Crimson Kiss

by Trisha Baker

  And their attitude toward her had the same courtesy, but she felt something underlying it. Aside from introductory pleasantries, no one really talked to her—they just stared at her.

  "I feel like I'm on display," she complained to Simon.

  "You are, my sweet. They are all quite curious about my consort—no one has ever enjoyed my undivided attention the way you have."

  So that was it, she thought sourly. Come meet the bride of Dracula. Meghann didn't like it at all. It was damned strange to be gawked at like you were some museum piece or oddity.

  Only one young man actually looked her in the eye, as opposed to the sidelong glances she was getting from everyone else. He was nice-looking, with dark black hair and eyes. He caught Meghann's glance and bowed slightly. She smiled at him, and he smiled back—a bit uncertainly.

  Simon followed her smile, and scowled. " 'Who dares to mock our solemnity?' " he said softly.

  Meghann looked at him questioningly, and he told her, "A quote from Romeo and Juliet, sweet. It means—"

  "I know what it means," she told him tartly. "You don't have to treat me like some silly piece of fluff. Tybalt said it to Lord Capulet when Romeo's friends crashed his party. Are you trying to tell me that young man is an uninvited guest?"

  Simon pulled her into an empty alcove. "I don't care for your tone."

  Meghann blanched at his sharp voice. Simon could spoil and cosset her, but he was equally capable of very harsh treatment if she displeased him. A long time ago, she'd learned how to placate him, and even managed to convince herself she didn't mind what she was doing.

  She widened her eyes, and let her Up quiver slightly. "I'm sorry, Master," she said in a low, penitent whisper.

  He gave her a sweeping look, but she kept her eyes—and thoughts—completely humble and sweet.

  Finally he smiled and stroked her cheek. "I forgive you," he told her, and she worked hard at not seething from the thought that she had to beg forgiveness simply for speaking her mind. It was getting harder to do. "And yes, that young man is not my guest."

  "Are you going to throw him out?"

  "There's no need to ruin the night for everybody. And I have a feeling he'll be leaving soon." Simon pulled her onto the dance floor—at least she wouldn't have to talk and possibly offend him.

  When the clock struck twelve, Simon left Meghann at the edge of the dance floor—by the doors that led to the beach. "I have to make an announcement, darling."

  He walked over to the raised dais, and dismissed the mortal band. Meghann noticed the young man from before edging over to her. Why didn't Simon like him? She did. She thought he was the only vampire here she might like to talk to. All the rest seemed like a bunch of sycophants.

  Simon was addressing the guests; the overeager, anxious looks on their faces repulsed Meghann.

  "I apologize for my neglect—but you must understand I've had other thoughts on my mind for the past few years." He looked at Meghann lingeringly, and the crowd tittered.

  She narrowed her eyes. Did she have to be treated like some little doll of Simon's?

  She heard a low voice behind her. "Don't worry about what these fools think—or what that madman up there thinks of you." Meghann gasped at such a description of Simon. She turned to the young man, intent on asking him who he was, but Simon hadn't finished speaking.

  "I have arranged for a diversion tonight—a small gift for you." Meghann shivered at the new atmosphere in the room—fifty or so vampires, all with blood lust in their eyes. What was going on here?

  Trevor came in the room with a group of twenty young men and women. Actually, Meghann didn't think they were men or women—they seemed too young, none of them could be over eighteen. They were all naked—with superb, oiled bodies. And they had heavy gold chains around their necks. They seemed drugged and quite docile. Meghann's heart started thumping. What was Simon doing?

  With a malicious laugh, he told his acolytes, "Let the festivities begin." He leaped off the dais and grabbed two of the young women. He began drinking from both of them simultaneously—one from a vein in her breast, the other from her wrist.

  Meghann was appalled. Especially when a beautiful blonde joined Simon and his young prisoners. Soon all the vampires were hungrily tearing into the captives. Meghann was sickened by the sound of so many fangs lunging into flesh, and all, the vampires feeding with abandon.

  The captives were no longer mute—they were screaming in pain. The sound of vampire laughter chilled Meghann—she had to get away from this blood bacchanal. Without another thought, she ran out of the room, onto the beach.

  The air felt so good after the oppressive atmosphere of that hellish room, with the odor of blood and fear heavy in the air. Dear God, what kind of sick mind enjoyed that kind of public feeding? Meghann thought it was distasteful. You should drink blood in private. And there was something else… She was sorry for those poor young people, their agony. What was happening? Why was she different from the others? Why was she no longer able to take pleasure in people's pain?

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned around. It was the young man. Like Meghann, his clothing was immaculate—he had not taken part in the "festivities" either.

  "Would you like to take a walk, Meghann?"

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  Then she felt another hand on her shoulder—a much stronger touch. With a sinking feeling, she turned to Simon's impassive stare.

  "You were not invited," he told the young man. "And it is time for you to leave."

  The young man did not appear frightened. He bowed to Meghann and told her, "Till we meet again."

  Meghann awoke in her usual abrupt manner—sitting up with her eyes wide open. She lay back for a few minutes, thinking about the dream.

  That party had taken place nearly ten months ago. After the mystery guest left, Simon had simply escorted Meghann back to their suite. To this day, he had not said anything about her leaving the party—or talking to the young man. And Meghann was too frightened to risk his wrath by asking questions.

  That was really annoying her—the way she had to tiptoe around Simon and kowtow to him. She was so tired of always curbing her thoughts, and behaving like the sweet, vacuous mannequin he expected her to be. But he had ways of making her behave…

  Well, Meghann thought to herself with some cheer, at least I don't have to worry about it for five days. After a tour of Italy and France, Simon had abruptly deposited her in New York City. He said he had some business to take care of, and left Meghann by herself for the first time since he transformed her.

  She didn't care what his business was—she was thankful for the freedom. Tonight was her first night on her own. This was also the first time she'd been back in New York since becoming a vampire.

  Meghann went upstairs to dress, trying to wrench her thoughts away from the tension between her and Simon, and her increasing melancholy. Ever since that wretched party, she'd felt depressed. The only respite came when she fed. Lately she found herself feeding two and sometimes three times a night to escape the constant sadness. But the exhilaration of drinking blood rarely lasted more than a few minutes. And if she wasn't sad, she was angry—which was downright dangerous. Every time her temper rose, she worked furiously to suppress it. But she was so tired of being at Simon's beck and call, having to call him "Master," and constantly worry that she might inadvertently offend him…

  Stop it, she told herself firmly. Are you going to fritter away your holiday by moping around? As an open act of rebellion, Meghann threw on a pair of jeans and a black turtleneck. One of Simon's many rules was that she be elegantly dressed at all times. He abhorred casual clothing, and he forbade her to wear black. This clothing (along with her album collection) had been stealthily purchased, and then stuck all the way in the back of her closets.

  When she got downstairs, she saw a sight to lift her spirits. Trevor was comfortably ensconced in an Eames chair Simon favored, with a glass of scotch at his side and a cigar
ette between his lips.

  He opened his eyes and saw Meghann. Immediately he stubbed out the cigarette in a Waterford ashtray and threw himself out of the chair. "Oh, please, miss," he whined, "don't tell the master. I… I was going to clean up—I swear. I'm terribly sorry…"

  He's scared to death of Simon, she thought. All things considered, that was a very healthy attitude. She smiled, and Trevor was taken aback. He'd never really allowed himself to look at her, but he thought she was the most beautiful…

  Meghann saw where his thoughts were going and said briskly, "Don't worry, Trevor. You can sit down. It's OK." He looked a bit doubtful but sat down again. "I'm not going to tell Simon… on one condition."

  He was wary. She wouldn't get him in trouble with the master, would she? "What is it?"

  She extended her hand. "Let me have a cigarette."

  Dumbfounded, he handed her the pack of Lucky Strikes and his lighter. "I didn't think vamp… I mean, I never saw the master smoke."

  Meghann hadn't smoked in thirteen years, but since Simon hated smoking… She lit up and then inhaled. The first puff made her choke, but then it tasted fine.

  Trevor watched her uncertainly. He had no idea what the master's woman was all about.

  Meghann took a sip of Trevor's drink, and grimaced. "This is rotgut, Trevor. If we're doing 'While the cat's away, the mice will play,' let's do it right." She walked over to the small bar and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich. Vampires didn't become intoxicated, but she liked the taste of a good scotch. So did Simon.

  "Miss!" Trevor exclaimed. "That's the master's private stock."

  "So I'll tell him I drank it," she said shortly. "Trevor, my name is Meghann—not miss. And do me a favor—don't call Simon 'master' in my presence."

  Meghann gave him the drink, but he was pale and trembling. "What's the matter?"

  "Please," he whispered, "don't make me call you by your first name. If I got used to it, and the mas… if he heard me do it, he'd tear my tongue out."

  Meghann thought the man probably wasn't exaggerating. "OK, just leave off the master bit."

  For a while, they smoked and drank in silence. Meghann was very curious about the man she privately thought of as Simon's Renfield. They'd never talked much—minor household details that Simon expected her to handle. She thought wryly about her mortal dreams—being an independent career woman. She would have bashed Johnny Devlin's head in if he'd suggested her being a boring housewife. And yet—if you stripped away the wealth and vampirism, wasn't that precisely what she had become? A prim little chatelaine? Certainly, she had no career—she depended on Simon for everything; she had no money of her own. Meghann frowned, and poured more scotch. Why couldn't she get falling-down drunk? Maybe then she could forget how unhappy she was—being treated like a mindless toy.

  "Trevor?" she asked suddenly. "Why do you work for Simon?"

  "For the money," he replied, too startled to lie. "I get fifty thousand a year and one million dollars after twenty years."

  Meghann was outraged. He kept the secret of what Simon was and cleaned up after him—only for money? Trevor certainly would have fit in well at the death camps—just keep the cash coming and I'll forget all about the poison-gas showers. But who was she to judge Trevor? He only buried the bodies; she and Simon were the ones who killed people.

  She was getting restless. She had to do something, get away from Simon's house, from any reminder of him. In fact, she wanted to forget she was a vampire—for one night. She wanted to be Maggie O'Neill again.

  She stalked over to the hall closet. She pushed past the furs (lately they made her feel like a kept woman) and took out a khaki raincoat.

  "Miss?" Trevor questioned.

  "What?"

  "Where are you going?"

  What harm would it do to tell him? "To visit my father."

  Trevor's jaw dropped open. He dropped his eyes, but not before Meghann saw his disconcertment.

  She started to feel apprehensive. "What is it?" she demanded.

  "I can't tell you," he mumbled. "The master—"

  "He's not here," Meghann snapped. "Now tell me what's wrong!"

  "He'll kill me—"

  Meghann yanked him out of the chair and banged his head against the fireplace. "I'll kill you if you make me ask you again. Tell me!"

  Trevor was scared out of his mind. The master did not lose control—there was no telling what this creature would do. She yanked his head so that he was staring into her green eyes. He could not resist the force he saw reflected there.

  "Your father's dead," he said quickly.

  He fell to the floor. Meghann stared down at him, shock and denial all over her face.

  "When did he die?" she whispered.

  "The master made me promise." He grunted as her foot connected with his ribs. Now he could barely breathe; he thought she might have broken his ribs.

  Meghann picked up the fireplace poker. She hadn't lived with Simon Baldevar for thirteen years without picking up a thing or two.

  "Trevor," she said in a calm tone that belied the fury he saw in her eyes. "I will take this poker and ram one of your eyes out if you don't start answering my questions. Then I will eat that eye in front of you. Now, when did my father die?"

  Oh, God, help him—why had the master left him alone with her? As the poker entered his eye, Trevor cried out, "He died six months ago! A box came here from your brother."

  "Get the box," Meghann ordered.

  Trevor tried to stand, but found he couldn't stand straight from the pain. But he'd do anything to keep this woman from hurting him. He hobbled away, returning in fifteen minutes with a large cardboard box. Why hadn't the master gotten rid of it?

  Meghann snatched the box from him, and tore it open. She saw several effects—photo albums, pictures, a large wooden cross, her mother's lace tablecloth, and a plain envelope marked MAGGIE. She tore it open, and read it.

  July 30, 1957

  Maggie,

  Daddy wanted you to have these things. If it were up to me, I wouldn't give you a goddamned thing. How could you stay away like this? Ignore all Daddy's letters? At the end, in the hospital, he wanted you there so bad. All he did was cry out for you, and you never came. What's the matter with you? You married some rich guy and forgot you have a family.

  Well, I've done what Daddy asked. But as far as I'm concerned, I have no sister.

  Frank

  She was standing so still Trevor almost thought she had died standing up. There was no animation. She simply stared down at the letter like she had been turned to stone.

  "Miss," he begged, "it wasn't my fault." Meghann turned to him, and he screamed shrilly.

  Her skin looked like paper—with great emerald eyes blazing grief and cold fury.

  "Not your fault?" she questioned venomously. Then she threw herself on him and started beating him furiously. "How the hell can you tell me it's not your fault?" She screamed expletives and insults at the top of her lungs between blows. Her voice went through him like a knife—all the glass in the room shattered. "You despicable, vile lapdog—it's all your fault! You work for that evil man for money! You snake… you loathsome shit! I hate you! You can walk in daylight… If you had any balls, you'd put a stake through his black heart!"

  Meghann threw herself off him, and he touched his face gingerly. He knew he had a black eye and a bruised lip. And it felt like he'd lost several teeth.

  Meghann picked up a shard from the liquor bottle and put it to his neck. "Tell me how long my father was sick."

  "Two years," he mumbled through the blood.

  Two years. Her brother was right to hate her—but that was because he didn't know better. He didn't know where the blame truly belonged. Oh, God—the grief hit her strong. My father's dead. Meghann dashed for the door—she had to get out of here before she went mad.

  "Miss?" Trevor moaned. "Where are you going? If the master calls—"

  "You tell that miserable cocksucker he can go to hell for
all I care!" And she slammed the door so hard the stained glass shattered.

  Trevor thought grimly that she could give the master a message like that herself if she wanted to. He dragged himself off the floor—he had to get to a hospital.

  Meghann walked the streets, hardly noticing where she was. It was building up, all that sadness. She couldn't control it anymore, and she was so scared to let loose and really feel again…

  Ruthlessly she tried to repress her memories of her father. How could he be dead? It wasn't right; he was only sixty-seven. None of this was right—she looked up at a Christmas display window. Her miserable see-through-image sickened her. It isn't right. Why am I like this? I want to see the sun; I want my daddy…

  No, no, no! If she thought Daddy, she'd start bawling. No, I can't. I won't cry. Blood, she thought suddenly. That will make it better. I'll drink blood and forget…

  She ran into an alley, and saw a bum curling up in a doorway, trying to keep warm. She grabbed him and started drinking frenziedly.

  The blood poured down her throat, and it made no difference. The pain wouldn't stop. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed another derelict by the fence. He hadn't seen Meghann. He was too absorbed in the needle he was trying to stick in his arm.

  With a small cry, she dropped her victim. My God, she thought dully, I'm no better than a common drug addict. That junkie… we're doing the same thing, trying to kill the pain with a drug. That's all I've done for thirteen years is try to push the pain away. And I was drinking blood while my father was dying.

  Meghann gave in to the pain, and started sobbing. The force of her tears was so strong she was soon kneeling on the floor next to her prey. She cried for everything—herself, her father, Johnny, all the innocent people she had killed to stay alive.

  She had crossed the line into hysteria, weeping so hard she couldn't breathe. For thirteen years, everything had been repressed—now it was coming out. She cried and cried; still, the hard lump in her throat didn't lessen. She wept for all the things she'd lost—the sun, the children she'd never have, Sunday picnics, Dodger games with her daddy…