Interesting Times (Interesting Times #1)

by Matthew Storm

Oliver didn’t care much for the idea that anyone was babysitting him, but he thought perhaps it was wise to show some discretion in a house full of vampires.

  He was actually in a house full of honest-to-god vampires, he thought. This was real. How strange his life had become.

  “Well, I don’t think you have anything else to tell me right now,” Blackwell said. “Another time I might like to talk a bit about the stock market. I enjoy hearing new opinions, and you seem at least passably intelligent. But it’s late and I am growing tired.” He smiled gently at Oliver. “And so are you, I’m afraid.”

  “Tired?” asked Oliver. He was getting tired; that was true. He had assumed it was the alcohol getting to him, but Blackwell’s statement had made him wonder. “What is that, some kind of vampire mind trick?”

  “Nothing so droll,” Blackwell said. “Rather, it is the Seconal in your wine.”

  Oliver stared at his glass. He had nearly finished it. Fear gripped his heart like ice. Was this really happening again? Could he possibly meet someone who didn’t try to drug him?

  “Just relax, Mr. Jones,” Blackwell said. “It’s too late. It’s impossible to fight it now.”

  Oliver tried to get to his feet, but only made it halfway up before collapsing back into his chair. The wine glass slipped out of his fingers. He expected it to shatter on the floor, but in the span of a heartbeat Maria was on one knee next to him, the glass clutched safely in her hand. Even through the fog that was quickly overtaking his mind, Oliver managed to be astonished. He had never even seen the woman move.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Blackwell said. Maria rose and nodded at him, placing the glass delicately on a nearby table. “Do forgive my own rudeness, Mr. Jones. I gave my word you would not be harmed, and so you will not be. But neither can I have you wandering around my estate, taking note of my affairs. There is a great deal here I simply cannot afford to let you see.”

  Oliver wanted to reply that he couldn’t care less about Blackwell’s secrets; all he wanted to do was to stay alive. But all he could manage to say was, “Don’t care.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Blackwell smiled. “Maria will show you to one of the guest bedrooms. Well, I suppose she will have to carry you to one of the guest bedrooms. Don’t be concerned about her; she is quite capable. In the morning, perhaps you will be so good as to join me for breakfast. We’re having an Italian.” He looked at Oliver expectantly.

  Oliver tried to speak, but he could no longer find the energy to make his lips move. “That was a joke, Mr. Jones,” Blackwell explained. “You see, I implied that we would be eating an Italian person.” He regarded Oliver with disappointment. “That was funny, wasn’t it, Maria?” he asked her.

  “Very funny, my master.”

  Blackwell sighed. “She would say that anyway,” he said to Oliver. “All these years, and I’m not sure I ever developed a sense of humor. Maria, be a dear and help Mr. Jones to his bed.”

  Maria bent down and wrapped her arms around Oliver, then lifted him up as easily as she might have a child, draping his head carefully on her shoulder. Oliver found he could no longer keep his eyes open. “Ssh,” Maria whispered. “That’s it. Go to sleep.” Her voice was calm and soothing, like a mother’s, but her breath was cold on his neck. Oliver wanted to scream, but he knew he was too far gone. He felt himself drifting off as she began to carry him away, and then everything was lost in comforting blackness.

  Chapter 13

  Oliver had been staring up at the lacy white canopy of a four-poster bed for several minutes, his vision lazily drifting in and out of focus, before his mind managed to fully register that he had woken up. He felt dizzy and nauseous, as if he’d taken a serious blow to the head and was dealing with the aftereffects of a concussion. Had someone hit him? Not that he could recall, but he had been drugged into unconsciousness twice within a twenty-four hour period, and he’d had a nice glass of wine to top that off. Who could tell what all of that was doing to his system?

  He still didn’t know what Sally had sprayed him with back at his office, but Blackwell claimed to have put Seconal in his wine, which was a drug Oliver had at least heard of before. Wasn’t it used to knock people out before surgery? It was a barbiturate, if he remembered correctly. He was sure that mixing barbiturates, alcohol, and whatever else he’d been given was a very bad idea. It might be a good idea to see a doctor when all of this was over.

  Oliver was still very tired, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to sleep. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to go to sleep naturally anymore. Maybe he’d have to ask someone to come in and knock him out. Wasn’t that what had happened with Michael Jackson?

  For a moment Oliver wondered if all of this could simply be his first ever dream. Everything from the time he had supposedly woken up yesterday morning until now. He had no experience of what dreams were like, so how could he really say it wasn’t?

  Or maybe this was all a hoax. An incredibly elaborate, disturbing hoax, but one could make a case that nothing as bizarre as recent events could possibly be real. He certainly wouldn’t believe this story if someone else was telling it to him.

  Was Candid Camera still on the air? Oliver wasn’t sure. He hadn’t seen it in years. What would Allen Funt be saying right now? “We’ve convinced this man that he’s in a house full of vampires. Let’s watch what happens!”

  Allen Funt was dead, wasn’t he? Maybe he wasn’t, and that was part of the prank, too.

  Oliver sat up slowly, but not slowly enough to keep his head from spinning. He shut his eyes and tried to wait it out. After a moment things seemed to slow down again. Oliver decided that there was no way he’d be joining John Blackwell for breakfast. Maybe he’d just wait outside the house until someone came and picked him up. Or maybe he’d take a cab out of here. He just wanted to get away from this.

  Oliver looked around the room, moving his head slowly in an attempt to prevent another dizzy spell. The bedroom was fairly Spartan for a man of Blackwell’s means. The queen-size bed itself was elegant enough; Oliver couldn’t recall ever seeing a four-poster bed complete with a canopy in his life, but other than that the room held only a bedside table and an oak dresser in one corner. There was no television, no artwork, nothing that would have made anyone call the room comfortable. Blackwell must not care to have long-term guests, Oliver thought. Nobody would ever make themselves feel at home here.

  Or perhaps this room belonged to one of his “subjects.” That was the word he had used, wasn’t it? He wondered what it meant for a vampire to have subjects. Did they receive a salary? Would slave have been a better word?

  The room had only one door. Oliver assumed it must lead to a hallway. He hoped he wouldn’t have a need to go find a bathroom later. Even with Blackwell’s assurance that nobody here would dare harm him, he was fully aware that to a house full of vampires, he must look like a hamburger with legs.

  A digital clock on the bedside table read 2:52 am. He’d only been asleep for a few hours, then. He had no idea what dose of drugs he’d been given, but it seemed apparent that Blackwell had just wanted him out of the way for a while. It clearly hadn’t been an attempt to hurt or kill him. He shouldn’t be in danger here.

  It occurred to him how absurd that statement would sound to any rational person. He was alone in a secluded, heavily guarded house in the country, and everyone in said house other than him was a vampire. Not teenagers dressing up in black clothes and wearing too much eye makeup. Real, honest-to-god vampires. He was definitely in danger here.

  Oliver lay back in the bed and closed his eyes. He supposed he should try to get some more rest. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring, but he felt confident that nothing else would be happening tonight.

  There was a soft click at the door. Oliver sighed and opened his eyes. Why couldn’t anything work out the way he hoped?

  He sat up again, shutting his eyes as another dizzy spell hit him. There was more nausea, as well. For a moment he was sure he was abou
t to vomit, but the feeling quickly passed. He opened his eyes in time to watch the door slowly open. The maid he’d seen earlier, if that was really her job description, slipped into the room silently. She was still wearing her lacy black dress. She smiled at Oliver and shut the door quietly behind her.

  What had her name been? Something that sounded like a brand of champagne. “Chantal,” Oliver said, remembering. “Um…hello?”

  She smiled at him again and Oliver could see her fangs glistening across the darkened room. They were eerily bright. “You remember my name,” she said. “I’m flattered, Mr. Jones.”

  Oliver assumed she had been sent to check on him. “I don’t need anything right now,” he said, just a bit nervously. “Do you happen to know if anyone called here asking about me? Artemis, maybe? Or Tyler?”

  “No,” Chantal said. She took a step closer to the bed. Oliver saw something in her eyes he didn’t like. It was hunger, mixed with a dollop of lust. It was a look he didn’t enjoy being on the other end of.

  “Ah, okay. Well, thanks for dropping by,” Oliver said. He heard a small tremble in his voice and hoped she hadn’t noticed it.

  Chantal sighed. “Mr. Jones, I’m afraid I need something from you.” She stopped at the edge of the bed, close enough to reach out and touch him if she’d wanted to.

  “Oh, really?” He smiled, attempting to look calm. “What is it?”

  She suddenly climbed onto the bed with him. “It’s something only you can give me,” she said.

  This was a cliché, Oliver thought. Wasn’t this directly out of Bram Stoker? The sexy vampire woman was going to try to seduce him now? There had to be a way to head this off. “Your dress is getting wrinkled,” Oliver pointed out. Then he blinked in surprise at himself. Was that really the best he could come up with?

  “I’ve been waiting so long,” Chantal breathed.

  Oliver wondered how far he’d get if he tried to run, or if he would even make it to the door in his current condition. But then he remembered how fast Maria had moved earlier. If that speed was typical of vampires, he wouldn’t have had a chance, even on his best day. Much less when he was fighting the effects of narcotics.

  Chantal pushed him roughly back onto the bed and threw one leg over his hips, straddling him. In another context, and with a living woman, Oliver might have found himself quite turned on. At the moment, though, all he could think about was keeping his blood inside his body.

  She leaned down and caressed his cheek with her hand. “Handsome boy,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he replied automatically. “You’re very…” he began to say, before he caught himself. Politeness had a time and a place, and this was neither. “Mr. Blackwell said I’d be safe here.” He heard fear in his own voice and hated himself for it.

  “Yes, he did.” She leaned down and licked his cheek like a puppy might have. “I suppose he’s going to be very angry with me,” she breathed.

  “Definitely. Definitely very angry,” Oliver said. Good god, he was actually aroused, he suddenly realized.

  “I guess you’ll just have to kill him for me,” Chantal continued.

  Oliver blinked. That wasn’t what he had been expecting at all. He had thought all she wanted was a late-night snack. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m going to make you mine,” she said. “And then you’ll kill him for me.” She stroked his other cheek, seizing his wrist when he tried to stop her. Her grip was like a vice. “No,” she said sternly. “Don’t try to fight me. You’re nowhere near strong enough, and I don’t want you damaged.”

  “Please don’t,” Oliver said simply. He knew there was nothing else he could do now except beg.

  “It’s okay,” she said soothingly. “It’s not going to hurt.” She frowned suddenly. “Well, that was a lie. It is going to hurt. A lot. But you’ll get over it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Oliver said.

  She leaned down again and brushed her lips gently across his cheek. “I want to be free,” she said into his ear. “Once I’ve turned you, you’ll be under my control. For a little while, at least, you’ll be compelled to do whatever I command.” She smiled. “He won’t see you coming until it’s too late. So you’ll kill him for me, and then my bondage will be over.” She shrugged. “Or you might fail, but you’ll be dead and he’ll never know which of us turned you. There are more likely suspects than me.” She kissed him again. “My dear man, I’ve waited so long for this chance.”

  “What about Maria?”

  “Oh, she’ll definitely kill you,” Chantal said. “Although I suppose if you did manage to beat her somehow, you would be my first subject.” She smiled. “Either way I can’t lose.”

  Chantal placed her hands around Oliver’s upper arms and gripped him tightly. “Don’t struggle now,” she whispered. She leaned forward and kissed him delicately on the neck. A second, almost sensual kiss followed, and then she opened her mouth and bit into him.

  Oliver felt her sharp fangs penetrate the flesh of his neck deeply. The pain was like being burned with a pair of fiery needles, so hot he wondered if the wound would smolder when she let go of him. He tried to scream, but no sound would come out of his mouth other than a high-pitched wheeze. He felt Chantal’s fangs retract, her lips pressed tightly around the wound. His blood spurted into her mouth and she began to drink.

  After a few swallows she pulled back and looked at him curiously, wiping his blood off of her bottom lip. “You taste funny,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Must be the drugs I put in your wine. Sorry about that.”

  Oliver was breathing hard. “Jesus, that hurt,” he groaned.

  “Oh,” she said sympathetically. “My dear boy, that wasn’t the painful part.”

  Chantal extended an index finger and carefully traced a line across her left breast with the fingernail, leaving a narrow red trail in its wake. Blood began to trickle down her chest, at first only a few drops, but then more as the wound began to open. She leaned down and pulled Oliver up into a sitting position, then put her hands delicately around the back of his head. Slowly she guided his head down to her breast, as if helping a baby to nurse. “Drink,” she said, pressing his lips against her bleeding skin.

  Oliver wanted nothing more than to keep his mouth tightly shut, but the combination of drugs and the bleeding wound in his neck had left him weak and without the will to fight. And there was something about the smell of the woman’s blood that was beginning to appeal to him. It would be sweet and spicy, he knew. He found that he wanted it. Something was changing inside of him, making him want to drink it.

  Chantal stroked the back of his head gently, but didn’t release her grip. “Go ahead,” she said. Oliver’s lips were wet with her blood now and he could taste her. Instead of metallic bitterness, he tasted something wonderful. It was as sweet as he had imagined, but it was also so much more. It was as if someone had bottled the taste of sex. He wanted more now; he wanted to drink it in deeply.

  Oliver’s lips parted and her blood entered his mouth. He drew it in and swallowed. It was perfect, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to do this forever. He swallowed again, savoring the blood as it went down his throat. But the blood still wasn’t coming fast enough to satisfy him. He needed to open her. Oliver hesitated only for a moment, then he pressed forward and bit into her flesh.

  Chantal pulled back, a bemused look on her face. “My goodness, you are a hungry boy,” she said.

  Oliver swallowed again and again. Chantal let him drink for a moment longer and then finally pushed him away. “I think you’ve had enough,” she said with a smile. She sighed deeply. “Was that good?” she asked him.

  “More,” Oliver said.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Later you can have all you want. But for now,” she frowned. “You see, this is the painful part.”

  Oliver looked at her in confusion. What did she mean? That hadn’t hurt at all. He looked at the wound on her breast, which was already beginning to close. Could that have been w
hat she meant?

  He felt his stomach turn over and he was suddenly nauseous again. It was much worse this time than it had been before. Blood didn’t agree with him at all, apparently.

  Then the pain hit him, and Oliver screamed.

  It felt as if he had swallowed a handful of burning razor blades and they were tearing his insides apart. His body convulsed violently and he screamed again. Chantal frowned at him. “Not so loud, please,” she chided him. She pushed him down hard and pressed a palm against his mouth, clearly meaning to stifle the noise. “It doesn’t last long,” she said reassuringly.

  Oliver panicked. This was all wrong, he thought. All of this. How could blood ever have appealed to him? How had she made him want to drink it? It must be part of how vampires feed, he thought. Some kind of seduction.

  He could feel her blood hot in his veins now. It was running through his body, radiating heat down to the ends of his fingers and toes. He could feel something changing in his body. In a short time he’d be one of them, he knew. It was too late for him.

  No, he thought. This wasn’t going to happen. This couldn’t happen.

  “There, there now,” Chantal cooed. She didn’t remove her hand from his mouth. “You’re almost there.”

  No, he wasn’t, Oliver thought. It couldn’t possibly happen. Vampires weren’t real. In spite of the fact that he was looking at one, he suddenly felt certain that this wasn’t really happening. It was a dream. He was having his first dream. He wasn’t really turning into a vampire.

  Oliver heard a sound like rushing water in his ears. The noise built until it was loud enough to drown out everything else in the room. There was something familiar about it, he thought. Hadn’t he heard this same noise before, and not so long ago?

  Then the room around him began to move. At first it was minute, as if he’d looked away for a moment and when he looked back everything around him had shifted slightly. Then his vision blurred. Chantal was still there, but she was now a nearly formless blob above him. The room behind her spun around them.