Haunted Honeymoon

by Marta Acosta

  “Will you be doing a remodel?” Cricket asked Ian. “I can recommend a wonderful design team.”

  “Milagro likes the disco room, so I think I’ll keep it as is for now.”

  Cricket looked at him sympathetically. I wanted to smack the both of them, but Ford said, “It’s an awesome party house.”

  His wife sighed. “That’s why I make all the aesthetic decisions in the relationship.” She spoke as if she was teasing, but I got the feeling that it was true.

  Rosemary, always on the lookout for food, came into the kitchen, tail wagging. Ford bent over to scratch his back, setting off paroxysms of butt wiggling. “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “His name is Rosemary.”

  “That’s a girl’s name,” Cricket said slowly, as if I was an idiot.

  “Rosemary is for remembrance,” I answered. Ford gave me a quizzical look and I said, “I had a wonderful dog who died.” Ian was watching me, so I didn’t mention that the name also represented everything else I’d lost: my fiancé, my home at his ranch, my almost normalness.

  We stood around the massive kitchen island and finished off the martinis. Cricket focused her attention on Ian and brought up all her travels and her recent vacation in Lviv. “We stayed at a ski chalet near the Carpathians,” she said. “I do hope Lviv won’t be discovered. The chalet next to us had just been rented by a stunning model, Ilena, who had us over for drinks.”

  I glanced at Ian, but he didn’t change his expression at the mention of his ex-lover, who was also an expert in international economics, and made me feel insecure on a number of levels.

  I turned back to Ford, who told me, “Come over some night and we’ll have a film festival in the screening room. I’ve got original Hammer and Castle films and old projectors that go tick-tick-tick. I mean, if you like horror.”

  “I write horror stories,” I said casually, hoping he wouldn’t think I was too weird.

  “Really? I’ve tried to write. I got two hundred pages of a time-travel story done, and then I got stuck. Do you write about monsters?”

  “Mine are political allegories, more like the original Frankenstein, so, yes, I write about monsters.”

  “My father used to read Frankenstein to me at bedtime.”

  Cricket shook her head and said, “You really are making him sound like a kook.”

  She returned to her conversation with Ian. I went on to discuss scientific developments that science fiction had successfully predicted, and it seemed natural for the Poindexters to stay for dinner.

  Ian pulled bottles of a spicy, smoky cabernet franc from the cellar, and we grilled vegetables and juicy filet mignons that were in the fridge. I put away the steaks I’d bought.

  Ian and I shared a resistance to the effects of alcohol and other drugs, which was unusual even among vampires, and I felt a little envious of Ford, who got more and more sozzled and expansive as we finished our meal with glasses of cognac outside in the dark.

  Cricket just got flirtier, but she was careful to touch and smile at her husband, too, keeping him off guard. It was close to midnight when she teasingly unbuttoned her blouse and said, “Since we’re all friends here and I already saw Milagro …”

  Ford watched goggle-eyed and adoring as Cricket did a strip-tease on the lawn, and Ian smiled at her bump-and-grind. She had a svelte body, and my ex-fiancé, whose career was perfecting breasts, would have admired the craftsmanship that had gone into her full, perky set.

  Cricket dived into the pool and Ford quickly stripped to his boxers and jumped in. His wife floated on the surface and laughed. “Come in! The water’s fine.”

  Ian said, “Another time,” but I took it as a dare.

  “Why not? We’re all friends,” I said, and pulled off my dress. Although Ford was besotted by his bride, he wasn’t unimpressed when I undid the hook on my ivory lace bra. I let him get a good look before jumping in the water.

  Ford did cannonballs, Cricket displayed a smooth side stroke, and I tried to see how long I could swim underwater.

  After the night got chilly, we got out, wrapped ourselves in towels, and said shivery good nights. Cricket promised to have us over soon, gazing at Ian the whole time.

  When they had gone, I said, “I’m surprised you didn’t jump in the water. Cricket was totally sexing you up with her eyes.”

  “It would have made Ford nervous, and I liked him quite a bit. He’s a charming young fellow, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s fabulous.”

  “He enjoyed your many charms, my dear.”

  I gave Ian a stern look. “I like him and he likes me. It’s clear that he loves his wife.”

  “You, my dear girl, always interpret everything as sexual. I meant as a friend.”

  “Oh. It’s so hard to tell with you and your too sophisticated Euro vampire values.”

  “You know that you’re the only one for me, querida,” he said as he stroked my cheek.

  We never used the word “love” with each other. Our very avoidance of the word gave it power and substance.

  I looked into Ian’s dark eyes, searching for goodness, but all I saw was desire, and I wasn’t sure who had inspired it. “I have to finish my newsletter.”

  two

  Good Help Is Fine to Bite

  I took Rosemary with me to the schlocky master suite. When I turned on the light, I saw a package on the bed, wrapped in plain white paper with a red satin ribbon. A small card said, “To My Own Girl.”

  When I opened the package and unfolded the tissue inside, I saw three books bound in olive leather and blue and olive marbled board with gold lettering on the spines. They were first-edition volumes of Jane Eyre, and I couldn’t believe I was holding them. Running my fingers over the old typeface, I felt connected to the past, to Charlotte Brontë, and even more to Jane Eyre.

  The character was more real to me than most people. She’d been my friend ever since I was a lonely girl shut away in my bedroom a million years ago. I saw Jane small, plain, and watchful, wearing her simple governess dress, yet equal to anyone.

  When Ian came in an hour later, his dark curls wet from a swim, I placed the first volume carefully on the bed table and smiled. He knew exactly those things I loved.

  I said, “I was happy enough with the earrings, but this … Thank you, Ian. It is the best present anyone has ever given me.”

  “I have another gift to give you now.”

  “Is it in your pants?”

  “As a matter of fact …”

  He was strong and I was strong.

  Rosemary woke me early by whining forlornly at the bedroom door.

  No matter how quietly I got up, Ian always opened his eyes. I liked him this way, drowsy, warm, and affectionate.

  He smiled and said, “My own girl.”

  “We’re going out for a run,” I said, and leaned over to kiss his cheek, deliciously rough with morning beard. He reached out for my hip, but Rosemary was waiting, so I pushed Ian’s hand away.

  I dressed in shorts, a tank top, and running shoes. I caressed the covers of Jane Eyre on the way out, the very sight of the books making me smile.

  The hill was extremely steep and there were no sidewalks, so I kept to the far side of the road and enjoyed the challenge of avoiding branches and patches of loose rocks. It was going to be another sunny day, and I breathed in the resin-scented dew evaporating off the redwoods and firs.

  My dog and I explored a few trails and I spotted the glossy dark leaves of a madrone and lacy fronds of wild ferns.

  Rosemary began lagging, so, after checking to see that no one was around, I picked him up and began the journey uphill to the house.

  I came in the opposite direction that I’d left. As I got close to Ian’s house, I put down Rosemary. I saw the service parking lot that Cricket had mentioned. A stand of gorgeous black bamboo blocked it from view, which was why I hadn’t noticed it before.

  I stepped into the driveway of the lot and saw a middle-aged couple getting o
ut of a new Volvo wagon.

  He was tall, with graying brown hair cropped close to his head, wearing a black suit and a white shirt. She was nearly as tall, with a neat brown bob, a black dress, a white apron, low-heeled shoes, and a black leather handbag.

  When they saw me, I smiled, said “Hi!” and gave a wave, and they smiled and nodded at me.

  I continued on my way back and slowed to look at the Poindexters’ house. A drive of old granite bricks led between dense privet hedges. I could see the corner of a roof, but nothing else.

  I heard footsteps and glanced back to see that the man and the woman were a few steps behind me. I wondered where they worked and was surprised when I turned right at Ian’s courtyard and they followed.

  Turning to face them, I said, “Hi, can I help you?”

  “Morning, miss. We have an appointment with Lord Ducharme.”

  Their complexions were normal; I surreptitiously took a sniff but I didn’t smell the herbal-scented sunblock many vampires used.

  “I’m Milagro. I’ll take you in.”

  The woman and man looked at each other with delight and then grinned. She said, “Miss de Los Santos, what a tremendous honor to meet you!”

  Their enthusiasm and attire clued me in that they were thralls, normals who subjugated themselves to vampires. I had achieved some fame among them since I’d managed to do what they could only dream of doing: become a vampire. Or vampirish. Whatever. “So you’re here to visit Ian?”

  “We’re here to work, Miss de Los Santos,” the woman said. “I’m Anna and this is Cal Kogalniceaunu. At our last position, they called us Mr. and Mrs. K, but please call us whatever you wish.”

  As we came to the front of the craptastic house, their eyes widened.

  “Such an impressive estate!” Mrs. K said.

  Thralls lived to serve. Some believed in the vampire myth (undead vamps with supernatural powers), others were role-playing in what they thought was an S and M game, but the most trusted were those whose families had been allied with the vampires for generations.

  We went into the house and were met by Ian, who was wearing a navy silk robe open over his bare chest and drawstring pants. I supposed this was proper attire for interviewing feudal staff.

  “Look who I found out on the street,” I said. “Mr. and Mrs. K.”

  “Lord Ducharme,” they both said, and Cal took Ian’s hand and bowed.

  I shot a look at Ian, who was, as always, annoyingly comfortable with people falling all over him.

  “Welcome,” he said, all lord-of-the-drug-king’s-manor mannerish. “I trust your trip was pleasant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mrs. K said. “Our hotel was very comfortable and our things are being delivered later this morning.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll show you your rooms.”

  Ian led them down the hall and I heard them going downstairs. I took Rosemary with me to the not-so-great room and scooped kibble into his bowl. “Someone has earned my displeasure,” I told my dog. “Not you. You’re an excellent dog.”

  There was a bottle of dark crimson calf’s blood in the fridge. I poured about a quarter cup into a tall glass, filled the glass with icy water, and squished in some lime juice.

  I was thirsty and the drink was cold and mineral and savory. As I tipped back the glass to catch the last drops, warmth suffused my body, making me feel both relaxed and revived.

  It was tasty, but animal blood didn’t have the effect on me that Ian’s blood did. Nothing did.

  As I was pouring coffee beans into the grinder, Mrs. K came into the room. “Please allow me to take care of that for you. Would you like espresso or filter coffee?” She glanced around at the appliances as she came to stand beside me.

  I held on to the canister of coffee beans. “I can make it myself.”

  “Miss de Los Santos, it’s my pleasure to help.”

  I sighed and let her take the canister. It was no use arguing with someone determined to serve. “I’ll have a cappuccino, please.”

  I got my laptop and went outside to the bulky stone table and adjusted the white canvas umbrella over it to shade my screen. There were dozens of new letters from Paws to Reflect subscribers on the current controversy. I began choosing those to be included in the next issue of the newsletter, and Mrs. K brought my frothy drink out to me.

  Ian came out a little later, now dressed in slacks, a French blue twill shirt, and a Panama hat.

  Looking up from my work, I said, “You could have told me you were hiring thralls.”

  “Have you forgotten that I said I would have household staff?”

  “I thought you meant a cleaning service. The kind that comes in once a week and vacuums, not indentured servants.”

  He had the nerve to laugh. “Really, Young Lady, they earn far more than you do and are assured lifetime employment with many benefits.”

  “I would earn more at my writing if that sneaky little nut job Don Pedro had paid me properly and given me credit for my fauxoir. Which is beside the point, because I love what I do.”

  “As do my employees.” Ian reached out to cover my hand with his own. “Milagro, I may disagree with some—or many—of your decisions, but they are yours to make. Let others decide how they want to live their lives.”

  “It’s the duty of those who think clearly to protect the vulnerable against self-destructive behavior.”

  “Spoken like a benevolent dictator, which I believe you are at heart. Thralls would find it insulting that you think yourself more capable of determining their lives than they.”

  I closed my laptop and said, “I’ve got to get back to the City. Thanks for every—” I began, and then remembered the beautiful books and the delightful earrings. “I’ll consider what you said. It just goes against my ideas of an egalitarian society. I know you think it’s silly that everyone should be treated equally.”

  “Everyone should be treated well, but many don’t want to be treated equally and some don’t deserve it.”

  I kissed him and just the taste of him made me want to stay.

  “I don’t see you enough.” He ran his fingers along the inside of my thigh and upward. “I’ll be here for a few days. Come back tomorrow. Mrs. K is a graduate of the Cordon Bleu.”

  “I’ll try. I really do have work.” My girly parts were clanging as madly as wind chimes in a storm. “Bye, Ian.”

  “Adieu, Young Lady.”

  I got my things together, and Rosemary and I headed back to the City. Once we got to the bridge, the fog began rolling in. The day was gray and chilly by the time I arrived at my place.

  My fourth-floor loft had been one of the early conversions in the eighties. I liked the cheesy pink, gray, and black color scheme and the glass block partition by the kitchen space. The pièce de fabulousness on my pink granite counter was a professional-quality, lime green Margaritanator 3000.

  Nancy, my best friend from F.U., had given me her old furniture: a shocking pink velvet sofa and armchair, a rose-colored shag carpet, and a variety of froofy throw pillows. It was flagrantly feminine and silly, just like Nancy.

  I went through my mail, hoping for a response to the query letters I’d sent out on the novel I’d written. I read a form rejection letter, then tore it up and tossed the pieces in the recycling bin. Then I saw the thin envelope from my co-op association and was filled with dread.

  My ex-fiancé had given me the loft as a wedding present, hoping that I’d want to renovate it and start a career in real estate. I hadn’t. When we’d broken up, I repaid him with a settlement that I’d received from the Vampire Council after one of their members had tried to kill me. Though I owned the loft, I couldn’t really afford the property taxes and monthly condo fees.

  I opened the letter and my eyes went directly to the large sum in bold type in the middle of the page. It was a bill for my share of upgrading the electrical work, a sum roughly double my annual income.

  My eyes fell on the Jane Eyre volumes. Ian had given me many gifts, but I
couldn’t bear to think of selling any of them.

  I set aside this problem and finished my newsletter, e-mailed it off, and took Rosemary on his afternoon walk. When I returned, I phoned Gabriel Grant, my ex’s cousin, who was also a security director for his family.

  “Young Lady! I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “Nice things, I hope. Want to have a drink tonight, or dinner? Maybe I can make dinner for you and Charlie.” Charlie Arthur, his vampire beau, was a hotel manager. “I can fire up the Margaritanator 3000 for strawberry margaritas.”

  “Charlie’s at a conference, but I’m free. Can we go shopping first? I need new shirts.”

  “You are a dream date,” I said, and we arranged to meet at the mall downtown.

  I put on a dress, a jacket, and cute flats, and walked on the gusty, busy streets to the mall. I rode the dizzying circular escalators up to the top floor and waited for Gabriel.

  I liked watching the crowds. Frequently I saw girls who looked like me, curvy brown-eyed girls with dark hair and olive skin, gossiping with their girlfriends and wearing sexy outfits. I imagined being with them, talking about normal things like how we hated our jobs and cool clubs and hot guys.

  I spotted Gabriel’s pretty copper-gold hair as he rode the escalators up, and then he got off and saw me.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, giving me a kiss. He was a small, lithe man with fine features and green eyes. “I envy that tan.”

  “I’ve been swimming stark nekkid at Ian’s new place.”

  In unison we said, “The Dark Lord!” The nickname was the sort of joke no one was brave enough to say in front of Ian. Gabriel claimed not to know Ian’s full role with the Vampire Council, and Ian claimed that all he did was attend meetings.

  Gabriel and I walked into a favorite department store, and I said, “The Dark Lord hired a married couple of thralls to work as his butler and housekeeper.”

  “You sound annoyed.” Gabriel took my hand, and we strolled toward the men’s department.

  “I’m annoyed to the nth degree.”

  “You don’t expect him to do his own mopping and scrubbing. He probably needs a full-time person just to care for his suits.”