went on forever. They contained an eternity.
The man’s rouged red lips parted. He saw the flash of a pliant, wine-red tongue and astonishing white teeth. They shone with a brilliance that was reserved for those brimming with good health.
“I understand you are looking for an answer. I have come to give you one,” he said in a voice that harmonized with his appearance. It was a voice you could listen to for the whole of one’s life and never tire, but there was something else. For the first time, since his unannounced appearance, Reggie felt fear. The voice resonated with a timbre that bespoke of a horrible cruelty. Now that Reginald heard it, he saw it in his exquisite eyes. And his face. Reggie began to feel uneasy. He wanted to ask him who he was, what he wanted, and what he was doing here, but he had no control over his body. He felt numb – paralyzed by a dart delivered by a blow gun that had transported a witch’s brew into his system. He felt the dart still in his neck. It was in there – stinging like a needle. He tried to raise his hand to get it loose, but couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything, but sit mutely by as the man reached into his blue waistcoat that matched his eyes. He withdrew a small black leather pouch dotted with strange symbols. Small tassels were tied to the ends of two long cords that acted as drawstrings to open and close the leather pouch. With an agility and expertise, he took hold of the rim of the opening and expanded it. He tipped the pouch over and poured out a small amount of the pouch’s contents.
In the man’s outstretched palm, Reginald saw a small mound of powder or talc. Its color was a shimmery, luminescent white. Glints of every color of the spectrum sparkled with fevered ecstasy. It held all the refractive and reflective powers of mica. There was a pearl-like luster to the granules. Was it Vintage Mica Snow? Or a woman’s dusting powder? Or fairy dust from a sprite bent on terror?
The man gave Reginald a grinning smile – too wide to be sincere. He took hold of one of the drawstrings between his too perfect teeth and tugged with his free hand on the other. Reginald expected the cord to snap in two under the pressure of what looked like a perfect bite. After the pouch was closed, it disappeared in the man’s interior pocket. He raised his open, even palm towards the fire. He leaned his head towards it, pursed his rouged lips and blew the dust into the fire. In a billowy cloud, it lofted towards the flames as snow blown by a tundra wind.
To Reginald’s astonishment, the fire burst into a kind of wild savageness that threatened to spill the flames far beyond the parameter of the hearth. He recoiled in his chair wondering what prompted the reaction. It ruled out the powder bein
g mica for mica didn’t burn in temperatures below 1100 degrees.
A fearsome devouring smoke was elicited from the fire. It confirmed that Reginald had been wrong in his assumption. He knew what the powder was now – it was the Sands of Time. It held all within its minute, irregular shapes – past, present, and future. It allowed you free rein and the ability to travel backward or forward in time without leaving your chair. It made sense now. The stranger had promised him an answer. It was locked in the past.
Reginald watched in abject awe as a sparkling, transparent, glittering cloud took shape in front of the fire. The man inched the footstool back so Reginald could have an unobstructed view. As the fire spewed more black smoke, the cloud increased in size and density. As it did, Reginald became aware of figures within its soft edges. Reginald recognized the figure in the center of the cloud – it was a young Reginald Charles with a headful of pomaded brown hair and a flat stomach. He sat in his newly acquired offices – the offices he still occupied today. Only they looked as they did when he first moved in – with the second-hand furniture and old blinds.
On his first desk was his old rotary phone. It rang and he picked up the receiver. It was Arthur calling. Reginald remembered the day. He wanted to leap into the fire – into the dream that was a reality. He’d do it if only he could move. Here was his chance to go back in time. He could be reunited with his old friend and relive all those years with him. Reginald tried again to move, but couldn’t. It was impossible. He sat wishing it were different – wishing he could move. He watched the day unfold anxious to see what happened next.
“Arthur! Where have you disappeared to? I wired you the money as you asked.”
“Yes, received and about to be spent. And I suppose I can now tell you where I am. I’m in Romania.”
“Romania? What on earth are you doing in Romania?”
“Nothing you need to know, you straight arrow. You’d just disapprove and spoil the fun.”
Reginald saw himself stiffen with righteous indignation. He often did that when he felt people were going afoul of the law.
“Arthur, you’re not going to do something illegal, are you? I am your friend as well as your barrister and I’m advising against you …”
“Oh, save the lecture! I’m just going to do a little vampire hunting.”
“What? We must have a bad connection because I thought you said …”
“Vampire hunting,” Arthur pronounced more slowly and more loudly. “That is what I said. I’m going to catch me a vampire!”
Reginald heard the click of the phone and then the dial tone, but Reginald didn’t need to hear or see any more. He remembered the whole day now. Remembered he had been worried about Arthur getting caught doing something illegal in spite of his protests. And then he returned home with …
The blonde man held out his hands in front of Reginald. He’d removed his wig – it was thrown to the floor. His blonde hair spilled down and over his shoulders. It was thick and shiny and looked like silk. His palms were in a parallel position – one above the other. A red antique egg appeared between them. It was that egg the Miranda had inquired about. The one that was a fake. The man held it in front of Reggie. He opened it. Inside was a rich red heart that bled a single droplet of blood.
Reginald’s heart was pounding. Why was he showing him that blasted egg? It didn’t warrant attention. Yes, it had a slight value, but its true value came as being part of the cache that Arthur had purchased. Wait a minute! He’d purchased the rest of those things on that trip to Romania. He had said he had gone antique shopping, but there never were any receipts – just a bill from the Sokolov movers. They were well-known for smuggling antiques out of countries, but what did any of this collection have to do with hunting vampires? What?
In the far distance, Reginald heard a soft knocking. He ignored it and stared into the man’s eyes becoming more and more lost. The man stopped grinning and pulled back his mouth into a grimace that showed long, white incisors. It was the face of a predator before they struck. The face of an attacking tiger bearing down on fallen prey. This was what loomed over Reginald – fiercely hissing and readying an attack.
In a split second, he was at Reginald’s throat. Reginald felt his hand on his shoulder tapping him insistently. The tapping would not be ignored and persisted. Reginald tried to get out of its way, but couldn’t move. He endured its steady drone.
“Reginald? Reginald? Are you alright, dear? Reginald, answer me?”
“Adduné,” Reginald extolled in a breath he perceived to be his last.
“What?”
Reginald heard the lilting voice so difference from the one that had been speaking. Where it came from he didn’t know, but it was close. Near to him. Was he still sitting down?
His wife’s touch saved him from the awful dream. It had been her jostling him – her knocking at the door. He looked up to see her standing over him and not the face of the man that had changed into a demon before his eyes. Bonnie took the empty brandy sifter still in his hand, and placed it on the side table that had shifted back into its proper position. He searched the room – making certain they were alone. He grabbed his neck, noting that there was no blood and no damage. It had only been a dream and nothing more. An awful dream like the one Figgs and Pinckus must have had. No wonder they found them so repellant – no wonder they had decided to end them once and for all.
Reginald’s head was aching. He let it fall forward resting it in his open palms. What had just happened? His wife knelt down beside him and put her hand on his knee. She didn’t like to see her husband so upset.
“Are you alright, dear?”
“Yes, I must have dozed off. I had the most horrible dream.”
“A bad dream? My poor darling!” Bonnie lovingly cajoled.
“Bonnie, was anyone here to see me this afternoon?”
“No, no one,” she responded. Reginald relaxed a bit. He had been foolish to think what he was thinking – that vampires needed to be invited in.
“Just a nice man that was helping you with Weatherly Manor. He said he would catch you at the office so I didn’t think to mention it.”
“Yes, yes, a blonde man. Tall, elegant, handsome.”
“Very striking indeed. And his manners … oh! Quite out of another century!”
Reginald sat crippled by this knowledge. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.
“He didn’t leave his name did he?”
“No, but you implied that you know him. Surely, you must know his name?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. That’s right.”
“My poor, poor darling husband. You’re exhausted. You’ve been working too long and too hard so,” she said tenderly patting his face and tucking her arm under his. Deliberately rising she nudged him up to his feet. “I have only one choice and that is to put you under arrest and order you to come upstairs to bed with me,” she said laying her head on his shoulder and interlacing her arm with his. “I promise to keep all those big, bad wolves away.”
He reciprocated the sweet sentiment with a kiss, but inside was thinking, “If only you could, Bonnie. If only you could.”
CHAPTER 18
Things went quickly downhill after Reginald arrived at the Perry estate,. He kept his usual effusive greetings to Constance to a bare minimum – offering only a cordial hello and nothing more. How could he? He’d been blindsided.
He’d only inquired where Miranda could be found. He hadn’t been prepared for the answer Constance gave him. He brushed past her and hurried up the stairs as quickly as he could. He hoped that Constance was wrong, but unfortunately, what she said had been accurate. Miranda was indeed in her bedroom – packing for a trip to America.
“But why? Why are you going to Fairfield of all places? Reginald pleaded. He stood awkwardly to the side allowing Miranda a clear pathway from her closet to the large suitcase on her bed.
“Because I was invited that’s why,” she said holding up a dress and pressing it a
gainst her body. She looked at her image in the mirror and made a face. “Not that it’s any business of yours,” she added tossing the dress aside. She returned to the closet rummaging for more appropriate selections. She knew Jake was very particular about what his women wore, and she wasn’t about to disappoint him. She remembered the brief fling they had last summer. It had been hot, juicy fun. She couldn’t wait to resume the torrid affair. She hadn’t been with a man since the death of her father and was craving male attention.
“Invited by whom? Oh, don’t tell me,” Reginald huffed, pounding one hand into the palm of the other. “It was that Jake Monroe character, wasn’t it?” He walked to the vanity table and sat on a pink taffeta chair. “When did this brilliant idea occur to that gigolo?”
Miranda was preoccupied with the two dresses she held in front of her. Both were good, but were they good enough to hold Jake’s rakish charm?
“Jake is not a gigolo. And he asked me yesterday. Last night. He called and invited me to the opening. It fits in perfectly since I wanted to visit Tiffany, so first it’s Fairfield and then onto New York.”
Adduné (The Vampire's Game) Page 22