“You knew Marcel, right?”
“Yes. I knew him well. He made me.”
“Do you still talk to him?”
“No. I haven’t spoken with him in many years.”
“How come he just disappeared on everybody?”
“Well, it’s complicated, Orly. But I guess you could say Marcel had some things he needed to work through.”
“Is he ever gonna come back?”
Zacharias paused before saying, “No.”
“Yelena thinks he will.”
“Bless her heart. She’s always had more hope in this world than I’ve had. She’s an eternal romantic. You’ll find, Orly, that being a romantic is something that’s difficult to remain when you live forever.”
At the time I didn’t really let that sink in. I just jumped to my next question. “Do you know where she is going? I think she’s going to see him because she took Marcel’s coffin.”
“I do not know where she is going, but I can tell you that she is not going to see Marcel.”
A man and woman walked ahead of us. They were nearing the end of a paved cul-de-sac. A guardrail and yellow reflective sign stood at the end. Beyond it was a gravel path that led up to a paved roadway meant for cyclists and joggers. It ran alongside the LA River. We waited until they ascended and stepped off the gravel onto the roadway. They never heard us coming.
*
We put the bodies in the back of the covered pickup truck that belonged to but wasn’t registered to Zacharias. We drove for some time, heading north, and soon the landscape changed as we headed through a pass of white rock. Zacharias said we were heading to a property he owned outside of Palmdale.
“What’s your servant’s name?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Yelena and I have Berthold.”
“Oh, yes. Berthold. I like him. No, I don’t have a servant to the extent Berthold is. I do have someone who procures things for me when I need them. But I guess I still prefer the old ways. I dispose of my victims on my own. To me, the disposal is the end of the ritual.”
“You bury them?”
“No. I don’t.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Curious, curious, Orly. You’ll learn all that soon enough, and so much more.”
*
Two nights passed, and neither I nor Zacharias had heard from Yelena. I had faith in her, and knew she would return like she said she would, but after so many years of moving from one foster home to the next, the feelings of abandonment began to creep in.
I didn’t know this at the time, but Yelena was in Malibu, in the house where she and Marcel had once lived together. She had finally gone inside again. The house was empty and without furnishings. Yelena had brought Marcel’s coffin into the house and carried it upstairs to their former bedroom and put it down just in front of the large window that looked out over the ocean. Moonlight washed over the black wood making it appear reflective. Berthold would always depart just before daybreak and once he was gone, Yelena would lie down in Marcel’s coffin. She could still recognize his scent preserved inside and by inhaling it, she could feel his touch. Enveloped in the memory of her lover, she expected to cry, but tears never came. As there were no window coverings, Yelena relied on Berthold to return the following night and remove the coffin lid after the sun had set.
Yelena didn’t use the scribbles I gave her before she left. She didn’t leave the house. Instead she stayed up all night discussing things with Berthold and having him type my name, over and over. But when Friday evening came, she finally did leave the house to see Dr. Sloane.
Berthold waited in the parking garage while Yelena sat on the sofa in the fourth-floor suite.
“Tell me about your sons,” she said. “How old are they now?”
“Let me see,” Dr. Sloane mused. “Forty-four and forty-one.”
“And they were healthy when they were born?”
“Yes, my wife and I were very fortunate.”
“Let’s say the younger one hadn’t been.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s say you knew before he was born that he would be born with a terminal illness. Would you have had him anyway?”
“You’re thinking of that girl. The one who died in the hospital.”
“I’m always thinking of her.”
“Have you noticed any changes since the last reduction in your antidepressants?”
“No. None.”
Dr. Sloane nodded. “Let me ask you now, had you been her mother and knew before she was born, would you have given birth to her with that knowledge?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, because I don’t know.”
“Well, I think it would be something that I couldn’t decide on my own. My wife’s feelings would have to be considered and perhaps even take precedent over my own. But that isn’t answering your question.”
Yelena remained quiet, waiting for his answer.
“Yes. Yes. I believe I would. I would see him born and enjoy the years I would have with him.”
“Even with the pain he would have to endure due to his illness?”
Dr. Sloane thought a bit, but still answered affirmatively.
“What about his mental anguish over having the knowledge he would never reach adulthood?
“I believe life is precious and we should feel blessed with the time we are alive, no matter how little that time might be.”
“And if it were the reverse? That he would live forever in suffering?”
“Well, that is a different question, indeed. Fortunately, it isn’t possible.”
They sat in silence, thinking things over until Yelena finally spoke again. “I told you once that I knew Marcel wasn’t ever coming back. Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“I know he is never coming back, because he is dead.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Zacharias and I were watching television when we sensed someone coming up the walkway outside. We rose to our feet and walked to the foyer. The front door unlocked without the jangling of keys. It opened and on the doorstep stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. One of her hands cradled the other in front of her. She had not touched the door to open it. Her presence was Junoesque. Though she appeared youthful, perhaps in her mid-twenties, she commanded awe and respect. She was tall with long, deep auburn hair. The irises of her eyes were a violet that shimmered so luminously that they seemed to have metallic flecks inside them. Her slim-fitted gown matched her eyes. I think it was made of silk, but not like a silk I had ever seen. It showed all the curves of her voluptuous body, and was slit up both sides to accentuate the length of her legs. A necklace of amethysts hung from her neck.
“Imparateasa,” Zacharias said and bowed his head before her.
“Imparateasa,” I said, following suit, also bowing my head, but lower than Zacharias had.
In my peripheral vision I saw that Zacharias lifted his head, so I lifted mine. In a soft voice he said, “Please, come in. You are most welcome.”
Mirela gave a nod that was hardly perceptible and stepped inside Yelena’s home. Once she was inside it became apparent that she had not come alone. Another vampire, extremely handsome, stood behind her. In Mirela’s captivating presence we had not noticed him immediately. Zacharias nodded to him and he entered.
“Good evening, you may call me Alexi Pavlovich. I am consort to our Imparateasa.”
“Yes,” Zacharias said. “I know of you. Please, you are welcome here.”
Alexi Pavlovich nodded.
I felt I should say something, so I quietly murmured the word, “Welcome,” to them both. They smiled. I wasn’t sure if they were pleased or were mocking me.
“You are a young one,” Mirela said. “You are quite beautiful though.”
She had to be lying. In my healthy state I was average amongst mortals and plain, if not ugly, by vampire standards.
She continued, “Yelena knows we are not m
eant to create more of our kind out of children. It is a tragedy for a child to be trapped in immortality.”
I became more nervous than I already was and bowed my head.
Without stepping forward, Mirela was suddenly within arm’s reach of me. She extended her hand and placed her fingers on my chin and raised my head so she could study my face. Her touch confused me momentarily until I realized the reason—her touch was warm. It wasn’t icy like the rest of ours. She could pass for human. “Darling, I mean you no harm. We have only just met, but I think you are delightful.”
“Thank you, Imparateasa.”
“Alyosha,” she said sharply.
I didn’t know what it meant but Alexi Pavlovich stepped forward and handed her a flower that I hadn’t noticed he had been carrying. I was shocked when I saw it. It was the flower from my dreams. Mirela took it from him and offered it to me. I extended both hands and Mirela laid the perfect flower upon my palms. With my left hand, I closed my fingers around the stem and brought the flower to my heart.
“Thank you, Imparateasa,” I said again.
“Address me by name, Orly,” she said. She knew my name.
I looked at her. “Thank you, Mirela,” I said quietly.
Her lips moved into a smile and she nodded her head, this time more perceptibly.
“Where is Miss Solodnikova?” she asked.
“She is out, Imparateasa,” Zacharias answered. “I expect her back within a couple of nights.”
“Ah. That is unfortunate.” She redirected her voice, “Alyosha, please extend our stay in Los Angeles.”
Alexi Pavlovich nodded his head affirmatively, but Mirela didn’t give any hint that she noticed, but I’m sure she was aware of everything around her.
“Imparateasa,” Zacharias began, extending his arm toward the living room, “please, it will be more comfortable this way.”
I noticed Mirela did not permit him to call her Mirela as she had with me. I didn’t know why, and wasn’t sure if Zacharias knew the reason, but he didn’t seem to be affected by it.
Zacharias walked toward the living room, I behind him. Mirela and Alexi Pavlovich followed us slowly. As we entered, Zacharias motioned to the sofas. However, when Mirela stepped into the living room, the television turned off and the three sets of French doors that led onto the terrace opened. Mirela passed the sofas and, in a most regal fashion, walked out onto the terrace instead. Alexi Pavlovich followed her and we followed him. Mirela stopped when she reached the balustrade. She turned to us.
“Zacharias, please show Alexi Pavlovich Los Angeles.”
“As you wish, Inparateasa,” Zacharias answered.
We watched them depart in silence. It scared me that Mirela wanted to be alone with me. What interest could she possibly have in a young girl trapped in a younger girl’s body? When they were gone, Mirela spoke again.
“You needn’t worry, Orly. I will not hurt you. Come with me,” she said, and to my surprise both she and I levitated quickly toward the moon. I didn’t have to hold onto Mirela like I did with Yelena. Her powers were strong enough to carry me without touching me. I gripped the flower tighter for fear of dropping it. We ascended through the cover of clouds and continued ascending even after they became only tiny, cottony wisps beneath our feet. And then even those disappeared and at my feet I began to detect the roundness of the Earth. This was higher than I had ever been with Yelena. The stars, even though still millions of light years away, felt closer than they ever had. When we finally stopped ascending, everything was so still and silent.
“No one in the world can hear us up here,” Mirela said. “We can chit-chat like young girls.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I just looked at her.
“My darling tragedy,” she whispered, “how I feel for you. You will never know this kind of love,” and without my awareness my clenched fingers opened, releasing their grip around the flower’s stem, but the flower didn’t fall back to earth; it floated away slowly, out of my reach, just like in the dream, eventually disappearing into the oblivion of the backdrop of the black, star-specked sky.
I looked back at her. She was watching me, inquisitively. “You may speak your mind freely, Orly. There are no consequences here in the heavens.”
“Why will I never have love?” I asked earnestly.
“You know why. You will always be seen as a child and this kind of love, love that depends so much on reciprocity, is never truly offered to children. Your eternity will be a lonely one, myshka moya.”
“What does that mean, ‘myshka moya’?”
She smiled. “I apologize. It seems I’ve spent too many years with my consort. Myshka moya is a Russian term of endearment. It means ‘my little mouse.’”
I smiled gently. I began to see that she really cared for me, and I sensed she wanted my affection.
“I am sorry, Orly, but Yelena should have let the cancer take you. In my time on this Earth, I have known other child vampires. Believe me, it always ends badly and under the saddest of circumstances because of the eternal loneliness that can no longer be ignored. It’s difficult to know this when mortal, but often it is favorable to be dead.”
“So no one will ever love me?”
“They will love you as they love a child. Those who come to know you well may love you as a friend, but that is where it will end.”
At first, I rebelled in my mind, thinking that I could live without love. Many people I had scribbled never had love in their lives. But they were mortal, and their lives wouldn’t last forever like mine would. I began to feel the weight of hopelessness engendered by the eternal loneliness foretold by Mirela. And I realized that prior to this conversation I had already began to recognize it on my own—the potential of perpetual romantic isolation—most recently illustrated through the rejection by Lux. I looked away from my heart so that I could defend myself.
“Yelena loved. And now she is heartbroken. I see her pain every night. Is that kind of forever better than a forever of never loving at all?”
“In truth, it is. Heartbreak, no matter how deeply the wound is felt, has time enough to heal in eternity. However, for one doomed to never have their love accepted nor returned, their wound will always remain open.”
I think I believed her. This is truth, I thought. I would be worse off than Yelena in my heart.
“Your existence will be filled with sorrow, Orly, but your existence won’t last forever. You will die from grief but it will feel like a blessing.”
I felt the coming of blood tears but fought to keep them from falling. Mirela knew they were there anyway.
“No tears, myshka moya, you are still far from that ending, you have much time to savor and enjoy, for unlike Yelena, you are not plagued with a conscience.”
“Did Marcel have a conscience?”
“He was given one, by her.”
The way she said “her” almost sounded like a hiss. There was antagonism in it.
“You loved Marcel too,” I said.
“Yes. Very much. I loved his soul and made him who he was before he became corrupted.”
Again, there was that antagonism in her voice. I worried for Yelena.
“Did she tell you? We were at the Mariinsky Ballet when he first saw her. He loved her immediately. I could feel the eruption of his heart as he sat in the theatre beside me. I lost him shortly thereafter. Once he created her, they left for America.”
“And you hate her for it.”
“No, child. I was enraged as any spurned woman is, but that passed in time, as I’ve told you will happen in eternity. I love all my bloodline, Orly, as I love you.” She outstretched her hand and took mine. Even high up in the heavens, her hand was warm. “Kiss me, Orly,” she said.
I began to bring her hand to my lips.
“No,” she said, and without any will of my own, I floated closer to her until my lips were upon hers. Her lips, like her hands, were soft and warm. She kissed me gently, and then spoke.
“I would like something to remember you by when I return to Europe,” she said, and the chain around my neck snapped and it and the diamond kaleidoscope key that Yelena had given to me fell from my neck into her waiting palm. I didn’t want to lose it, but didn’t know how to resist her will. And, still distracted by her former words regarding my ill-fated loveless future, I whispered to myself, “Why did she make me?”
“You know why,” Mirela returned.
“No. I don’t,” I said, but maybe I did.
“She needed you to assuage her guilt.”
“No. She loves me.”
“She loves your talent and makes herself believe she cares for you, but she’s only preserving the flow of gifts you present to her. Your scribbles. She has been lying to you, just as you have been lying to her.”
I looked at her. I didn’t think she knew about my big lie.
“I know you’ve been giving her innocents. I would have done the same thing in your little shoes. You and I know it makes no difference, but it is still something you should never tell her. It would hurt her intensely and confuse her existence even more than it already is.”
So she knew about my lie. I wondered what else she knew, so I asked, “Do you know where Marcel is?”
*
Mirela didn’t stay at our house with us. I don’t know where she stayed. I don’t know if she knew about the chamber Yelena and I slept in, but I suspected she must. She seemed to know everything. The night after Mirela and I spent above the earth, I stayed in my casket. My eyes were open, I could feel that it was evening, but I didn’t come out. I didn’t want to, even though my hunger was great. I lay there thinking about the things Mirela told me. Yelena didn’t really love me. But that couldn’t be true. Of course she loved me. But maybe it wasn’t for the real me, but instead for my scribbles and she just thought they were one in the same. What was I thinking? This was not true. These were things I didn’t feel until Mirela said them. But then there was Marcel. Why hadn’t Yelena told me? She must know the truth. Did she love him so much that she just couldn’t admit it to herself? Would she live in eternal denial? How could there ever be enough room for me? How could I ever really matter in a significant and earnest way? Was I nothing more than my scribbles? Marcel first noticed Yelena on stage in a crowd of ballerinas for her beauty. Hisato was saved from the fallout of the Second World War because of his beauty. His goddesses all caught his eye, first for their beauty. Love may have followed, but beauty led the way. I didn’t have that kind of beauty. I only had my scribbles. But that was what made me noteworthy enough to notice. It didn’t mean she didn’t love me after. But if she did love me, why would she give me this eternal life, lived in the dark, knowing I would never know love that would be reciprocated? Forever, I would offer my heart out into a void. Mirela said my existence would be filled with sorrow and that I would die from grief. Yelena must have known that. Yelena made me to save me from my leukemia, but it wasn’t for love. It was for my scribbles.
The Scribbled Victims Page 23