by Nancy Baker
But during the long sleep, his soul—if he still had one—was firmly ensconced inside his undead body. If he died the true death, what would happen to it?
This was a godless age, this new world into which he had awoken. No, he acknowledged, not precisely godless. But the gods of this time had no interest in souls. Earthly dollars and devotion would suffice the popular idols of the twentieth century. And surely there was more solace than ever in the faith he had chosen so long ago, the belief in science. According to its laws, when his long life at last ended, his matter would melt back into the universe and be reconstituted once again as a flower or a cockroach or a star.
But he had an older faith, one he had never quite shaken in all the centuries. He did not pray, he did not worship, and he broke many of its commandments. But that did not mean he did not believe, somewhere in the secret depths of his heart.
It was part of the reason he had survived so long. He lived because he was afraid to die, for then he might find that he was truly damned.
One night in Paris, more than a century ago, Jean-Pierre had asked him how long they would live. Rozokov had replied that he did not know and changed the subject. To contemplate the sum of their possibly endless days disturbed him. Could anything of matter exist forever? Could anything sane?
In the end, of course, Jean-Pierre found an answer. Five months later, he was dead, burned in the inferno a vengeful arsonist had made of their mansion.
But you, Rozokov thought, you did not die. You fled to the New World to hide among the bankers and burghers of Toronto until your secret was discovered.
You should never have offered Ardeth the hope of a life together. Not when you exist only on the instinct for survival and the fear of damnation. Not when you live only because you are afraid to die, as if the sin of self-destruction could be any worse than the ones you have already committed. Perhaps suicide might even bring you salvation.
He sighed and tilted his head back to stare at the moon. His belief was not great enough to die to save the soul he was not certain he possessed. He might curse his blind instinct for survival but it was very strong, especially after the ordeal in the asylum. Even now, as he brooded, his eyes found the beauty of moonlight and shadow on the carved angel and the scent of the trees made him want to breathe it through his very skin.
There was no resolution, no epiphany. There was only the recognition that he would live another night.
His rooms were empty still, but there was some comfort in them. He would go hunting later, after midnight. That much resolved, Dimitri Rozokov rose from the mausoleum step and walked back across the graveyard.
He had barely entered his rooms when there was a knock at the door. For a moment, he stood still, frozen by the unexpected interruption. Who would be standing on the dark landing at this hour, knocking on the door of a man who knew almost no one in town? The landlord perhaps.
Or Leigh, a greedy part of his mind gloated. Perhaps she heard your call after all.
He went to the door and opened it warily.
A young man stood there; big, fair, unshaven, wearing the ubiquitous outdoor gear of the town. He was carrying a plastic bag from the local grocery store.
“Yes?”
“Is Ardeth here?” The question answered his own, Rozokov realized. This must be the climber she had been tempted by on the mountain, the one she had fled in her bare feet. A temptation she resisted, a voice whispered mockingly.
“No.”
“When will she be back?”
“I don’t know. She went away.”
“Oh. Do you know where?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well. I have some of her stuff, her climbing shoes, here.” He raised the bag at his side. “It took me a long while to find out where she lives or I’d have returned it sooner. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Mark Frye.” He extended his free hand. Rozokov stared at it for a moment, then took it. Despite his seeming calm, the young man’s hand was chilly with sweat.
How easy it would be, Rozokov thought distantly. A little mental force, perhaps only a friendly smile and the promise of information about Ardeth, and this creature, so big and full of life, would walk through the door into the apartment. Then his strength would melt beneath my hands, flow into my veins. Would I taste Ardeth on his lips? Could I have her back somehow, by having him?
“Dimitri Rozokov.” Frye peered at him curiously for a moment and Rozokov wondered what he could see in the faint light from the apartment. There was nothing particularly ominous or suspicious about either the decor or his own disguise—his jeans and dark shit were as standard as the other man’s. Had his thoughts shown on his face?
“So, are you her old man?” The question shocked him, both for its presumptuous bravery and its odd phrasing. Then memory of slang picked up on the Toronto streets or from late-night movies reasserted itself and it seemed disturbingly knowing, ironic. For a moment, he toyed with saying yes, acknowledging his status as Ardeth’s lover . . . and her blood-father. Then he remembered that he might not qualify as the former any more.
“I am certainly old,” he said at last. That, at least, was a safe truth.
“I didn’t know about that. About you,” Frye said awkwardly.
“Would it have mattered?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it would.” To his surprise, Rozokov found himself inclined to believe him.
“Well, if she comes back, I’ll tell her that you called.” It seemed a safe promise to make, an easy way to get this young man with his disturbing questions, disturbing apologies and even more disturbing life off his landing.
“Thanks.” Frye thrust the shopping bag into his hand, then headed down the stairs. Halfway to the ground, he turned around. “I hope she comes back soon.”
Rozokov stared down at the upturned face and saw a strange sympathy in the eyes watching him. I am not the only one who lost her, he realized.
“So do I,” he said at last and knew that it was the truth.
Chapter 15
The woman had not wanted to pick her up. Ardeth could tell by the careful glances in the rearview mirror, the subtle stiffness in her shoulders.
She had been walking for hours along the side of the highway. The prairies were well behind her and the road was now lined with a curtain of pines. She had slept the previous day sheltered in their fragrant shadows, guarded by sharp-needled branches. Even now, the scent of sap and needles seemed to cling to her. At least it hides any other odours, Ardeth thought with wry amusement. Vampires did not seem to sweat much, but it had been two days since her last bath and her clothing had gone without cleaning longer than that. She was feeling distinctly grubby.
Since the incident with Gord, she had tried to be more choosy about her rides. Most of the time, if the driver was not a woman like Kate Butler, an old man or accompanied by a family, she sent them away with a polite “no thank you” and a firm mental command to stay away. Not that she was afraid, she reminded herself. At least not of them. But it would be boring to battle a succession of seductions, subtle or otherwise. And if one of them pushed her too hard . . . it would be easy to fall, to succumb to the lure of blood and vengeance. There was no reason not to taste mortal blood again, not now, but it had to be the right time, the right person. She was not sure why it mattered so much to her, but it did. When she did it, it would be everything her encounter with Mark had promised to be—and everything Rozokov’s anonymous feeding had not been.
Whatever her reasons, her resolution had resulted in a shortage of rides—for the very people she deemed safe were the least likely to consider her so. Now she was tired, hungry and, vampire or no, her feet hurt. She had been walking for so long without even the possibility of a ride that when the couple’s car had passed her she had not even bothered to put out her thumb. To her surprise, the brake-lights had flared and the car had drifted to a stop on the shoulder ahead of her.
Now ensconced in the
back seat, she could see the woman’s irritation and the man’s curiosity. They were in their late fifties, she decided. The woman’s grey hair must have once been red; there were traces of the colour still in her brows and a scattering of freckles visible on the softly lined cheeks. The man was balding and bespectacled, with an anonymously friendly face. He introduced himself as Doug Robinson; his wife was Linda.
“Ardeth.” She used her real name, mostly because a pseudonym seemed unnecessary . . . and keeping them straight had always been difficult.
“Where are you going?”
“Toronto.”
“We can drop you at Sudbury but that’s as far south as we’re going.”
“Sudbury would be great.” The ritual identification and destination exchange done, Ardeth turned her gaze back to the passing wall of trees, hoping the gesture would dispel further conversation.
“Do you live in Toronto?”
“I used to.”
“Where do you live now?”
“No place in particular. I’ve been travelling for a while.”
“Do you have family in the city?”
“Yes,” she answered, resigning herself to the necessary ordeal of constructing a fiction she could remember. “My sister lives there so I’m going to visit her for a while.” It was always safest to stick with the truth, at least to start with.
“And your parents?”
“In Ottawa.” At least they had lived there, before the car crash five years ago. “How far is it to Sudbury?”
“About three hours yet,” he answered and she caught his quick glance at her in the mirror. To her surprise, he looked more concerned than curious. “You can sleep back there, if you like. You must have been walking for a while.”
“Yes, I was,” Ardeth answered with a careful yawn and decided to take the offered opportunity to at least pretend to sleep, if only to avoid any more conversation. She bundled her knapsack against the window, put her head against it, and closed her eyes.
After twenty minutes, the man said softly, “Forgiven me yet?”
“For what?” The woman’s whisper was full of injured dignity.
“We could hardly have let the poor thing walk all the way to Sudbury. It isn’t safe out there.”
“And picking up hitchhikers is, I suppose?”
“Whatsoever you do . . .”
“I know, I know.” For the first time, there was a thread of amusement in the woman’s whisper. “I suppose I should be grateful she’s not a six-foot-two ex-convict.”
“But he turned out to be a good man, after all,” There was silence, then the soft rustle of cloth. Ardeth opened her eyes carefully and say the woman’s hand reach out to touch her husband’s as it rested on the steering wheel. The dim dashboard light glowed off the gold band on her finger. The man turned his head a little and smiled. Ardeth shut her eyes very tight.
The rocking motion of the car must have lulled her to sleep at last. When she awoke again, the car was gliding beneath a bank of bright lights at a roadside truck stop. She straightened up slowly, slitting her eyes against the glare. “Where are we?”
“Just outside of Sudbury. This is as far as we go on the highway.” Doug replied. Ardeth opened her eyes a little wider and saw the small huddle of cars nuzzling up to the wide bright window of the restaurant, as if afraid of the dark. Beyond them, she thought she could see a small motel. She glanced at her watch. It was three o’clock in the morning.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“We were going to stop for a coffee—we’ve got a bit of a drive still ahead of us. Let us buy you a cup,” Linda said and Ardeth glanced at her curiously. The miles seemed to have melted the woman’s animosity. Or her husband’s quiet joking had.
She didn’t need coffee, not really. But the cup would feel warm in her hands and, in the restaurant, she might find another ride under the benevolent sanction of these undeniably upright people. She accepted and followed them into the bright glow of the restaurant.
Inside, the place faded from a beacon in the darkness to a slightly dingy, nearly empty truck stop identical to a thousand more across the continent. They wandered through the cafeteria line, past plastic barriers shielding hot food that had simmered too long, cellophane wrapped sandwiches that all looked the same, and glutinous looking pies and pastries.
The coffee wasn’t bad, Ardeth decided, as it warmed her stomach. It didn’t nourish her, and drinking an entire cup of it was out of the question, but a sip or two felt very nice. She wrapped her cold fingers around the ceramic mug and glanced around the room.
Two truckers, a longhaired young man in a flannel shirt, a tired-looking group of teenagers, a young couple in polar fleece jackets. If they weren’t hitching too, they might be her best bet. Even if she couldn’t get a ride, she could take one of the motel rooms for the day. Toronto was only four or five hours away; with luck, she could be there by the next midnight.
After drinking half her coffee, Linda rose and excused herself, heading for the back of the restaurant; Ardeth looked at Doug. He smiled, an expression that somehow transformed his bland, forgettable features into something else, something sweet yet strong, promising kindness underpinned with iron. She looked down into her cup hastily, unnerved. “Does your sister know you’re coming?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to say yes and was vaguely surprised when she heard her voice say “no.”
“What are you running away from?” She looked up sharply then, into brown eyes that suddenly seemed shrewd and knowing, despite the warm crinkle of lines around them.
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe not. Something to do with a man, I’d guess.” He smiled again, at her surprise. “It usually is.”
“Did you ever cheat on your wife?” Ardeth asked abruptly, unsure whether she was just trying to shock him into silence or if she genuinely wanted to know.
“No.”
“Didn’t you ever think about it?”
“Of course I did. Not that I’d tell her that, mind you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I swore in my marriage vow that I wouldn’t. Because when I thought about it, she was worth more to me than a transitory pleasure.”
“Was it easy? Resisting temptation?”
“No. It was no easier for me than for any other man.”
“You did a better job of it than most then,” Ardeth observed bitterly.
“Is that what you’re running away from? An unfaithful husband?” Doug asked her and Ardeth lifted her left hand to show him her bare fingers. “A boyfriend then.”
The thought of describing Rozokov as her “boyfriend” dragged a small, choked laugh from her throat. “It’s not that simple. And we never made any promises . . .”
“Not out loud. But you think he betrayed one.” His voice seemed suddenly far away, just a distant part of her own thoughts.
“He made me believe in what we were together. That despite all the stories and myths, we could be anything we wanted to be. I knew, somewhere inside me, that it couldn’t last forever. We couldn’t change the rules, not the ones that really matter. But I didn’t think it would be so soon. I didn’t think he would just . . .” She stopped suddenly, appalled at the words she had let pour out of her. She stared across the table at the sympathetic eyes, the dangerously trustworthy face. “It’s not something you could understand,” she said at last.
“Perhaps not. You might be surprised.” His eyes shifted past her, towards the back of the restaurant. “Linda’s coming. We’ll be on our way.” He slid awkwardly out of the booth then paused. “The things that matter in this world rarely come without sacrifice. That lesson is thousands of years old and still every one of us seems to have to relearn it. That and the oldest lesson of all . . . forgiveness. I hope things work out for you. If they don’t, and you need someone to talk to, I left my card by my cup. Goodbye.”
Ardeth looked away, staring into her cup until she heard an engine start and then fade away. She was still watching the brown liquid, feeling it cooling through the cup, when a waitress wandered by and collected the empty dish across from her.
“What . . . ?” The waitress’s voice made her look up. The woman was turning a white business card in her hand. “He must have left this for you, honey. It sure ain’t for me.” She set the paper down with a grin and disappeared.
Ardeth stared at the card for a moment. I wonder what he was? A psychiatrist? Finally, she picked it up and turned it over.
Reverend Douglas Robinson.
Ardeth put her head down on her arms and started to laugh.
Chapter 16
Something was knocking.
The sound burrowed into her mind, dragging her up from the depths of a dream that faded even as she tried to integrate the noise into it. She rolled over, registered the still body and steady breathing beside her, and squinted beyond it at the clock radio on the nightstand. It was two o’clock.
Something next door, she decided groggily, then it came again.
Not from the apartment’s front door. From the sliding door of the balcony.
Dread hollowed out a hole beneath her ribcage. She slid out of bed, shivering in the cool air, and went to the door. Pulling aside the curtains, she stared for a moment at her own reflection before she realized it was crowned by wind-tossed black hair, not tangled red.
Behind her, she heard a rustle of cloth.
“Oh, shit,” Mickey Edmunds said as Sara Alexander began to unlock the door.