They proceeded to the last door remaining on the left side of the hall. Miranda’s stomach was in knots. It was so hard to keep calm when she didn’t know what to expect. Stroker turned and nodded at her. She returned the signal, indicating she was ready. The doors were unlocking easily. They hadn’t needed the spare set of keys she’d taken from Theresa’s desk. They were still resting comfortably in her pants pocket – right where she’d placed them.
Stroker pushed and found resistance instead of easy access. He tried again careful not to make too much noise. He turned towards Miranda indicating with a twist of his wrist that he needed the keys. She fished into her pocket. The keys tangled as she worked to free them. The metal tinkled, making too much noise for Stroker’s liking. He put an angry finger up to his lips. Miranda stopped and worked more carefully, noiselessly handing them over to his outstretched hand. Stroker moved the flashlight to the other hand as he tried differing keys. There was the mere hint of noise as the metal was fitted into the lock, but no more. Finally he found one that went in smoothly. Miranda was giving into dark thoughts that they would never find Peter, but he had to be here. He just had to be. There hadn’t been time for him to find another resting place.
Stroker gave the unlocked door a shove, his flashlight facing down to accomplish the exertion. The door swung open revealing a pitch blackness that obfuscated sight. Miranda jumped at the sound of a loud hiss. Stroker reacted by bringing up the flashlight quickly. It shone directly into the garish face of Rex Inwood. Theresa had been only half-right. The privileges extended far beyond sexual favors.
His face was so white as to be tinged with gray. His shirt had been discarded and the pasty, corpse-like color ran throughout his bare chest. His flaccid pecs looked like a dog’s teats. The fat on his stomach jiggled before disappearing into his oversized, baggy jeans. His hair was spiked and looked darker than she remembered. His eyes were blazing and black as coals. Miranda gasped, stopping herself from screaming and alerting whatever else slept in the sub-basement that the museum had visitors. She’d rehearsed this moment in her mind, but she found she wasn’t prepared. She froze.
Rex lunged at Stroker, Stroker’s directions running through her head. They were being recounted at the speed of light. Stroker’s peril unlocked her stasis and deer-in the-headlights demeanor. He needed her to act as a partner and not a helpless victim. She hurriedly committed to accomplishing the specific directives. Since she’d seen him follow these actions last night, she knew they worked. She was confident they would again if she could cease being useless and only act.
Stroker batted Rex back by delivering a blistering blow to his head. Rex fell backward, holding the spot that had been bashed by the flashlight. He recovered almost immediately. He coiled and leapt into the air. He was in mid-flight when hit full in his hideous face with a heavy dose of blessed water. Miranda’s aim had been accurate. She breathed a sigh of relief feeling good about not failing Stroker in his time of need.
Rex squealed in pain as he fell heavily to the floor. Miranda rushed forward placing the cross on his forehead.
Stroker jumped on top of the paralyzed vampire, placing the stake against his sternum.
“Get out!” he whispered.
Miranda uncertainly wobbled, wondering if she should leave and, further, why. It was her rebellious side kicking up at the wrong time. As if reading her mind, Stroker supplied her with an answer.
“Because you need to shut the door! He’ll be howling and we can’t let them know we’re here!”
Of course! She stepped back and shut the door closing out the sound. The doors were massively thick. Almost as thick as in Weatherly. They effectively muted the shrieks and death cries of what used to be Rex. She listened at the door knowing that Stroker had acted correctly. She wasn’t really interested in watching Rex die. It was only Peter, she insisted on seeing him breathe his last breath. For her own sanity and to offset her enormous guilt, she needed to be the one to pound the stake all the way through his blackened heart. She prayed she got that chance. As Stroker explained, it all depended on how things played out.
The door clicked open. Stroker emerged closing it behind him. He handed Miranda the cross that had been used. She took it and held it at her side. She stared at the wooden door for a moment, wondering exactly what lay on the other side.
Instead, she followed Stroker. They crossed the staircase – the threshold separating left from right. This time they started searching in the center – progressing outwardly. The first room held nothing, but old banquet tables. They worked efficiently, each door causing Miranda’s breath to quicken and heart to race. As the minutes ticked away, there were more unlocked doors and more empty rooms. They found the fourth one was locked. It raised suspicion and threw Miranda into a full panic mode. Was there another Rex waiting? Or more importantly, Peter. Except for old chandeliers and portraits, the room was empty and devoid of inhuman creatures. It meant that the locking of the doors was serendipitous – it couldn’t be used as a gauge for what awaited inside. Locked doors couldn’t be counted on to tell them anything. Consequently they reverted back to every door and every opening of a door being dangerous and fraught with risk. They couldn’t be complacent – not now.
In spite of the unnatural cold that seemed thick and difficult to inhale, Miranda’s face was drenched with sweat. Tendrils were plastered against her face. She saw that the tension was affecting Stroker in the same way. His shirt was wet and stuck to his back from sweating so profusely. The band on his hat was darkened by his perspiration. He used the his hand to wipe at it and prevent it from dripping in his eyes. He needed unobstructed vision. Even a second’s delay in recognizing a threat could mean instant death.
They were down to the last three doors. The atmosphere ratcheted up to a heightened level of alarm that Miranda had never before experienced. Her heart was beating so furiously that she feared it would burst. She tried to control her breathing, but had no power over her need to feverishly fight for air. As soon as she swallowed a helping of it, she needed another. It felt as if the oxygen had thinned. She wasn’t at the top of a mountain and knew it was only the tumultuous circumstances that were making it seem so. Her own good sense and self-preservation were doing everything they could to make her turn around and run back up the stairs, but she couldn’t. She had to help Stroker and see that justice was done. She watched his stealthy movements and marveled at his control. He was doing what he could to rid of the world of that ghastly Peter Adduné. She closed her eyes washing them of the images that haunted her. Tiffany! She had been so young – too young to meet such a foul, putrid death. He couldn’t get away with it – she wouldn’t let him.
Stroker tried the first – it was locked. Miranda’s sense of urgency was amplified. She thought she would scream from the hysteria building inside. She only waited until Stroker found the key and opened it. Miranda’s hand shook as she readied the Holy water. She was set to splash it full into Peter’s face, but the room disappointed her. It didn’t hold the object of her desire. Instead were only chairs. She glanced down at her watch. It was late. Too late. Ten minutes to go to until the sunlight was no more. She tapped Stroker on his arm and showed him her watch. He merely shrugged and moved down the hall. She silently berated herself for the yellow stripe painted inside. Even with every fiber in her body calling out for justice, she would never been able to accomplish this task without him by her side. She would have to find a way to thank him. She didn’t know how, but she’d make sure he was on the receiving end of her generosity.
They tried the second. Inside were discarded, unused exhibit stands. Miranda’s mind was working overtime as she realized Stroker had made a huge mistake. They had taken too long. They were cutting things much too close. There were just minutes to go before darkness and one room to go. They had to find that coffin quickly or …
Dear God! What if they had missed it? What if Peter were laying in one of the other rooms they’d already visited? What about the ro
om Rex had been in? What if he were in there? She didn’t know if Stroker had thoroughly looked after he’d killed Rex. She’d left and hadn’t seen and …
There was a despondent creak. The third door was open. Blackness stared back at her as Stroker’s light faltered. She heard him hit the base several times against the heel of his hand. There was a defiant click as he tried again to get it on. Miranda breathed a sigh of relief. The beacon was before him, pointing at the object of their search. There it was, in the center of the room – raised up on a dais. It was an unassuming, thoroughly predictable pine coffin. She looked at her watch. They had two minutes to spare. Two delicious minutes to make sure he was no more.
“I want to do this!” she whispered.
Stroker nodded. Things had worked out for Miranda. The scenario was such that she could have her wish and do things her way. Stroker switched articles with her. He took the holy water and cross. Miranda grabbed hold of the stake and hammer.
Stroker walked behind her keeping the beam trained on the pine box. Miranda was glad Peter had chosen a pauper’s grave and nothing more grand. It suited him as he was nothing but a petty, worthless creature that fouled the air with his poisonous rage. Miranda was glad to have a hand in ridding the world of such evil.
Stroker had been right about the psychology of dreams. The dreams she had about her father came flooding back to her. They were there trying to convince her that Peter was not laying at the bottom of that coffin. They were urging her through fear to stop what she was doing. She would not be deterred. She couldn’t let him win.
“This is for you father,” she uttered under her breath as she rushed towards the coffin making the sign of cross.
She climbed up on the platform, using a small three-step ladder. She looked back at Stroker. He was resolute and standing strong. She need only open the lid, and pound the stake into him. She’d need to make it a quick kill. He was sleeping and making it easy. He was hers for the taking.
The video, the betrayal, and Tiffany’s body lying dead in her bedroom ran through her head. Then there was Chase. How much is a brother worth? Oh, how she was going to savor this! Before the murders, Miranda would never have believed she was capable of such violence, but now? It’s what she lived for! It’s what she would remember until the day she died!
She used the hand holding the stake to reach under the lid. She took a breath and tossed it to the side. The almost unrecognizable creature lying inside sat up like a shot. His eyes opened and bored into Miranda. The hideous red mouth opened and hissed into her face, leaving trails of saliva streaming down her skin and sticking to her hair. She knew she had to pound the stake into his chest. She knew she should raise the hammer … but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even move and couldn’t think – for the game had changed. It was just like her dreams – the ones she’d dismissed. Staring at her was not Peter – it was the barely recognizable face of her father – Arthur Perry.
“Father?” she whispered.
Miranda heard the laughter behind her. She turned. Peter, Rachel, and Rex were standing beside Stroker. Rachel was petting that accursed black cat, grinning, and clearly delighted with herself.
“But how? What? I, I, I don’t understand!” cried Miranda. She stood helplessly, not comprehending this scene. Her father was dead and buried in England. Stroker had said so. And Rachel was dead also. She’d seen it herself and yet, she was here – standing in front of her – laughing.
“Stroker!” she screamed trying to ignite him into action. He merely smiled.
Her neck was turned to Arthur Perry who took the opportunity to lunge at his daughter. Peter flew through the air at superhuman speed and grabbed Arthur from behind – restraining him and preventing him from harming Miranda.
Miranda reacted instinctively. She forgot where she was and backed up, slipping off the platform and falling clumsily to the ground.
“Rachel!” Peter ordered. Rachel put down her cat and flew up on the platform. She took over the job of containing Miranda’s father.
Peter gallantly and elegantly walked down the steps and reached a hand down to help Miranda. She remembered the holy water. She sprang up and grabbed it from Stroker who for some reason was not moving. She shook it in Peter’s face – waiting for it to take effect, but there was no burning flesh – no writhing in pain – only more raucous laughter. He ran his finger over the beadlets and plunged a saturated finger in his mouth.
“Tastes like chicken,” he joked to the delight of the others.
Stroker dropped the cross to the floor. She picked it up and slammed it against Peter’s forehead. He was angered by the blow and easily wrested it from her grasp. He threw it against the wall. Landing – it made a hollow sound much like the way Miranda was feeling. She didn’t understand what was going on. Why things were not working as they had last night.
“Really Miranda,” Peter said pulling her up to her feet. “I would think you would understand by this time that this is all part of the game. The charade. Tonight it’s not Holy water. It’s …”
“Tap water,” Stroker said with a dismissive shrug.
“But last night …” she stammered not understanding what was said – what was transpiring.
Peter roughly shook her.
“Listen to me, you twit! Obviously, last night it was real. Hence Rachel suffering being scorched, but no matter. We heal very nicely. I think you could have figured that one out on your own.”
“But the stake … he pounded it into … her,” she sputtered pointing at Rachel.
“Miranda, I’m tiring of you playing the village idiot. Last night was staged! Stroker has been working for us all this time.”
She still didn’t understand. The noises, the sounds were unintelligible. They were here to kill Peter … and Peter was here. His words kept echoing in her head, but they had no meaning. In the maelstrom of her thoughts came clarity. She remembered the memory she’d been trying to reclaim. She’d been right about it. If only she’d thought of it sooner ...
It was the night she had dinner with Stroker. She’d come back and discussed it all with Tiffany. Tiffany had written down the name Adduné and discovered it was an anagram for undead. Tiffany had then written another name down on that napkin. The name of the appraiser, T.R. Koers …
“T.R. Koers,” she murmured as in a daze. “S-T-R-O-K-E-R!”
“Now you’re getting it,” Peter gloated.
She continued to stare at Koers.
“Then everything you said … everything you did …”
“Was a lie. Everything was an act … staged so that …” Stroker explained laughing softly to himself.
“You could give me the final clue …. to lead me here. But why? Why couldn’t you just have killed me there?”
“And miss this fun? Are you daft?”
“But the rest … the orphanage? Your parents being murdered?”
“Allow me,” Peter interrupted, Stroker gallantly bowing from the waist to allow him the honor of explaining. “Miranda, do try to keep up. There were no vampires that hunted his family. However, the story is partially true. His parents were murdered, but by him. They did place him in an orphanage, but then authorities are predisposed to forgive children their sins.”
“But the name! You were the appraiser?”
“Yes,” Stroker answered taking a step forward. It’s how I found out about the Fabergé. The Sokolovs paid me handsomely to fake the appraisal. I, in turn, filed the information away. I eventually heard about the Addunés and what they were searching for. I made the connection and approached them. They tested my loyalty by having me kill the caretaker that had allowed the theft. They have promised to make me one of them at the end of this. As you can see, they are making good on their promise. I have not aged but a day since that time. I await the day I will not age at all.”
“Liars! You are all liars!”
Peter answered for him as he unbuttoned her blouse.
“You are so jaded. It’s what I d
islike about you.”
She tried to slap his hands off her, but was no match. He ripped her shirt so that it was torn open showing her lacy ecru bra. With one pull, he removed her trousers. She stood uncomfortably in her underwear.
“I like you much better this way,” he growled, grasping her arms behind her.
She was embarrassed to be so exposed. She couldn’t help it. In the midst of this travesty, her modesty took over. It didn’t matter that they were all villains. All except her father. He was hideous. He was a creature of nightmares. A demon. His eyes shone with a mad kind of brilliance. He was snapping at her, his long incisors trying to get a hold of her, but it wasn’t his fault. In the end, he was a victim. Just like her …
She whimpered as Peter’s hand went between her legs rubbing her – trying to make her wet.
Miranda didn’t struggle, but his touch was no longer pleasurable. She’d as soon have a python between her legs as Peter. She hated him. Hated him so much.
Adduné (The Vampire's Game) Page 60