Blood Vine

by Amber Belldene

  Yesterday’s coffee tray still sat on the dresser, and next to it, a pair of jeans and a couple shirts. Susan had brought them by when Zoey mentioned all her clothes had been blown up with her car. Her hot, too-clean skin slipped into the soft denim, one leg at a time. The jeans were tight in the thigh, loose in the waist, but good enough. A black T-shirt that spelled out Wine Slut with sequins glittered on the dresser. Too true. She picked the one underneath it: safely striped with pink and gray. It was a little tight across her breasts, but it had to do. Her thin-soled sandals would be trashed after this hike.

  From the window, a cloudless sky suggested another day just as hot as the one before. Good. She didn’t need a jacket. She slid her wallet into her pocket and glanced at her cell phone—battery nearly dead and charger a pile of ash in Andre’s front lawn. Suddenly, the phone blinked with a new message from Ethan. Yeah, right. She hit delete.

  She couldn’t leave from one of the exits off the main house, but Andre had mentioned a tunnel from the cellars leading north into a vineyard. That would put her beyond the shield and presumably beyond the Hunters’ watching eyes. He’d told his household staff that there was an inn within walking distance. She would call Justine to pick her up when she was out of the tunnel. A phone call could be too easily overheard in the house. Then, she’d walk to the inn. She’d go home, pack her things, and then go on the run.

  When it was time to leave, the panic rose up in her and she almost faltered. But she could not really reconsider. If she stayed, eventually he would slip through her fingers, just like in the dream. He would forget he was a vampire and walk into the sun. He would grow bored of her. He would be killed by Hunters. Better to lose him now than to get closer, to think she had her happy ending, and then lose him.

  With resolve, she said goodbye to her cheerful yellow room, grabbed her flashlight, and made for the stairs to the cellar.

  The cellars were lit with the murky blue of exposed compact-fluorescent bulbs. The solar panels must have been powering the estate. The cold air raised sharp bumps on her overheated skin. She rubbed her arms and headed away from Andre’s office, in case he was there. She got lucky—the entrance was at the far end of the cellar. The door was locked from the inside. She wriggled the big bolt until it slid back, then yanked on the door. It creaked open. The tunnel on the other side was dark and she was glad for her flashlight. She slipped in and closed the door softly behind her.

  Two steps into the pitch black tunnel she stubbed her toe. It throbbed, and she raised her knees higher with each step to protect her nearly bare feet. Her progress was slow and fumbling in the dark passage. Finding her footing was hard work. It was cathartic. She imagined she was going backward in time. She peeled off layers of memory, shedding Andre like a skin. No more sexy smiles, no more igniting looks. She banished him from her mind. Next came Ethan. It wasn’t hard to scrape him off, he’d only ever been skin deep. A few faceless men she’d fucked in the past. She didn’t remember them, but she remembered the blessed heat their bodies had lent her when she was desperate to feel something. That made them closer to her heart than Ethan, and she had to pull out the memories one by one and release them into the dark, damp air.

  And then she was in that deep, raw place of memories long buried. Her husband’s handsome face, the one she hadn’t let herself see for years, was finally there. His eyes sparkled flirtatiously, then turned dull with medication. She slowed her already plodding pace and dropped onto the ground. Every joy and contentment of their early years welled up inside her.

  They were at the beach, he was proposing to her—he had no ring, he didn’t get onto his knee. “So, I was thinking, baby, let’s get married.” The sun was setting and they huddled together against a cool breeze. They’d been talking about getting married for months, but this time he sounded different.

  “Are you asking?”

  “Uh huh.” He turned his head and kissed her, deep and long. It was a promise of forever. God, they were so young. They had no idea what kind of shit life could hand you.

  She broke the kiss to say, “Yes.” And then he changed before her eyes; growing thin and wild eyed, then thick and sluggish from his pills. They never made love, they never talked. She fretted over him, he gave up on life, and eventually, she gave up hope. She had no more tears for her young self, she just let the memories dissolve away. As they faded into the darkness, she felt completely new. It was time to move on. Ahead, a rectangular rim of light revealed the end of the tunnel.

  Blinking in the glaring brightness, she emerged from the tunnel reborn, a clean slate. Surely, she’d traveled only about a quarter of a mile, but it had taken at least an hour. After her eyes adjusted to the afternoon sun, she took out her cell phone to call Justine. It would not turn on. She would have to call her from the inn.

  She could see the busy highway just down the steep slope of the hill. Her flat-bottomed sandals slipped across dusty dirt and dried-out grass. She clung to the thick trunks of old vines to keep upright, careful not to dislodge any of the precious fruit along the trellis. At the bottom of the hill, she kept back from the road out of sight, following it in the direction of the inn.

  It was hot. Burrs and gravel sifted into her sandals. Blisters gave her something to focus on. She was a professional, an independent woman. She could take care of herself. She had rebuilt her life once, and she could do it again. No, don’t think about that, only think about the future.

  Her watch said it was nearly five p.m. by the time she arrived at the Farmhouse Inn, but a sign said they didn’t start serving dinner until six. She walked in the front door and a young woman looked startled to see her. At the unfriendly look, Zoey realized she would have to say his name. The panic roiled in her veins and her gut. Her lungs deflated in a rush and she gasped for air. Put it in the box, just one more memory crammed into the dark cold closet where she hid her grief. There was plenty of room in there, if she just emptied it out.

  “Can I help you?”

  She licked her teeth to lubricate her forced smile and stepped forward. “Hi, I’m a friend of Andre Maras over at the Kaštel Estate Winery. He mentioned the owner, Sam, was a friend.”

  Before the adolescent gatekeeper could shoo her off, a man’s voice came from the kitchen. “Cary, who is it?”

  “Someone to see you.”

  He exited the kitchen in the clean white shirt of a chef, wiping his hands on a towel. “Hi, do I know you?”

  “No, hi. I’m Zoey Porter, a friend of Andre Maras. He speaks kindly of you, and I thought I might ask you for a favor?”

  He scratched his head and waiting for her to continue.

  “Could I possibly use your telephone and then wait for a ride to arrive from San Francisco?”

  “Sure. That’s no trouble. Would you rather wait at Andre’s? I can have someone take you there.”

  Her lungs tried to revolt, but she showed them who was boss by letting her breath out slowly. “Thanks, that’s kind of you. But there’s no need. I’d just as soon wait here.”

  Zoey lifted the phone in Sam’s office to her ear, but her fingers hovered over the buttons. Could she really trust Justine? She called to mind the overly friendly airhead, trying to recall the color of her eyes. Behind those funky reading glasses, they were clear blue. Zoey dialed.

  Justine picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Zoey. What’s up?”

  It was good to hear her voice. “I need a ride. I’m still in Sonoma, at a place called the Farmhouse Inn. Can you come get me?”

  “Totally. Everything okay?”

  Zoey eased, settling into the desk chair. Justine was way too much of a ditz to be in cahoots with Ethan—he hated airheads.

  “I’m fine. It’s a long story.”

  “I’ll leave right now.”

  Good old Justine. “I’ll be eternally grateful.”

  Ethan stopped for gas in Healdsburg and saw the dollar store. He couldn’t resist. Inside, the odor of strawberry-scented candles and industrial floor clea
ner mingled, becoming something toxic. He coughed. The wall to his right was covered in toys—probably made of lead. Sure enough, they were there. Ninety-nine cents for a bag of those green soldiers. May as well buy two.

  He tossed them in the passenger seat.

  As his car crawled down the Interstate, he mused over his good fortune to be born a Hunter. And he would have an army of plastic soldiers with yellow eyes at his disposal, if all went well.

  In a more vanilla American family, his lack of human emotion and his fascination with violence might have caused him problems. Instead, it was easy to blend in, and to learn. The important lessons weren’t about how to kill vampires or blow up buildings. Instead, he observed that, motivated by deep hatred, Hunters went against their own self-interest for the cause. They were poorly educated, didn’t move up in society, and they bankrupted themselves financing missions. How easy would it be to harness that hate into his very own army of fanatics?

  He had the charisma and intelligence to lead. Professor William Oliver was going to give him a secret weapon that would ensure his success. If he could unlock the secrets of the Hunters’ past, the entire clan would be his to command.

  He was almost to Berkeley when his phone rang. The number told him someone from the office was calling.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Justine.”

  “Yes?”

  “Zoey just called me. She’s at a place called The Farmhouse Inn, down the road from the winery several miles.”

  “You’re kidding?” Ethan sucked in a breath. This was better news than Oliver’s translation.

  “She’s waiting there for me to pick her up.”

  “Perfect. I’ll send her a driver straight away. Nice job.”

  “Just doing my duty, for the cause.”

  He pictured her behind the desk at his office, a female green plastic soldier wearing hideous pink-striped glasses. “Your dedication is honorable,” he said before ending the call and dialing his father. “Zoey is at someplace called the Farmhouse Inn. Go get her.”

  He expected some resistance as he assumed a tone of command, but his father simply agreed. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  “Do not take her to headquarters. That’s the first place Marasović will look.” He hung up the phone.

  What was she thinking leaving the Kaštel Estate like that? Perhaps she had received his message. Perhaps she would come back to him willingly. His heart beat absurdly fast.

  Then, in a wide-open intersection, he slammed on his brakes. His father and Mick would think Zoey was fair game for any kind of sport. They might even hand her over to the initiates since she was defiled by vampires. He didn’t care if she was pure, he didn’t care if Andre Marasović had fucked her every way but Sunday. He wanted her back.

  Frozen in the crosshairs of the streetlight, it changed to red. He pressed the gas, screeching into motion, and veered to the side of the road, where he scraped his hubcap on the curb. He fumbled with his phone to call his father and demand no one harm her. But when he pictured Zoey hurt, he finally knew his own mind—he wanted her that way.

  All along, he had thought he found her confidence alluring, when what he really wanted was to break her of it. No more assertive, demanding Zoey. And whatever the initiates would do to her would be a perfect start. Cutting off the call, he pocketed his phone and began to drive.

  After another few minutes, he pulled into a parking garage near the Berkeley campus. The History Department receptionist pointed him to Oliver’s office. He had taken care to disguise his appearance. He wore contacts, eyeglasses several years out of date, and a false mustache made to match his blond hair perfectly.

  The door to Oliver’s office was open in expectation of his arrival. The academic stood when Ethan approached.

  “Ah, welcome. Have a seat.” He gestured at a chair across from the desk.

  “Thank you. You have the translation?”

  “Yes, I have my best guess at the meaning of the text. As I said, it’s most unusual. Completely atypical of Celtic mythology. It describes a conflict between a group who worshipped the sun god and one who worshiped a god of darkness or night. The text was written by the sun god’s followers, and depicts the night god’s people as evil.”

  “What was the nature of the conflict?”

  “Some of the sun god’s people fell under the influence of the night god’s people. An older group of sun worshipers killed them all. A Noah and the Flood type myth about starting over with a clean slate. Only this one has a twist. The new, pure generation was given a mandate to destroy everyone who worshipped the night god, total extermination.”

  “I see. What a curious story. Does the text suggest why the sun worshippers hated the night worshippers so much?”

  “Good question. The middle portion seems to address the reasons, but I am having trouble translating it. It’s clear that the sun worshippers associated the night worshippers with death, and saw them as unclean. Here —” Oliver pointed at the paper where he had transcribed the text “—I think this says ‘they drank death.’ And this phrase seems to be saying something about ‘eyes of the sun.’ But I don’t know what that means—perhaps that the sun god is watching.”

  “Fascinating. Professor Oliver, do you have any ideas who might be able to complete this translation?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve given copies to a couple of colleagues for help.”

  “Which colleagues?”

  Oliver told him the names of two other professors.

  “I can’t thank you enough for your help with this,” he said while he pulled out a gun with a silencer. The discrepancy between the gun and his words clearly confused Oliver. He shot him quickly to spare him further confusion. Taking the scrawled translation from Oliver’s hand, he folded it into his pocket. The codex itself was safely ensconced in its hard-sided case on Oliver’s desk. He grabbed it as well and walked casually out of the office.

  After Andre was ejected from Zoey’s room, he retreated as far as possible from the seductive scent that tempted him to march right back to her, begging and pleading. He took refuge in his office. Over in the workroom, Bel paced and clanged around, signaling his impatient need for electricity to power his experiment.

  Andre preferred solitude to Bel in a foul mood, so he played a stiflingly boring game of solitaire. Then he set about reading an equally stifling textbook called Scientific Principles in Winemaking. Perhaps the explanations behind practices he had long employed would have been interesting, if he were not so miserably heartbroken. Davo. His self-pity was pathetic, but he could not shake it. Fate had tricked him into loving again, only to bring him another razor-sharp rejection.

  When the solar panels lit up at dawn, Bel went silent, and Andre assumed he was putting his own scientific principles into action.

  The letters on the page of Andre’s book ran together. Every word spelled Zoey. He didn’t know what time it was. Her scent reached him all the way from the house and her pull finally became so forceful that he could no longer stand to be alone. He slammed the book shut and sought out Bel. Just as he expected, his son was hunched over that strange machine.

  “Solve any mysteries?” he asked, hoping to sound casual. He was careful not to meet Bel’s gaze, or his son would see right through him.

  In the silence that followed, Andre sensed Bel’s scrutiny. Or perhaps he inferred it; it was always so easy to read Bel. Sometimes he was more twin brother than he was son. Andre concentrated on hiding his tells by softening his features and relaxing his jaw.

  Bel chortled. “Nice try. What did she do to make you so—?”

  Andre held up his palm to silence him. “Just tell me what you have learned.”

  “Nothing yet. I just ran the last sample. You’re welcome to look at the results with me.” He indicated the jagged line on one of the thin slips of paper. “This peak indicates iron is present in the sample. It’s what I was expecting. Only Lucas’s blood has a significant amount of iron
, since he’s human.”

  The zigzag of data on the paper was meaningless to Andre. Only, it did look a little like the letter Z—

  He shook his head, handing it back to Bel. “What about Pedro? Does he still have iron in his blood?”

  “He has only trace levels. He had so little blood in his body when you gave him yours, it’s almost all been replaced by vampire blood now.”

  As if on cue, Pedro entered the large room via the dimly lit cellar and flinched in the bright light. Andre shuddered in sympathy. It would be days before the new vampire’s senses adjusted to their heightened sensitivity. But he looked otherwise well—young and fit—if strained around the eyes and with tightly pressed lips.

  Bel leaned against the countertop and bumped a glass beaker, sending it sliding into another one with a clang. “Man, you do not look better. Were you able to rest?”

  “Oh yeah. Like a baby. The whale sounds really helped—thanks.”

  Bel flashed his middle finger at Pedro.

  “What are you talking about?” Andre asked.

  “Pedro’s a little—”

  “I’m fine.” Pedro rubbed his eyes, then wiped a hand over his face, which was ashen under his bronze skin. Andre tried to remember. Did all baby vampires go pale from the shock?

  “Tell me the results,” Pedro said.

  “We are just reading them now.” Andre pointed at the other three printouts. “Is this what you expected?”

  Bel arranged them side-by-side on the countertop, trailing his finger along the slips where each one spiked high. “Yes, loads of copper in your blood—that’s the Hemocuprum.”

  Andre recognized the word; Kos kept him apprised of Bel’s research. He pressed his finger onto another pile of slips. “What do these say?”