by Thom Reese
CHAPTER TEN
When Shane awoke next, Gisele was not to be seen. The scruffy guy with the missing tooth stood in the small kitchenette frying bacon—naked. The aroma was pleasing. Suddenly Shane realized how very hungry he was. How long had it been since he’d eaten? How long had he been here? Somehow it seemed it may have been several days—or had it been weeks? There were so many hazy half images, so many…memories? Gisele beside him talking, people in and out of the room, Gisele tending to him, coaxing him, muted conversations from just beyond the rim of reality. He blinked, attempting to bring his eyes fully into focus. Shane was on a couch. There was a plastic bucket on the floor beside him. It smelled of vomit. A wool blanket covered him, and…he was naked beneath it. What was going on here? Shane attempted to rise to a sitting position, but his muscles refused. There was a strange coppery taste in his mouth, and his head felt as if someone had dropped a building onto it.
Sensing the movement, the naked fry cook glanced at Shane and smiled. “Bonjour.” Then, raising his voice, he shouted toward a bedroom door. The words were French, but Shane understood a reference to “the American.” A few moments later, Gisele appeared from beyond the bedroom door. She wore an oversized men’s polo shirt and nothing more. Shane recognized the shirt as the one he’d worn the night of his attack.
“Ah, you are awake.” She came forward and seated herself on the edge of the couch, placing her palm against his forehead. “Good. The fever is gone.”
Shane shook his head in an attempt to keep her from touching him. “What did you do to me?”
Gisele smiled. “All of that in due time. Now is the time to recover.” She turned and said something to the naked guy in the kitchenette. A moment later he was handing her a glass of water. “Here. Sit up just a bit. You need to drink much.”
Before Shane could respond, she had placed a hand behind his back, and gently pressed, helping him into a sitting position. Shane did not trust her, but he was thirstier than ever in his life, so accepted the water. It was lukewarm, slightly cloudy, but tasted like life itself. Gisele attempted to slow the rate of his drinking, but he shrugged her off, downed the glass—much of it dribbling onto his chest—and then said, “More.”
Gisele smiled, nodded, and then called her companion, asking for a refill.
Shane glanced at the approaching cook—at his state of undress—and managed to croak the word, “Naked.”
Gisele laughed. “My people are not ashamed of our bodies. They are to be celebrated. Not hidden beneath layers of fabric.” She paused, cocked her head, offering that wry grin of hers. “But you are uncomfortable. I will ask Alard to dress.”
She did so. Alard chuckled and pranced around playfully for a moment, brought Shane his water, and then disappeared into the same room from which Gisele had emerged.
There was a moment of awkward silence as Shane and Gisele were left alone in the room. Finally, Shane spoke. “You set me up. Your friends mugged me.”
Gisele shook her head. Her expression blank, unreadable. “Mugged? No. Something different.”
“You’re telling me that if I were to find my wallet right now, all the money would still be in there?”
“No. The money is gone.”
Shane gazed at her for a moment, studying her eyes. “You and all your friends—your eyes?”
“They are different. Yes.”
Shane nodded. Earlier, Gisele had made a reference to “my people.” Shane was coming to realize she wasn’t referring to the French. He was just about to comment on this when the front door opened. It was the other young woman Shane had seen in this apartment the night he’d been attacked. She had a young, eager-looking man on her arm.
At that same moment, Alard emerged from the bedroom and Eudo appeared in the doorway behind the couple, blocking the exit. Shane recognized the scene immediately and made to warn the young man. But he was too late. Alard moved swiftly. He smiled, said something in French as he reached out placing his hand on the back of the confused man’s neck. Then the man’s brown eyes went wide, his long limbs trembled and bucked. Alard and Eudo lowered him to the floor as his legs gave out, but never once did Alard release his grip on the back of the neck.
Shane began to scream in protest, knowing that this was exactly what had been done to him, but he was weak, his system still healing. As he tried to rise, a wave of vertigo overtook him. He would have fallen from the couch, but Gisele caught him, pressing him back down onto the frayed cushions and into a reclined position. Shane protested, but his strength fled him—consciousness as well.
* * * *
When next Shane awoke, there was no sign of the other victim. Had he been killed? Had they moved him to another room? What was happening? What were these people doing to him—and to others? How long had this been going on? And why was he still here? Why were they tending to him? If this was a mugging, why hadn’t they simply dumped him on a street corner and been done with it? Shane had the unsettling feeling that he’d stumbled into something very, very weird.
Voices intruded from the adjacent room. Shouting. A male and a female. The words were in French, and Shane could understand almost none of it. But there were continued references to “L’Americain.” Obviously, he was the topic of the debate. Shane shuddered at the implications. He’d witnessed the attack of another—he’d seen too much. He must be disposed of. The way he saw it, his only real chance of survival was to get out of the apartment before it was too late.
Slowly, very slowly, Shane rose to a sitting position. His head swam, and for several seconds he braced himself with the arm of the couch. He felt nauseous. His vision moved in and out of focus. There was still that low hum in his ears. But it seemed his strength was returning. Good for that. He needed it.
Shane wasn’t given the chance to flee. For it was then that Gisele and Eudo strode into the room. Eudo glared at Shane as he sat there on the couch, a blanket covering his nakedness, his limbs still quivering from the ordeal of sitting upright. There was something about the man’s face, something strangely familiar. He was still Eudo, yet there were subtle changes which Shane knew he should key in on. Still the truth of it evaded him. He knew those features, but not as they were. The face was similar to, but not the same as… What? Who? It seemed so obvious, and yet so distant. Shane scowled in frustration. Did Eudo now resemble Shane’s younger brother, Chris?
Gisele gazed from one man to the other, and then said something to Eudo in French. Eudo seemed to contemplate for a moment, and then marched silently to the front door and out of the apartment.
“Time to dispose of the witness?” asked Shane with some bite to his voice.
“You are perceptive.” Gisele stepped forward.
Shane’s stomach dipped and spun. It was one thing to contemplate the worst, it was another to hear it confirmed. He began to rise as she approached, but even as he got to his feet, he fell back onto the couch.
Gisele chuckled. “Silly Shane. I am not the threat.” She sat beside him on the couch and laid her hand on his kneecap. “But, yes. You are a concern. It was never intended that you be here so long, or for you to see what you have seen.”
“The other guy, the one Alard attacked, is he dead?”
Gisele shook her head. “No. Like most, he handled the process well. Alard and Eudo were able to leave him unconscious at on a public bench. He will not know what was done. Within a few days he will feel entirely himself again.”
“And me?”
“You did not respond well. Your system rejected the process. That is why you are still here. It is very fortunate you survived. But now you present a larger problem. You have seen enough to become a danger to us. What are we to do with you?”
Shane stared at her for a moment. “Tell me what’s happening here. What ‘process’ are you talking about? What did you do to me? Maybe if I understand, I won’t be as much of a threat as you think.”
Gisele glanced at the door where Eudo had exited, and then back at Shane. She si
ghed, placed a hand over his, and then she told him of a strange species known as the reyaqc, of their need for “essence,” of how they rob genetic information from their victims in order to survive. Oh, and if Shane thought Gisele and her companions were inhuman, then he’d best pray he never encounters those known as molts, for those…those were something altogether different.
* * * *
Several days later, Shane was finally off of the couch and standing before a cracked mirror in the tiny bathroom adjacent the living area. His hair had turned gray, or more accurately, white—the stark pure white of a cotton ball. Not the slightest hint of color. Twenty-eight years old, and he had the hair of a centenarian. And all because of this…genetic theft! Eudo had taken something from Shane—DNA, stem cells, something. And that process had gone awry. It had somehow damaged Shane, nearly killed him. But he was better now. Much better. His strength was returning. Except for the occasional swirl of lightheadedness, the vertigo was gone. He still had the low tone in his ears, but it had become less troublesome. But his hair! The shock to his system had apparently been too much.
Shane was still coming to grips with the reality of the reyaqc. That such a species could live alongside humanity, unknown, undiscovered, except by a select few, seemed amazing to him. Yet, he had no alternate explanation for what he’d seen and experienced. Apparently, this entire apartment building—all four units—were occupied by reyaqc. They came and went from one unit to another. Some were more or less permanent residents, others only occasional. According to Gisele, the place was owned by an old and wealthy reyaqc who offered it as a safe haven for his kind. She and her companions had taken to luring potential donors to the place, usually young men and women seeking a night of excitement. As best they could, the reyaqc would perplex the victim as to the true location of the place, infuse the “essence” from the people, and then dump them someplace where they would awaken, weak, but essentially unharmed. Wallets and purses would be gone. The victims would assume it had been a simple, if not elaborate, mugging, and go on with their lives. Many were so embarrassed by the foolishness of walking into the trap in search of sex, that they never even notified the police.
Things had not gone so simply for Shane. His system rebelled—he’d nearly died. From what Gisele told him, Eudo had wanted to dump him in the English Channel and be done with it, but Gisele had argued that Shane was a foreigner, an American, and should his body be found, there would be increased scrutiny. She’d promised to nurse him back to relative health, after which, they could deposit him on a bench somewhere, none the wiser. But Shane had seen things. He’d witnessed an attack. Eudo worried that this information might interest the authorities should Shane report it.
Now the question still remained—what to do with Shane.
In truth, Shane was simultaneously terrified and exhilarated. Naturally, he feared for his life. But in truth, he didn’t see these people as killers. Even Eudo, the most rigid of the bunch, grudgingly allowed Shane to remain yet another day—each and every day. It seemed to Shane that Eudo didn’t want to kill Shane, but rather that he felt there may be no other option.
Truth be told, Shane had no inclination to turn these people—he supposed he should call them people—in to the authorities. What had society done for him? Two failed marriages, a disenfranchised family, a job that paid well, but, hey, money was only that—money. If nothing else, at least these reyaqc were different, exciting.
“You seem to be in contemplation.” It was Gisele. She’d come up behind him.
“Yeah. My hair. Not quite the same look I had when I met you in that club.”
Gisele smiled that still-wry smile of hers. “It makes you look more the man. Not a boy.”
“Just what I wanted. To go gray before my dad. Maybe someone will give me an AARP card and I can get discounts.”
Gisele cocked her head, obviously not understanding the reference.
“An organization for retired people. I look old.”
Gisele grinned and looked at him head to feet. “No. Blanc hair or no, I don’t think any persons will think you old—especially not the ladies.”
Well, that was a curious comment. Shane was taken aback and searching for a response, when a commotion came from the living area. Peering out of the bathroom, he took in the scene. The other female reyaqc, her name was Monique, had brought home a young man, a donor—a victim—for one of the more transient male reyaqcs, Franc. But the intended prey had had a switchblade in his pocket. Franc was huddled on the ground to the left of the doorway, blood seeping from his shoulder. Monique was being held, back to the man’s chest, the switchblade at her neck. Eudo and Alard were on hand, but drew no closer for fear of frightening the man into harming Monique. As Shane stepped into the small living area he saw the apprehension on Eudo’s face, in his posture. Surely he thought Shane would side with the other human and complicate matters further. For the life of him, Shane couldn’t say why he didn’t.
Shane stared at the man, at his clothing, his bearing. He wore a Boston Red Sox cap and Gap blue jeans. “You’re American,” Shane said as he moved further into the room.
The man narrowed his eyes and drew Monique closer yet. “So?”
“So am I. Cleveland.” There was a pause. Every eye glancing from one person to another. Each wondering what the other would do. “You can put the knife away. These people won’t hurt you.”
“The chick set me up. She said we’d be alone, have some fun. Then that freak came at me.”
Shane shrugged. “Now he’s on the ground bleeding and you have a knife. There’s me and two other guys standing here. That knife can’t get all of us at once. Let her go. Leave. Forget this ever happened. If you come back with the cops, we’ll all swear you pulled a knife and tried to rape the girl. That’s what, six against one? And you a foreigner. Cut and run, pal. It’s better for all of us.”
The man glared at Shane, then at each of the reyaqc. His eyes were wide, his expression grim. He had to know Shane was right, had to know he was outnumbered. But logic doesn’t dictate every action. In one swift movement, the guy drew the blade across Monique’s neck. She screamed and everyone moved. There was chaos. Eudo tripped over Monique as he attempted to rush the man. Alard dropped beside her and pressed his palm against her wound. Shane rushed forward, tackling the assailant in the hallway and tumbling with him down the narrow wooden stairway. Shane’s shoulder hit the railing, then his head connected with the corner of a stair. The other man’s knee jabbed him in the gut.
The two embattled men hit the floor with a thud. The bloodied switchblade skittering across the tile and out of reach. Shane slammed his fist into the Boston guy’s face four times in rapid succession, subduing him. Shane was still not at full strength, but a lot could be said for adrenaline. Eudo and Alard were upon him in moments, dragging the American ruthlessly up the stairs in a series of staccato thumps and thuds. By the time Shane made his way back up into the room, Alard and Gisele were on the couch tending Monique’s wound, and Franc, bloodied but not lethally injured, was on the wood planked floor, bent over the man, his palm pressed firmly at the back of the guy’s neck.
The process seemed to go on forever. At first the Bostonian shuddered and twitched, yellow muck seeping from the corner of his mouth. Twice, he made feeble attempts to shrug his assailant off, but eventually he became still. Yet Franc continued, his eyes narrow, his tapered jaw set firm and unforgiving. Soon there was the rank odor of defecation. Alard attempted to pull Franc off, obviously warning him of some danger, but Franc shrugged him away, continuing until all knew that the man was dead.
* * * *
Shane stood in the tiny bedroom gazing out of the window at a neighbor’s laundry fluttering in the breeze. Gisele entered the room, approached him from behind, wrapped her arms around him mid-torso, and laid her head against his back. “You defended Monique. You captured that man before he could flee and give us away.”
“Then we all stood around and watched Franc mu
rder him.”
“Franc is gone. He is not like most of us.” Gisele gently turned Shane so he was facing her. “Emotions were…I’m not sure how to say it. Escalated. There was fury. It is regrettable, but it is done. This is not the normal way of things, but it is not unheard of either.”
Shane shook his head. “If I hadn’t tackled the guy, he’d still be alive right now.”
“And we would be in danger.”
“The guy had a switchblade. He wasn’t the kind to go to the cops.”
“No. But he might have been the type to return here with associates who also bore switchblades, or maybe guns.”
“He was American. I doubt he had a gang with him.”
“Monique says he spoke French with little difficulty. He claimed to have been here for more than a year. He could have friends.”
Shane remained silent for several moments. His emotions were in turmoil. Guilt weighed on him, but excitement as well. He wanted to believe Gisele, that this was just something that happened occasionally. The man obviously wasn’t a model citizen—he had a switchblade, after all—and used it. It was pure luck that he hadn’t found Monique’s jugular vein, or some other crucial spot. The girl had a cut, but that was the extent of it. Still, had Franc really needed to kill him? And why hadn’t Shane stepped in and pulled the reyaqc off once he’d realized what was happening. Alard had done as much. Perhaps if Shane had joined the effort…
Shane closed his eyes. The Boston guy was gone. True. But Shane was still here. And these people were fascinating. In particular Gisele. She’d been nursing him over the past several weeks. They’d talked, even laughed some, bonded. She was beautiful beyond description, and he believed she was genuinely attracted to him as well.