Killing Kiss

by Sam Stone

  I don’t believe it will help her feel better. She will still have to kill to live. She frowns at me again, shrugs, then turns once more to the cupboard she is ravaging. I watch her for a moment before turning away, back to my task.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘What?’ I twist; my heart leaping.

  ‘How many DVDs and videos have you got in here?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I didn’t take you for a movie buff. What’s this? Casablanca? God, that’s old.’

  ‘I like old films ...’ My response is lame even to my ears.

  She is enjoying looking through my cupboards, wading through my life; it gives her an insight into me.

  ‘Seriously, have you watched all of these?’ She giggles; a light girly laugh that under normal circumstances would inspire a very male reaction from me.

  I don’t answer. So many long sleepless nights in four hundred years; so many hours to fill. Funny I haven’t spent one evening since her arrival looking at the television. All we’ve done is played music - and argued.

  ‘I used to read a lot ... before the age of video and DVD,’ I say.

  ‘Oh. Love at First Bite. Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Bride of Dracula ... God, do you believe your own press or what? There are loads of vampire movies here ...’

  She tosses the cassette into the large tea chest by her feet and reaches into the cupboard for another.

  ‘These are all in alphabetical order aren’t they? Jesus, you’re organised. That’s really sad, do you know that? That’s some form of obsessive compulsive ... What’s this?’

  An old dusty video of King Kong tumbles to the floor. On the cover Fay Wray looks into the camera, her hand crushed to her screaming lips.

  I step into the kitchen, pick up the cassette and look into those big charcoal rimmed eyes. Black and white, though I know that those false eye lashes frame pale blue irises and those lips are painted blood red, just as I saw her on the opening night at the Chinese Theatre.

  ‘Miss Wray, look this way ...’

  Flash.

  ‘How did it feel to be held by a big ape?’

  ‘Back-off asshole, only badge press are permitted photos.’

  The security guard, aspiring cop, shoves me back from the red carpet.

  ‘I’ve got a card,’ I tell him as I look deep into his coal eyes.

  ‘See it?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’ He walks away dazed and she poses for me, white satin dress clinging to her legs.

  She’s not wearing underwear.

  ‘What else have you got here? Oh no ... not Mighty Joe Young.’

  She laughs.

  ‘Stop it. Damn you!’

  Lilly’s razor nails are painted the same deep red, and I flinch as her fingertips brush my cheek. Her soul is in her eyes. I am her mirror. We are like a paused DVD; suspended mid sentence, action frozen. Cut. And then, I press play.

  ‘This is my life.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she pleads. ‘I just want to know.’

  ‘Why? So you can ridicule it? Feel superior?’

  She shakes her head. No. The words gag my mouth. It is like a thousand stories; Ysabelle, Francesca, Amanda, Sophia and more merging and blending in a confused mass. I can’t share it. Not yet. Lilly’s hand strokes my face, soothing. Her lips kiss my cheek, cooling. I think I am dreaming; I never thought she could give me the slightest tenderness.

  ‘How can you expect me to understand anything unless you share?’

  I shake my head. My body tremors in sympathy and I stumble against her. She holds me until the torrent subsides and beyond. When the night fades into morning we still sit, huddled together on the hard wooden floor; two monsters afraid of the daylight.

  Then - the sunrise burns in fiercely, breaking us apart. We stretch and stand in unison. Lilly quickly shuts the blinds, closing out the life giving heat.

  ‘It hurts,’ she says, rubbing her arms. ‘Always in the morning.’

  ‘Yes. But it gets better, the more you feed.’

  She is silent, still for a moment.

  ‘I was never meant to live, was I?’ she asks eventually; the question I had been dreading the most. ‘I’d given up hope ...’ I am so afraid.

  She begins to fill the kettle.

  ‘A hot drink is what we need ...’ She is too perky.

  It is my turn to comfort. I put my arms around her waist, hugging her to me from behind, even though I know it is likely she will push me away. She remains still, allowing my caress, her arms wrapping around mine as she leans back against me.

  ‘Even though I can’t talk yet ... I’m so glad you’re here,’ I whisper into her hair.

  ‘I ... think you really mean that, Gabriele.’

  I bury my face in her hair. Kiss her throat, tracing a pattern with my tongue down her collar bone. She shivers in my arms and for a moment I have hope that she will respond, let me love her again. The soft whistle of the kettle breaks the mood and she pulls away, slipping from my hands like a fish almost caught. Her heart pounds in her chest, I can feel it, sense it; almost taste it.

  ‘Come on. We’ve still got work to do.’

  Yes. We have to leave. Run away, like every other chapter in my life. I almost want this to end, had hoped it could. Maybe when we are settled in the country estate we may live in quiet domesticity hidden away from the world. For she at least is safe for me to love; I cannot hurt her more than I have already.

  ‘Where can Madre be?’ asked Gabi. ‘She’s never gone out and not told us where she was going.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I feel she’s not going to come back soon,’ Marguerite whispered.

  Huddled together like two conspirators they sat in the dark before the thriving fire in the nursery. I hid in the shadows by the doorway listening to their childish concerns. I had said nothing to them, pretending the disappearance was a complete mystery to me also.

  Earlier in the day I had caught Senora Benedictus looking at me suspiciously as the children questioned me about Ysabelle. The senora’s job was primarily to act as governess to the twins, however unofficially her presence in the household also worked as a chaperone for Ysabelle and I. This had legitimised her presence in my home and made it possible for us to live as a family, even though we were unmarried. Although this had never been formally discussed with Senora Benedictus, I knew she had always been aware of it. I also suspected that she knew I was Marguerite and Gabi’s father.

  On returning early in the morning I had removed several of Ysabelle’s personal items, including clothing, jewellery and a full purse of money. As I searched through her drawers, deliberately leaving some mess, a drawer semi ajar, a cupboard open and untidy as though Ysabelle had searched for specific things, I had come across the silver locket I had given her soon after she moved in with the children. I didn’t have the heart to throw it away. She had loved it; flushed with excitement when I gave it to her.

  ‘I’ve never owned anything so beautiful,’ she’d said.

  It had been one of her favourite things. As I stuffed the small trunk with her most used items, I inserted the lock of hair I’d taken from her and placed the locket around my neck. I was determined that her death would not be forgotten because the locket would always be there to remind me that I had destroyed this innocent woman.

  Within an hour, weighted with heavy chain, I heaved the trunk out into the middle of the canal and let it drop. It sank, bubbling and hissing as the remaining air leaked out and the vile smelling water seeped in. I watched until the last bubbles dispersed on the surface and no sign of my crime remained. Then quietly I returned to the Palazzo, slipping into my room as the morning mist dispersed from the water by the raw heat of the summer sun.

  I rang for my valet at the usual time, dressing with the same care and patience, my
face blank. Every movement mimicked the routine of all my other mornings. Marco, my manservant, never once raised a questioning brow to anything I said or did. Even if I had behaved differently it would not have registered with him; his mind was full of the new servant girl the housekeeper had hired a few days earlier. So, I chose my clothes with the usual care and thought. In this way I ensured that the household workers were unaware that their informal mistress was dead.

  As my children cried softly by the fire, my heart splintered and the pieces began to fly into different corners of the globe. I knew. It was time. I had to leave. But first I would make sure that Gabi and Marguerite had everything they needed. I would always do my best for them, but they were not safe in my presence.

  As the quill scratched across the parchment, dry sobs shook my shoulders. I was angry and sad. I hated Lucrezia for coming into my life and taking away my humanity. Maybe if I had never met her, Ysabelle and my children would have been able to live happily with me forever. I wrote letters of introduction to two separate schools. One an academic and military establishment for young boys and the other an exclusive finishing school set in Geneva, which was only available to those young ladies with extraordinary wealth. I sealed the letters with hot wax and the family crest and carefully lay them on top of my desk to dry.

  Senora Benedictus arrived a few minutes later. Her muddy eyes wouldn’t meet mine. ‘Senora. Please take a seat. What I have to say may take some time.’

  Quietly she sat; her back as severe as the walls of the watch tower.

  ‘Senora Ysabelle has left me the care of the children.’ Her eyes flicked up then back to her clasped hands. ‘I’m sure I will not be shocking you if I reveal that I am not their uncle?’ She said nothing. ‘I am their father. I have decided it will be in their best interests to go away to school. As you know Marguerite has an incredible mind. There is an excellent academy for young ladies in Switzerland.’

  It went on for several minutes. The senora neither spoke nor looked at me; her silence was her accusation even though her mind was closed to me.

  ‘I shall be commending them both to your care. You will first deliver Gabi to the school in Verona and then make your way to Switzerland. Naturally I will be giving you a generous severance pay and all expenses for the journey. Would you care to return to Venice or do you need further expenses to another city? I could also make some enquiries on your behalf; there is a Baron I know whose wife has recently given him a son.’

  ‘That will not be necessary, signor. I can find my own appointment.’

  ‘A reference then, naturally. I shall write it immediately.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As she left my study I was not certain how much she knew and if she was ever going to be a threat to me. Either way it did not concern me, for as soon as she left the next morning with Marguerite and Gabi I ordered my household dissolved and I sold both house and possessions to the first foreign visitor to offer. I left money behind with a trusted steward for Senora Benedictus to collect on her return. I knew that my sudden flight would raise even further suspicion but it did not matter. Who would want to investigate the sudden disappearance of a scullery maid? And even if Senora Benedictus did decide to report her suspicions, who would care enough to come looking for me?

  Chapter 22

  ‘What is this place?’ Lilly asks as I lead her down the dark alley to the hollow black doorway.

  ‘Goth bar.’

  ‘And we’re here because?’

  ‘You need to feed.’ I smile at her in what I hope is a reassuring manner.

  ‘I told you I’m not ...’

  ‘Take it easy. These victims are willing, for a few drinks - though in reality I have never resorted to this before.

  ‘Then ... how do you know they are willing?’ Her voice is sharp, suspicious.

  ‘I have my sources.’

  The smoke was Miss Havisham’s veil, parting to reveal the warped and twisted visage of the young, beautiful, wealthy and political. I plunged in, brushing against a lovely black girl in silver hot pants and a black sleeveless blouse that was tied under her breasts; her defined stomach was slick with perspiration as she rocked her hips in rhythm with the music. Her partner was a John Travolta look-a-like in white flared trousers and a shirt that clung to his hollow chest, soaked with perspiration. He lifted her into his arms swinging her in a Rock ’n’ Roll move, redressed as disco, while sweat poured down his forehead into his eyes.

  I Love the Night Life pounded through the huge black speakers as the neon lights flashed onto the disco ball, scattering kaleidoscopic colours over the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. A waitress in a tight turquoise leotard and an afro worked her way through the crowd. She tottered on ludicrously high heels. Her tray swayed in sympathy with her hips while freshly poured beer sloshed onto the already tacky surface of the plastic tray. She stumbled forward to a table perched at the edge of the wooden floor.

  ‘That’ll be five dollars, sir,’ she drawled serving the drinks; her southern American accent was like Irish coffee.

  She scooped up the money as I stepped closer and took a seat at the table next to my broker, Michael Steel. Michael nodded his silver streaked head in my direction as the waitress smiled at me.

  ‘What can I get you?’ She pronounced ‘I’ like ‘Ahh’.

  ‘Bloody Mary.’ I smiled back and I watched her waltz away.

  ‘I got something for you,’ Michael shouted in my ear above the dim of the disco. ‘Here.’

  He held out an envelope which I knew would contain a wad of cash. I took it, quickly stuffing it in to my jacket pocket.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find it very satisfactory,’ Michael continued.

  ‘Perhaps someday you’ll tell me how you come by your information.’

  ‘Perhaps. But why bother when this arrangement is so lucrative?’

  Michael laughed, flashing perfect white teeth, a politician’s smile; he should have been kissing poor unsuspecting babies.

  ‘I’ve got something for you too,’ I said, leaning closer. ‘Laker Airlines.’

  ‘What? They gonna announce bigger profits?’

  ‘No.’ I smiled. ‘Goin’ under.’

  ‘Not possible ...’ Michael took a gulp of his beer; then followed it with a vodka chaser.

  I looked at him more closely. He was wired. I detected the faint odour of cocaine on the breath he exhaled through his nostrils.

  ‘You want to take it easy with that stuff. It’ll kill ya,’ I told him.

  ‘Yeah, right. That’s what my dealer says ... Anyway ... Laker? You sure?’

  ‘Have I ever been wrong?’ My eyes followed a lovely girl of Chinese origin with hair so long it stroked the back of her knees; it was a pity she wasn’t my type. Beside me Michael laughed.

  ‘Amazingly, no you haven’t. I’ll act on it. Usual remuneration?’

  I nodded, patting my pocket. ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  Of course I was never going to tell Michael that the information I gave him came from sitting on the roof tops of all the major corporations, listening to their most secret meetings. He would never have believed it anyway.

  In the congealing mass I looked for outstanding beauty and found - Lucrezia. She was dancing with one of the younger Kennedy’s; I forget which. Her breasts deliberately brushed against him as she moved. She was the same, stunning but vile.

  I felt a pang of disgust mixed with lust as she allowed the man to maul her openly under the guise of dance moves. She, like me, had become a chameleon. She fitted into the scene perfectly, with her flowing gypsy skirt and off the shoulder top in white cheese cloth. Even the hair, a backcombed mess, was like all the other women in the room; big.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ I told Michael, but he was busy with the girl beside him; a skinny waif who didn’t look
older than fifteen. His tastes were often a concern for me but not really my business.

  I stood, matching Lucrezia’s progress with my own as she tracked the dance floor. Her hair flicked as she spun her head around and suddenly turned my way. It was as though she felt my resentful gaze on her slender spine. I deftly slid behind a concrete column that was painted to look marble, not wanting to be recognised. I was long past any hope that she would want to see me, talk to me or be anywhere near me. Even so, I was curious. I enjoyed the thought that I could observe her unnoticed. Perhaps that night she hunted, just as I did, among the rich and famous.

  Perhaps she too wanted to experience the thrill of taking someone who would actually be missed. Although, having spied her in Memphis with Elvis some years before, I still had my suspicions about her involvement in his sudden death.

  What was it about Lucrezia that invited danger? Over the years she had been easy to find, never caring to hide from me and taking little more precaution among humans. I soon realised that she believed in her invulnerability. If things didn’t work out her way, she killed and vanished; sudden, violent and careless. I wasn’t sure if she even took the precaution of having an escape route or backup plan. It would be so like her to be so arrogant. I envied her.

  I patted my jacket pocket again, silently insecure. Everything was there, where I expected it to be, my current passport and driver’s licence. In a safe deposit box in a bank in Queens there were several spares, all under different identities that I could jump in and out of at a minute’s notice. I lived in fear of discovery because I did not believe, unlike Lucrezia, that I was indestructible. Science was too clever, too watchful.

  I smiled at a lithe blonde in a diminutive skirt and boob-tube, but kept my lusting teeth in check, as she shimmied past me.

  Even though people in the eighties liked the idea of the mysterious seducer who sucked the blood of virgins to live forever and Hammer Horror movies were at the height of their popularity, I knew that my protruding fangs could terrify. I’d seen and loved all of the fad Dracula movies; they were hopelessly amusing. Christopher Lee was my favourite. And as for those lovely virgins, oh yes.