Crimson Kiss

by Trisha Baker

  Take it out!

  "Stop," she cried, and hastily closed the suitcase. No, wait—she threw in her father's mementos and flew down the staircase, nearly breaking her neck.

  Help your master.

  She threw open the safe with force of mind. Without thought, she grabbed a few stacks of money, not caring how much.

  Help me, Meghann.

  She had to hold on to the desk to keep from walking. I won't, she thought haltingly. I won't.

  When she thought it was over, she grabbed the child and threw a coat on. She had the door open…

  Come to me.

  Her feet were on the stairs when her eyes snapped open. By summoning every ounce of volition, she managed to rush through the front door with the little boy and the suitcase.

  God must have been with her because a cab was going down the block and she hailed it. "Lady, are you OK? You look like you've seen a ghost."

  It seemed to be a little better now that she was out of the house, but there was still something there—like a hand on her shoulder. "Where to, hon?"

  What was she going to do with the child? His mother, pitiful excuse for one that she was, had been killed. Then she remembered the church she'd gone to with Charles. She gave the driver the address.

  Outside the church, she knelt down and patted the boy's head. "What's your name, sweetie?"

  "Mike," he said in a rusty voice—like he didn't speak that often.

  Meghann wanted to do something for this child, help him somehow. She reached into his mind and inspected his harsh, traumatic memories. His mother had put him through hell, allowing all sorts of perverts to have their way with him. Meghann decided to make him a child once more—give him back his innocence.

  She put her hands on his head; then she concentrated on obliterating his memory. She didn't know exactly how one went about this; she tried envisioning a blank slate and making the boy share the image. After a few minutes, she questioned him again.

  "What is your name?"

  The little boy looked at the pretty lady he thought he'd never seen before. "I don't know."

  Thank God, Meghann thought. Now she was almost happy to be a vampire—Simon was as good as dead and she'd been able to help the boy.

  She smiled and smoothed down the unwashed hair. "Your name is Mike. You don't remember your mommy's name or where you live. You're going to go into that nice church and tell the priest your name. But you're not going to mention me. Just your name, OK?"

  The child nodded and kissed Meghann's cheek before he scampered into the church. She thought he'd be all right. Under the dirt, he seemed to be a handsome boy, and now he had no memory of the depravity his mother had forced him to take part in. Maybe the church would find good adoptive parents or a well-run orphanage.

  Now she had personal business to do before she left New York.

  Meghann walked along 58th Street and Roosevelt Avenue, picking out familiar childhood landmarks. The neighborhood had not changed much at all; most of the row houses still looked the same. Some had new coats of paint or different siding.

  There it was—her father's handsome two-story brick house. It would be Frankie's house now. This close to Christmas, she thought, there was a good chance the whole family would be there for the return of the prodigal sister. She thought back to the old days—getting together, picking out a tree, and fighting over the decorations. Goddamn Simon Baldevar to hell for taking that away. Well, hopefully, he was on his way there this minute. Meghann couldn't feel that oppressive hand anymore.

  Meghann stood on the steps of the doorway, unable to summon the nerve to ring the doorbell. What if they wouldn't listen? What if they hated her? Then I deserve it, she told herself angrily.

  While Meghann stood in a quandary, the heavy oak door swung open. Her brother Brian stood there in a black wool coat, with a priest's collar peeking through. He gasped at the sight of his long-lost sister. "Maggie!"

  "You became a priest," she said in shock.

  Brian didn't say anything else; he just grabbed her fiercely and plucked her off the ground. "I knew you'd come; I prayed to the Savior," he said through tears.

  "Hey, Brian? What the hell is going on out there? I thought you had to head back…" Her brother Frankie came to the door, wearing a sweater and pants. He stopped dead. "Maggie?" he whispered.

  She looked up from Brian's protective embrace. Before she could say anything, Brian spoke up. "Now, Frankie, don't you yell at her. She's here; that's what counts."

  "She should have been here for Daddy." Frankie didn't sound angry; he was too surprised.

  Meghann started crying, loud and full of grief. "I didn't know!" she burst out. "He didn't tell me. I never got any of the calls or letters…"

  Frankie was startled. He placed a clumsy hand on his sister's hair. "For God's sake, you can't carry on like this in the street." His own voice was rough with withheld tears. "Theresa!" he shouted into the house while he grabbed the suitcase. "Maggie's here! Get her a brandy or something; she's upset." He headed inside, with Brian pulling Meghann along.

  Brian deposited her on the familiar plush green sofa. Theresa was as shocked as the rest of them. She handed Meghann the drink and said, "I'm gonna get her a cold cloth for her eyes."

  "Good," Frankie told her. "And call the rest of them. Tell our brothers their sister is finally home." He took Meghann's hands. "Jesus, you feel like ice. What the hell happened to you?"

  "Frankie," Brian said warningly, "maybe we should give her a chance to relax—"

  "No," Meghann said. "I want to tell you. I'm so sorry. I didn't know about Daddy or I would have come home."

  "Aw, Maggie—you think I don't know that?" Frankie asked her. "I know what I wrote, but Brian told me I was wrong. We know you loved Daddy, but I was so… I didn't understand why you never came home…"

  Brian came to her other side while Theresa put the cloth on her forehead. Meghann wanted to cry again—from happiness. She had missed them all so much, missed the attention and simple love that asked nothing in return.

  Theresa took one look at her sister-in-law's woebegone face and knew the answer to the whole mystery. "It was what I've told you all along, Frankie. That man, the husband—he probably kept it from Maggie."

  "He's not my husband!" Meghann shouted. Everyone looked stunned, and she reminded herself of her upbringing. "I meant we're getting divorced. I hate him!"

  Brian looked uncomfortable. "Honey, divorce is a mortal sin."

  "Easy there, priest," Frankie cautioned. "Let's hear her side first. Why do you want a divorce?"

  Meghann told them a tale that bore some resemblance to truth. She began with the letter she'd written her father. She told them that Simon Baldevar swept her off her feet with his charm and wealth (partially true). But after a while, he did terrible things. He beat her all the time (true). She left out the bondage and sadistic sex; it would shock them. Of course she told them nothing of him being a vampire (or her being one). What she did tell them was that she was not allowed any opinions or interests he did not approve of, that he controlled and dominated her life, beating her whenever she protested. She pointed to his wealth and influence as the reason she had a hard time leaving him. She finished by telling them she had only found out by accident about their father's death. Plus he beat her to within an inch of her life when she went to his grave.

  "Were you married in the church?" Brian asked.

  "I don't care if she was married by the goddamned pope," Frankie snarled. "She's not spending another night with the prick!"

  "Frankie!" Theresa admonished.

  "I'm sorry, but no one slaps my little sister around and then doesn't even have the common decency to tell her when her father's dying." Frankie tossed back his whiskey. "Asshole probably knew Daddy and the rest of us would tear him apart if we heard about how he treated her." Frankie threw his arms around Meghann. "You're home now, kid. You'll get your divorce and stay here till you meet someone else."

  Meghann smi
led. "Thanks for the offer, but I can't stay." She cut off his protests with more half-truths. "He's got more power than you can imagine… I wouldn't be safe here. But I have friends… in Ireland. They can help me."

  Frankie looked doubtful. "Frankie, please. I can't go from being his little wife to your little sister. I need to do this on my own. I left him on my own, didn't I? I promise, I'll be safe with my friends." Anyway, it wouldn't take too long for her family to figure out something was wrong. Should she ask her brother if she could sleep in the basement so the sun wouldn't kill her?

  Frankie thought about it. "I guess you know best. But you better write. No more being such a stranger."

  "Deal." She grinned at him.

  "Still, can't we do anything for you?"

  "Do we still have that trunk Mom and Daddy traveled over with?"

  "The big steamer? Sure, it's in the attic."

  "Let me have it. And, Frankie, do you think you could deliver it to Idlewild Airport tomorrow, around eight A.M.? It's going to my new home, but I don't have time to get it over there. It'll be in my hotel room."

  "Hotel?" Frankie was aghast. "You'll stay here."

  Meghann shook her head. "Can't—I have too much to do."

  Frankie and the others looked downcast, but Meghann used a slight touch of persuasion. "You'll at least stay to see the others?"

  "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

  Her brothers came over, and Frankie cornered each in the hall, telling them Meghann's version of life with Simon. One by one, they trooped into the living room, vowing revenge and hugging the sister they thought they'd never see again.

  Once death threats against Simon were done, the evening became very festive. Except for Meghann, they all got drunk, and before long, photo albums were out; the record player spun out loud, lively music. The neighbors didn't dare complain—Frankie was a precinct captain.

  They expressed mild consternation that their baby sister had no children, then decided maybe that was for the best considering what a bastard her husband was. They all ordered her to find a better man in Ireland—the whole trouble was that Simon was British, they agreed.

  Meghann danced with her brothers until they were all on the floor, gasping for breath. Around 4:00 A.M., Frankie finally gave her a ride into the city with their parents' trunk.

  At the hotel, Frankie insisted on lugging the trunk up to the small room she'd reserved before going into Woodside to visit her family. Meghann had also called the airport to book a flight to Ireland for the next day, and had gone to Idlewild to pay for the cost of shipping herself over.

  Frankie gave her a tight hug. "Keep in touch?"

  "Of course."

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Forget what I wrote in that stupid letter. I always knew it wasn't your fault; there had to be an explanation. I love you, kid."

  "I love you too," she told him.

  Frankie left before he started crying. Meghann watched him leave, thankful that she'd had a chance to make amends with her family.

  She packed her few belongings into the trunk, and swiped the hotel quilt. She had to at least try and make the damn thing comfortable. Meghann waited until the very last second before sunrise to climb inside. She pulled the lid down, then used her telekinetic ability to lock it.

  I did it, she thought with wonder. I escaped; Simon is dead. Wonder what's going to happen next, she thought before going to sleep.

  * * *

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  « ^ »

  December 18, 1957

  Charles Tarleton took the trunk past a door saying NO ADMITTANCE. When he was satisfied that no one else was around, he opened it. "Meghann!"

  She tried to leap up and hug him, but her legs were too stiff. He helped her up. "I know—it's uncomfortable."

  "There's got to be a better way to do this," she grouched. She felt like a pretzel, and the light was hurting her eyes after the darkness of the trunk. Travel hadn't been a problem for her since Simon brought a private plane a few years ago. Still, it could be worse—she could have used a coffin.

  Charles withdrew a small silver flask from his tweed coat and handed it to Meghann.

  "What is it?"

  "Blood—it will make you feel better."

  Meghann grabbed the flask and gulped thirstily. What a terrific idea—you couldn't get caught up in the blood lust and kill people with a bottle. After she drained the flask, she was able to walk on her own. But first she threw her arms around Charles.

  "Thank you for helping me with Simon."

  "But I've done nothing," Charles protested. "When I came here and found my trunk empty, I was scared to death. But then I called the Algonquin and they told me your message—that a new trunk would be arriving in two days. How did you do it, Meghann? How did you escape Simon?"

  Meghann sighed. "It's not something I want to think about. Would you mind terribly if I waited to meet Alcuin to tell you what happened? I don't want to have to go around telling this story over and over, like the Ancient Mariner."

  "I understand." It could not have been easy—even with fresh blood, Meghann was too pale and had circles under her eyes. But those bright green pools also seemed more serene. Charles could barely wait to hear how she escaped Simon.

  Charles led her to his Aston-Martin; he threw her scant belongings in the backseat.

  Meghann looked at the Irish countryside. She finally got to see Ireland, but it was night. Why didn't she get to see the full beauty of the Emerald Isle?

  They drove along in silence for a while, Meghann deriving some pleasure from the cottages and castle ruins she saw. At last, Charles pulled up to an immense structure that Meghann gaped at in awe.

  "What do you think?"

  Meghann looked in amazement at the tremendous brick structure with its clusters of chimneys, balustrades, and hipped roof. This wasn't a house—it was a small kingdom. She'd heard people talk about the stars in the sky making them feel insignificant—that was how she felt when she looked at the colossal manse in front of her.

  "Georgian," Charles informed her, "built in the late eighteenth century."

  "Do you ever get lost?" Meghann asked him.

  Charles snickered. "I had the same thought when I first saw this place."

  "Do people from that village we drove through work here?"

  "Of course."

  "But," she questioned, "don't they suspect that we're…"

  "They know we're odd creatures," Charles answered. "But they don't care—their gratitude to Alcuin more than overcomes any concern over our eccentricities."

  "Why are they grateful to Alcuin?" she asked curiously.

  "That's an involved tale." He smiled. "Shall I tell you now, or do you want to go inside?"

  "I'm not ready to cross the threshold to that monolith just yet," Meghann replied. "Tell me the story first."

  Charles lit a cigarette and extended the pack to Meghann. Then they took a seat on a wrought-iron bench situated to view the Big House.

  "What do you know of landlords in Ireland before the Easter Rising, Meghann?"

  Meghann remembered some of her father's stories concerning the Anglo-Irish and their Big Houses. "That these houses were built at great expense by people who didn't give a damn about the poverty of their tenants," she replied with some bitterness. "How did Alcuin come to own this place?"

  "He bought it from the owner." Charles took a dramatic pause. "Simon Baldevar."

  Meghann gaped at him. "Simon Baldevar owned this house? When?"

  "He wasn't using the name Baldevar; it was still too close to his mortal lifetime to risk it. Interestingly enough, you encountered him at the only time since mortal life he has used his real name. Lord Robert Ashton, Earl of Wexford, built this Big House in 1795. Lord Ashton was a drunkard and a gambler who managed to lose the house in a wager to Simon, going by the name of Sir Edward Pembroke, in 1826." Charles studied her profile. "Do you know what 1847 was, Meghann?"

  "Black '47," she answered p
romptly. "The worst year of the Irish Potato Famine."

  "A dark time here—although most of the landlords weren't affected at all. No, they had their palatial homes; their extravagant lifestyles didn't abate one bit while their tenants starved. At a house like this, there would be a fete with lavish refreshments that guests gorged themselves on while in the village at least ten people would die—from starvation or fever brought on by their weakened state."

  Meghann shivered, imagining the heardess bastards enjoying themselves while people like her great-grandmother ate the grass to survive.

  "The Irish could not understand why God had turned His face and allowed this horrible suffering to go on. But the people in Ballnamore were convinced that God hadn't merely allowed the Hunger to plague them—he had sent a daemon to torture them too."

  "Simon," she guessed.

  Charles nodded grimly. "Indeed. Lord Baldevar wasn't content to ignore the pain like most of the Anglos. Oh, no—he thrived on it. He would have a starving family brought to him. Then he would dangle food before their pleading eyes. Only after the father had thrown himself on the floor, having completely debased himself in front of the guests, would Simon give them one loaf of bread for the whole family. Then he had the added entertainment of watching the family either give the food to the children, or attack each other for the largest portion."

  Charles spat on the ground before he continued. "But our Simon is a pragmatic man. Although he has always enjoyed torment, he decided to sell his interests in Ireland in 1847. He knew the country would never completely recover from famine, and he would lose money if he stayed. Besides, even Virgins for Food was starting to bore him."

  "Virgins for Food?" Meghann asked cautiously.

  "Every full moon, Simon would have his steward go into the village to collect ten virgin girls between the ages of twelve to twenty. The girls were told they would be given enough food to last them and their families for a fortnight if they would agree to entertain Sir Pembroke for the evening."