by Trisha Baker
"Antichrist is a strong term," Alcuin replied, "but in my opinion—yes. That is why Simon transformed you."
Please, Meghann prayed to anyone who might be listening, let Simon be dead. Her eyes wandered back to the painting and she paled when she examined Isabelle's left hand. Meghann lifted her trembling hand up to the painting—to put the two signet rings together. "This was Isabelle's ring?" she asked Alcuin.
He nodded. "I had buried Isabelle, but Simon had her corpse exhumed by some of his minions so he could get the ring. The exhumation took place on April 22, 1944."
Meghann shuddered at the thought of vampiric ghouls desecrating Isabelle's grave so Simon could put a ring he'd given to a woman he'd beaten and brutalized on her hand. What was he trying to do with me? Recreate his marriage with Isabelle? Get the son he thought he deserved?
Meghann pulled her attention away from the garish fantasies, and asked Alcuin, "Why have you invited me here? Simon waited nearly four hundred years to find someone to replace Isabelle with, and conceive his imp. Why endanger yourself by taking me in?"
Charles answered. "At first, we were merely curious. Simon has always had women around him—but they were mortal and he usually killed them when he became bored. What made you so special that he transformed you and never left your side? When our spies informed us that Simon was throwing that evil fete, Alcuin chose me to go to the party. We knew Simon would observe the uneasy truce, and let me leave in peace."
Alcuin picked up the story. "And then Charles came back—quite upset. First he told me you could be Isabelle reborn. Then he looked up at that portrait and told me, 'Master, I have finally seen sadness to rival that which I observe in Isabelle's eyes.' He told how you left the room the second the debauchery started. He begged me to invite you here… not that he needed to. I made up my mind the second I heard you resembled Isabelle. At first, I thought you were Simon's consort because he had finally found a woman to match his own malfeasance. But when I heard Charles's description of you, I made up my mind that this time Simon wasn't going to destroy another young woman. If you were unhappy, you would be given a chance at a different way of life."
"Teach me to be strong," Meghann said urgently. "I never want anyone to be able to hurt me or dominate me the way Simon did."
Alcuin reached into his cloak and withdrew a small Celtic cross on a long chain and handed it to Meghann. "Merry Christmas, banrion. I will be honored for you to become my apprentice. I think you should understand you broke Simon's hold over you by yourself… You're already quite strong. But I will help you develop your abilities. It won't be an easy path." His warning was accompanied by a small grin.
Meghann smiled back and attached the cross to her waist. Charles showed her his own cross around his neck.
Alcuin observed the brightening sky. "We've talked the night away. Charles, please show Meghann her quarters. Tomorrow we'll begin your training." Alcuin gave Meghann a lighthearted smirk. "Get your rest… You'll need it. Starting tomorrow, you will be engaged in rigorous physical, mental, and mystical instruction. Charles once accused me of rivaling the Spartans for pure physical torture, but it's necessary. You cannot hope to achieve your full potential in a soft, spoiled body."
Meghann didn't care if he ran her ragged—just so long as she never looked like that painting. Isabelle, she told the portrait silently, no one will ever get the best of me again. And if Simon is still alive, I'm going to learn all I can so that next time I kill him—for you and me.
* * *
CHAPTER TWELVE
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March 17, 1998
Jimmy Delacroix examined the music selection in Maggie's living room. He thought some music might take his mind off what was going on, and he couldn't use liquor to relax. Maggie hadn't said anything, but he knew he couldn't drink now. What help would he be to her if he was drunk all the time?
Not that he was much help now anyway. He guessed Alcuin was the one who could help her get rid of Simon Baldevar—unless of course they found out where he slept during the day.
Max, the five-year-old Irish setter they had liberated from the ASPCA, came padding into the living room. Although Maggie had a grim BEWARE OF DOG sign outside, Max was no threat to anyone. Still, his bark and growl did scare strangers away. Maggie said that was all he had to do—if someone entered the house during the day, she just wanted them to flee; she didn't need some merciless attack dog that would tear them limb from limb.
"Hey, boy." Jimmy called the dog over and started petting him. "Maggie's downstairs, doing God only knows what with that… whatever he is. I guess they're doing some kind of magic—she says I can't go down there because it would be dangerous."
Jimmy sighed, and threw a rubber bone for Max to retrieve. He felt left out. Most of the time, he could forget Maggie was a vampire. He'd grown accustomed to never seeing her during the day—there were plenty of couples where someone worked at night and slept during the day. He never saw her drink blood or anything.
Max brought his bone back, and Jimmy threw the toy again. He was worried about the future. Not just Simon Baldevar, but what was going to happen between him and Maggie. They'd been together for six years. He was thirty-one now and she hadn't aged. What was going to happen? Would she nurse him through his old age and then find some other guy when he was in the ground? That's why he'd thought she should transform him—that way, they could be together. But she wouldn't even listen.
The basement door opened, and Maggie came into the living room. "Oh, good—some music." She started sifting through the albums and CDs with him. Max came over, eager for attention. Jimmy thought that was as sure a sign as any that Maggie wasn't some evil creature. The dog had never growled at her; he loved her. Or maybe Max was just a lousy judge of character.
"Did dogs like Simon?" Jimmy asked her curiously.
She laughed while Max licked her face. "Down, boy. I can't really answer that, Jimmy. In thirteen years, I never saw an animal around him. No, wait—he took me horseback riding in France. The horse didn't seem to have a problem with him. But dogs—who knows?"
"What were you doing downstairs?" he asked.
"Making the house safe," she explained. "You can't feel it, but we've just put up… kind of a shield around this house. No one can enter unless they're invited."
"Like in the movies—the vampire has to ask permission to come in."
"Something like that. But there's only one vampire I want to keep out—and he is not getting an invitation."
Jimmy handed her a CD. "Remember this?"
Her face lit up. "Of course—Johnny Thunders! You played it the first night we met." Meghann was relieved to be off the whole dreadful subject of Simon. She just wanted to relax for a few minutes. As much as she could relax knowing that fiend was alive.
She put the CD on. Jimmy flirtatiously asked, "What was the first thing you thought when you met me?"
Meghann put her tongue out at him. "I never saw such a shambling wreck of a man in all my life."
"And I never saw such an out-and-out slut in mine! Hanging around sleazy bars—picking up trash for one-night stands…"
"And look what I wound up with!"
They reminisced about the night they met—anything to forget the threat hanging over their heads.
February 20, 1992
Meghann and Dr. Harlowe entered Mona's, a place in the East Village that gave new meaning to the word dive. Since it was a Tuesday night, and freezing out, the place was rather quiet—not at all its usual rowdy self.
Dr. Harlowe sat down reluctantly, seeming to expect the scarred wood seat to bite him. "Meghann, please let me take you somewhere else. Maybe something a little more upscale?"
"I like it here," she said firmly. Actually, after Simon, anything with ambience or class tended to remind her of him. Anyway, better bars tended to have mirrors all over the place.
The renowned psychiatrist resigned himself to his sleazy surroundings and ordered two double-whiskeys. At first, he tr
ied to order a martini, but the glazed, simple stare of the bartender informed him that such things were beyond the talents of this place.
Meghann watched the suffering doctor with some amusement. It wasn't nice to make people uncomfortable, but damn it the man wouldn't leave her alone! She knew she had no business sleeping with one of her teachers, but it was only once. Now he was pestering her constantly, unable to understand her aloof behavior. She hoped that a place like this would convince him once and for all that their lifestyles were too different to pursue a relationship. Maybe then he'd go back to his wife.
"Your thesis is coming along beautifully," he told her—making a vain attempt at conversation. The compliment was sincere for Meghann was one of the brightest students he'd ever had. Harlowe had no doubt she'd already be a practicing psychologist if not for the debilitating photophobia she'd developed after suffering through meningitis as a child. Now, as she'd explained at her admissions interview, Meghann's eyes were so sensitive to sunlight she could not leave her home during the day so she only took classes at night.
"Thank you." She eyed a tall biker type playing pool. Maybe later…
"You describe abusive behavior so well. Meghann, I was wondering… Was anyone in your family ever involved in an abusive relationship? Your insights seem like something you could only have through personal experience."
Meghann swallowed the cheap, watered-down whiskey and considered the question. Should she tell him she was the one who left an abusive relationship nearly forty years ago? "No family skeletons." She smiled. "I just find the abusive partner interesting." She thought, as she often did, of Simon Baldevar's psychological profile. Had he been a sociopath? Certainly, he lacked a conscience and an empathy toward humans. But she imagined he'd excuse that by pointing out he wasn't human. Still, look at his relationship with Isabelle—a pure sadist with no capacity to love.
Her thoughts were diverted by a commotion at the bar. The bartender was snarling. "I told you—you ain't welcome here! What do you think this is—a charitable institution? Tabs went out years ago, pal. Now get out!"
Meghann observed the object of the bartender's insults. In profile, she saw a young man with long, shaggy, dark brown hair and a black leather jacket. Their eyes made contact, and she felt a despair she'd almost forgotten existed emanating from him. The poor man, he had that same horrible, suicidal desperation she'd had the night Charles found her…
He was turning to leave, and Meghann yelled across the bar, "Hey, wait up! I'll buy you a drink."
"Meghann!" hissed the scandalized doctor.
"Don't you like to make new friends?" she asked facetiously. She had to know more about that man. What kind of pain was he in that it pierced through all her shields?
The young man put on an arrogant air and swaggered past the disgusted bartender. He threw himself down next to the aggrieved doctor, and smiled cockily at Meghann.
"Thanks, sweetheart. Hey, barkeep!" he yelled. "Make it J&B with soda… two of them!"
The bartender thudded down the drinks, and gave Meghann a look reserved for the hopelessly insane.
Meghann inspected her new find. He was scruffy, with a shaggy beard and bloodshot eyes. He was too thin, and indifferently dressed in ancient jeans and a ragged Ramones T-shirt. But the eyes were an engaging blue-gray shade, and beneath the arrogance and inebriation, she sensed a sharp intelligence. So she smiled and raised her glass.
"What's your name, honey?" the young man questioned, completely ignoring Dr. Harlowe.
"Meghann Cameron," she replied. She probably could have continued to use her real name—she was not likely to encounter anyone she used to know. But Meghann had decided she wanted a fresh start, a new identity.
Her drinking buddy made a face, and swallowed his second drink rapidly. The unhappy bartender was summoned for a new order. "Bring three this time, and whatever she's having," he told the bartender magnanimously, as though he was paying. Then he turned his attention back to her. "Meghann… that's a mouthful. You don't have a nickname?"
Meghann's heart started beating a little faster. "Well," she said cautiously, "people used to call me Maggie… but that was a long time ago."
The young man downed his third drink, and snorted. "What the hell is a long time to you, honey? When you were twelve? Don't get me wrong—I'm thankful for the drinks, but there's no way you're any older than twenty."
Meghann was startled. Sometimes she forgot that to mortals she looked young… She certainly didn't feel like a teenager anymore. And what business did this drunk have being so perceptive anyway? "I'm twenty-five," she informed him.
He howled. "Sure, babe—save it for the bartender." Seeing her brow crease, he hastily added, "Not that it's any of my business. But I like Maggie… You definitely look more like a Maggie. Meghann's too serious and boring."
"And what is your name?" This conversation was like a reverse of the one she'd had with Simon all those years ago—when he decided he didn't like Maggie. What was it with her anyway that made people want to give her some sort of tag?
The man stuck out his hand, managing to knock over Dr. Harlowe's barely touched drink. He seemed unconcerned. "Jimmy Delacroix."
The doctor jumped up. "You idiot! Look what you've done."
Jimmy bristled. "It was an accident."
The doctor fussily tried his best to wipe the stain out of his pants with a napkin. "It's time we were going, Meghann."
She knew he didn't mean to, but that presumptuous tone reminded her of Simon. And after him, no man told her what to do. Besides, that name… Delacroix. Where had she heard it before? She wanted to get to know Jimmy, find out what was eating him. "No one's stopping you," she said coolly.
Dr. Harlowe gave her an incredulous glare, and stormed out of the bar. She hoped he was mature enough to not let this interfere with being her thesis adviser.
"Who was the old guy?" Jimmy asked.
"My psychology professor."
Jimmy's whole demeanor changed. He sat up ramrod straight and gave Meghann a freezing glare. "So you're studying to be a goddamned witch doctor? And I guess you saw me shamble in and thought you could do a little psychobabble on me—find out why the poor soul is a boozehound? Screw you, sister."
Meghann sensed that his anger must have come from some other encounter with a psychiatrist. He stood up, ready to leave, and she grabbed his hand.
"Sit down, and stop making an ass of yourself," she hissed, careful to keep any command out of her thoughts, "Yeah, I want to be a psychologist, but that's not why I invited you over." She took the sting out of her words with a slow, arching smile she'd stolen from Simon. "I just want to get laid."
Jimmy was stunned at the words that came out of this dainty-looking (but damned attractive) girl's mouth. He sat down, saying with a half laugh, "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" He tipped an imaginary hat at her and leered. "Happy to oblige you, ma'am."
Meghann lit a cigarette, not bothering to ask if it offended him. He responded by removing his own pack.
"You always go around making offers like that?" he asked.
"Most of the time. Why wait around for the guy to make the first move?"
"Look," he said uncomfortably, "I don't want to pry, but if you, er, go out a lot—"
"Don't worry," she told him flatly. "I don't have AIDS." She remembered the first time she and Charles became aware such a thing existed. They'd been at Studio 54 in late 1980 and he called her over from her dancing partner. He asked her to meet a young man, and tell him if she sensed anything. So she shook the young boy's hand, and was overwhelmed by the putrid, foul odor in his blood. It was death lying there dormant, waiting for an opportunity to ruin the promising life. After a while, she'd smelled it on a lot more people, and then the doctors put a name to the disease. She doubted a vampire could catch the disease by drinking infected blood, but that didn't matter. You couldn't force yourself near somebody with that stench; it repulsed vampires the way garlic was supposed to.
Jimmy was speaking, interrupting her dark thoughts. "So what's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?"
"I could ask you the same thing." She smiled.
He laughed. "Girl's got a mouth." He nodded approvingly. "I like that. I hate little demure chicks who don't have two words to say for themselves. But I've gotta tell you, Maggie, you can't go around propositioning guys in a place like this. I mean there's a lot of crazy people in the world."
"Are you one of them?" Meghann thought the advice was sincere, and quite sound if you didn't know her power. A few times, one of her transient partners had attempted to hurt her and then found out the hard way what they were dealing with. Of course, she hadn't killed them—however much she wanted. Alcuin had instilled in her that it was not her place to play judge and jury and pass judgment on the mortal world. So she simply kicked the living shit out of them and then called the cops to have them hauled away where they couldn't hurt anyone else.
"Shucks, ma'am, I ain't no psycho killer—just a lonely drunk." Jimmy's face darkened, and he polished off the drinks on the table.
Meghann got up to put some quarters in the jukebox and order fresh drinks.
They stayed in the bar for a few more hours. Jimmy was drinking like prohibition would come back tomorrow and Meghann matched him. They didn't talk much, just listened to the jukebox.
The last song Meghann put on was "House of the Rising Sun." Maybe Jimmy's melancholy was rubbing off on her—she found herself nearly crying at the words. They reminded her that the rising sun was something she was never going to see again.
Jimmy noticed her change in mood. He thought maybe it was a bad memory—her song with some other guy. But even though he hardly knew her, he didn't like to see her sad. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he asked, "Wanna dance?"