by Nancy Baker
“And you told the police and Mr. Yamagata none of this?”
“How could I? They’d either think I was crazy or it would all start over again. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life creating monsters in a secret yakuza laboratory.”
“I do not think Mr. Yamagata had that in mind,” Fujiwara admitted. “And I think, perhaps, that my kind were not the worst monsters in your story.”
“No,” Lisa acknowledged. “Dimitri Rozokov should have killed me for knowing what he and Ardeth were. He let me live. I owed him for that. And now that you know the truth, what do you intend to do with it?”
“It has been many years since I have seen one of my blood,” he said softly. “Call it an old man’s sentimentality.”
“What about My Yamagata?”
“He won’t trouble you again.” The calm confidence in his voice made her laugh bitterly. Like a father promising a child that there are no monsters in the closet, she thought, and wondered if his promise was worth as much as her father’s had been. “I could do more, if you wish.” She glanced up sharply, studying the smooth unlined face, the ancient eyes. “I could turn the lie into the truth.”
“For me, you mean.”
“For you,” he acknowledged. She thought about what it would be like to have back what the yakuza had taken from her. More than her freedom, more than her security, they had taken away her certainty about the world, her belief in her rational understanding of the universe. If vampires could exist, then anything could.
“How?”
“Just look into my eyes, that is all.”
“And I’ll forget?”
“About Rozokov, about Ardeth. About me,” he promised. She swallowed hard and willed herself to look at him. The eyes in their cradle of folded flesh looked black and fathomless. It would be easy, she thought distantly, just to drown all the nightmares and memories and terrible doubts in those beckoning wells. She felt his hands close over hers and one finger stroke along the length of her wrist, following the vein. She imagined herself standing on the edge of a bottomless pool, toes curled about the stone, body tensed for the long dive into cool oblivion.
If vampires could exist, then anything could.
But she could not wilfully blind herself to the truth. She could not pretend the universe was less complicated than it was. To do so would betray every belief she held.
She realized suddenly that it was not the knowing that terrified her, but the uncertainty. She believed that Rozokov and Ardeth could be vampires . . . but she did not know it. She did not know why it mattered so much to her. She believed in neutrons and quarks and chaos theory. She believed in dark matter and neural receptors. She believed in a thousand things she had not touched and many that no one had ever seen. Were vampires so different? Her intellect told her no but something deeper, something older, denied it.
“No. Don’t make me forget,” she said at last. “Make me know.” Something flickered in the dark eyes, like embers forced to life by a breath of oxygen. He turned her hand over in his.
She observed each sensation carefully, clinically: the faint touch of red in his eyes as he lifted her wrist, the coolness of his lips against her skin, the moment of suction that tugged at her veins, the sharp stab of pain, the indescribable sensation of blood leaving body for his. With detached wonder, she felt her heartbeat quicken, her breath catch. When the brief feeding was done, she fingered the tiny marks on her wrist and acknowledged, with ruthless, scientific honesty, one more observation: she was unbearably aroused.
“Do you know?”
“Yes,” she breathed, touching her pulse. “I know.”
Chapter 13
Ardeth wove her way through the cars jammed into the restaurant parking lot. So this is where they all ended up, she thought with grim amusement, all those cars that passed me by without stopping. She couldn’t see that this roadside stop was any more attractive than any other she’d seen on her journey but perhaps it was location that counted. Perhaps this restaurant occupied the spot that you were guaranteed to reach just as you were getting hungry, no matter where your point of departure or destination.
She shivered a little, recognizing the stirrings of hunger deep inside her own body. She had drunk from a sleepy cow early the previous night but it seemed to satisfy even less than elk’s blood. The long miles she had walked, both last night and in the hour since she had awoken, had left her tired and edgy. Her sleep had been snatched in uneasy moments in the basement of what had appeared to be an empty house.
There was nothing on the restaurant’s menu that would bring her any nourishment, but in the crowded stop she might find another ride to take her on the next step of her journey.
In the line to order, she surveyed the selection. Several truck drivers, groups of teenagers out from some local town, families with weary, cranky children, lone men who alternated between staring out the window and into their coffee cups.
Not looking good, she acknowledged with a sigh, wishing again that she could have simply taken a bus or a train. She had thought about it more than once as she walked through the empty night. She had even checked the schedule in one of the larger towns. Both methods of transportation had turned out to be more expensive than she had expected. She couldn’t afford it even if she were willing to risk dangers: exposure to daylight she could not control, the vulnerability of sleeping in public, the lack of opportunity to feed in a safe manner.
At the counter, she ordered a hot chocolate to justify her presence and went in search of a seat. The booths along the walls and windows were full and the tables all had at least one occupant. She scanned the faces carefully. A man caught her eye and smiled. She looked away.
There was a woman sitting alone, a book propped open on the table in front of her. She was consuming french fries with automatic regularity, her fork lifting them to her mouth without her mind ever seeming to notice the actions. Mid-thirties, Ardeth guessed, from the suggestion of lines bracketing her eyes and mouth. Her hair was brown, cropped short. Earrings of silver and green beads dangled from her ears, almost tangling in the collar of the bulky blue sweater she wore.
Ardeth watched her swallow another mouthful of french fries without looking at them. I used to do that, she thought with a feeling of detached déjà vu. I sat in restaurants and ate alone, barely noticing my food as I read.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” The woman looked up when Ardeth spoke.
“No, go ahead,” she answered and returned her attention to her book. Ardeth tipped her head a little to see the title: The Golden Bough. She had read it a long time ago, doing research for an undergraduate anthropology essay. She set her cup down and wondered which way the woman was heading.
“That’s not the kind of thing you usually see people reading in these restaurants,” she commented at last, and the woman looked up, blue eyes curious but wary.
“It’s for a class.”
“Are you a student or a professor?”
“Professor. English Literature, University of Winnipeg. Her gaze flickered down to the text then back up at Ardeth. “What about you?”
“I was doing my doctoral thesis in History at the University of Toronto. Does it show?”
The woman laughed a little. “Not really. But if you recognized the book, I guessed that you must have been at university.”
“For many years,” Ardeth admitted. She hadn’t thought about those ten years in a long time. For the last six months, that time had seemed as remote to her as her early childhood.
“Did you finish your thesis?”
“No. Some things . . . happened.”
“I know the story. It took me five years to finish mine on Renaissance drama.” She closed the book and held out her hand. “My name’s Kate Butler.”
“Ardeth.” She didn’t volunteer a last name and Kate didn’t ask.
“Where are you headed?”
“Back
to Toronto. What about you?”
“Winnipeg. I’ve been visiting my parents in Saskatchewan.”
“How much farther is it to Winnipeg?”
“It’s a few hours down the highway. Are you planning to stop there?”
“I don’t know,” Ardeth admitted and managed an embarrassed look. “It depends on whether I get a ride or not.”
“Are you hitchhiking?” Kate asked in disbelief. “That’s not exactly the safest thing you could be doing.”
“Tell me about it. But I’ve got to get back to Toronto and that’s the only way I can manage it.”
“Well, you’ve got a ride as far as Winnipeg. As long as you don’t mind giving me whatever inside information you’ve got on U. of T.’s English Department.” Ardeth smiled.
“You’ve got a deal.”
Fifteen minute later, they were on the road. Kate’s battered Honda hummed along, almost drowning out the sound of U2 on the tape deck. Ardeth had dutifully repeated all the facts and gossip she could recall about the English Department of the University of Toronto. “Are you looking for a job there?” she asked at last. Kate shrugged.
“It’s my long-term plan. I can’t make a move for a couple of years but it never hurts to keep up with the news.”
“Why can’t you go sooner?”
“My parents are getting on,” she answered after a moment. “My brothers and sisters all live near them, look after the farm and all that, but . . . you know how it is.”
Ardeth nodded, not knowing what to say. Her parents had died five years ago in a car accident and the daily grief had long faded. What if they were still alive? she wondered for the first time. Would it change things? Could I go home? Which would be worse for them—living with the mystery of their daughter’s disappearance or with the truth of what she had become? She was suddenly glad that she had never had to make that choice, that Sara was her only living relative. She shivered at the unconscious irony of the thought. My only living relative. My only blood-kin. But there was another, of course. He was living, if not exactly mortal, and she was tied to him by ties of blood, by the taste of his blood in her mouth and the feel of his teeth sliding into her flesh.
The thought made her shiver, touching her with dread and longing. I left my blood-kin behind, he thought fiercely. I left my parents long before the accident took them. I survived leaving them and then losing them. I’ll survive leaving Rozokov.
Kate was talking again, about the University of Winnipeg and her students, her ongoing research, her boyfriend, her life. Ardeth let the words wash over her, soothing the sting of her memory. She found herself drawn into her own revelations about her interrupted thesis, the forgotten trials and pleasures of the academic world that had been her home for so many years. They had attended different universities and majored in different disciplines but they had experienced the same stresses and satisfactions, recognized the same absurdities and follies.
“Are you planning to finish it? Your thesis?” Kate asked at last, as if shared laughter and confession had finally made the question acceptable.
Ardeth looked out the window for a moment. “I don’t think that’s an option anymore.”
“Why not?” Kate persisted.
“Things have changed.”
“Things always change. If you want it, you should do it.” She smiled and shook her head slightly. “I know, I know, easy for me to say. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m an incurable optimist.”
Ardeth glanced back at her. “You’re excused. Incurable optimism is just what I need right now.”
“We’re almost there,” Kate said, concentrating on the thickening traffic. “Do you have a place to stay?” Ardeth glanced at her watch. It was just after midnight.
“Just drop me at the next exit outside town. I can still get another ride tonight.”
“Ardeth, I can’t . . .”
“Kate, trust me. I travel better at night. I’ll be fine.” For a moment, she thought the subtle persuasion of her voice and will wouldn’t be strong enough to defeat the other woman’s concern but then Kate nodded.
“Whatever you like,” she said calmly, signalling to pull off into a small roadside stop containing a gas station and doughnut shop. As the car coasted to a halt, Ardeth collected her pack.
“Thanks for the ride. It was the best time I’ve had since I started this trip.” Which was no more than the truth.
“My pleasure. Good luck. Remember, there’s always room in the world for another thesis.”
“About public transportation in nineteenth-century Toronto?” Ardeth asked and Kate laughed.
“Even about much more tedious things than that.”
“I’ll think about it,” Ardeth promised as she closed the door and waved to the Honda’s taillights as it pulled away. She had thought the words were a lie, but as she sat in the doughnut shop, sipping weak coffee and considering whether the trucker in the corner would offer a safe ride, she found herself keeping her word.
She liked Kate, with her directness and her wry sense of humour. Is that what it could have been like for me? she wondered. A teaching job, research into something that fascinated me, a boyfriend. A life. She thought of her apartment and the familiar comforts of books, of the couch that had begun to mould itself to her body, of the same, predictable routine of study and teaching.
All of that is gone, gone forever, she told herself sternly. There is nothing in that picture that allows for what you are now.
The trucker gave her a ride and didn’t try to touch her.
As the truck rolled on towards the east, Ardeth stared into the darkness and heard Kate’s words whisper in the wheels. “Why not?” they asked her over and over. “Why not?”
Chapter 14
Dimitri Rozokov sat in the corner of the coffee shop, watching the wisp of steam rise from the tiny cup of espresso sitting in front of him. The small round table gleamed black. The cup was black too, turning the coffee into a pale, muddy moon in an empty sky. He hooked one finger through the handle and lifted the cup to his lips. The coffee burned across his tongue and seared its way into his stomach. The sharp, bitter taste was strangely soothing.
He looked out past his ghostly reflection hanging in the window. I wonder where she is, he wondered for the thousandth time, then pushed the thought away.
It had been three nights since Ardeth had left. He had thought about going after her, trusting his instinct to let him find her path, but one night had passed and then another and now he could seem to do nothing but sit here in the false warmth of the coffee shop and wonder where she had gone.
To make matters worse, each night since her flight had been cloudy, so even the solace of the stars had been denied him.
You should be relieved, he told himself, sipping the espresso again. Now there are no questions to answer, no decisions to make. He did not have to control the future now—he only had to let it happen.
Rationalizations again. He hid his bitter smile in another taste of the bitter coffee. She had not taken the questions with her; she had left new ones in her wake. He had believed it when he had told her they were solitary creatures. He had also believed it when he made the “fine speeches” about morality and mortality that she had thrown back at him so venomously. Dimitri, my friend, you are a man of flexible mind. An important attribute in a vampire, or so he had always believed.
But if the fine speeches were true, why had he fallen from their precepts so easily? And if solitude was the truth, why was he so lonely?
A sound from the doorway, a familiar voice, jerked his attention back to the world around him. He looked up; sudden, irrational hope a sharp pain in his heart . . .
The dark-haired doctor stood with a group of friends at the coffee counter. Her hair was loose and shining. The tall, thin body seemed full of sinewy energy, barely contained by tight jeans and bright purple parka. Rozokov remembered that body pressed bet
ween his and the fence. The memory of her blood blotted out the taste of coffee on his tongue.
She turned suddenly, eyes scanning the shop, looking for a free table as her friends ordered.
See me.
For a moment, her eyes met his and he noticed for the first time that they were blue. Then her gaze moved on, drawn by the lure of the empty tables to his left.
Disbelief surged through him for a moment, anger on its heels. How dare she ignore him? How dare she not acknowledge the power he had over her?
Something cracked and he looked down to see the handle of the espresso cup between his fingers. His rage died suddenly as it had flared up.
And you lost Ardeth for that? For a woman whose unconscious does not even remember you?
He left two dollars on the table to pay for the broken cup and left the shop, careful not to look at Leigh. But her laughter followed him into the night.
He let his feet wander, unwilling to go back to his empty rooms this early. The back streets of Banff were quiet. A car passed him, headlights dazzling his eyes. Behind him, he could hear the hiss of bicycle tires on the pavement, then the rider swept by him, legs pumping, long hair flying.
On his way to the river, he found himself at the cemetery. He stood for a moment at the gate, then followed his impulse over the wire fence. He walked up a gravel path, pausing to look at the inscriptions. The names were mostly Scottish, Irish, Italian. Dates from the early century onward. The headstones bore angels and wreaths and, once in a while, the mountains that the dead had loved, and sometimes, died for.
At the centre, there was a mausoleum. It was not much, as mausoleums went. Certainly, it was nothing like the great family crypts in which he had sheltered back in Europe. But even this place must have its founding families who entombed their dead in granite and marble, rather than wood and dirt. He went to the door and peered through the copper-coloured grate. Moonlight touched white marble.
With a sigh, Rozokov turned and settled down onto the stone stoop, his back against the looked metal door. What would it feel like to rest inside the cold stone? To lie there forever, flesh decaying, bones turning white? Would it be like the long sleep but without the all-devouring hunger to call one back to the world?