Hearts & Other Body Parts

by Ira Bloom

  Helena’s blood tasted anemic and herbaceous. The Master would no longer touch her at all. He said she was like a Cru Bourgeois in a bad vintage, twenty years past her prime. Zack removed his pearl-handled folding straight razor, a gift from the Ancient, from his back pocket. In one stroke, he cut Helena’s throat across and very deep, so that she could die with the pleasure still in her smile. She had remarkably little blood. She’d been dry for weeks.

  Zack rose and inspected himself for blood. It wouldn’t do to travel covered in the evidence of his crimes. He wiped his blade on the bedding, and arranged Helena in a position for eternal repose, before returning his attention to the other two brides. Neither Natasha nor Nadia seemed alarmed in the slightest to have witnessed him murdering Helena so casually.

  “She was ill, me beauties,” Zack explained, moving toward Natasha.

  Natasha, the mail-order bride with the pale Moldovan complexion and the dark, silky hair. The Ancient had ordered her from an online catalog, though he’d made the observation that Moldovan mail-order brides were rarely as beautiful as their pictures. They had Photoshop in Moldova—they were not entirely primitive. He’d been pleasantly surprised by Natasha, though he judged her closer to thirty-five than her advertised age of twenty-seven.

  “The boss said Helena wouldn’t survive, it was a mercy to her,” Zack explained, kneeling beside Natasha’s chair to bring his face to a level with hers. “I’m gutted over it.” He gazed into her black, shining eyes. Natasha set her knitting aside in anticipation.

  “The Master is taking the others and leaving,” Zack told her. “He told me to pick just two, me own two true loves, and so I chose you and Nadia. We’re getting out of here, and we’ll all be together, and I’ll love you both forever. Are you as chuffed as I am?”

  “I’m very happy,” Natasha replied in her thick accent, moistening her lips. “I share you only with one, not with eight others.”

  He caressed her face. She leaned into the cup of his hand. “So it’s just us three then, innit? Unless, uh … do you think we have time for a little snog first?”

  “I always make time for kiss from you,” Natasha purred. Her skin was flushed and moist and hot where he stroked her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. His fingernails grazed the tender spot beneath her ear, and she tilted her head, her eyes glazed with intoxication.

  Natasha’s blood always tasted a little metallic to Zack. The Ancient said it reminded him of Chilean Malbec. For wine, the Master preached, choose age and terroir and structure; for blood, choose youth and purity and health. Zack was in an awkward position to slit Natasha’s throat, but he managed with minimal mess.

  Nadia watched the scene from her position on the bed. If she was the least bit shocked to see Natasha so summarily butchered, she didn’t show it. She never stopped painting her toenails. Helena and Natasha had been Nadia’s friends, and her sisters in matrimony, but still, they were her rivals. She knew she was Zack’s favorite. He’d always told her so.

  “It was you, always you, only you,” Zack promised as he approached her bed.

  Nadia returned the brush to the vial of nail polish and screwed the cap shut. She set the vial on the nightstand and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her nightgown.

  Zack lay down beside Nadia. She squirmed into his arms. Despite the fever she was still densely muscled. She’d been a gymnast until she’d failed to qualify for the Belarus Olympic team. Though in her early twenties, she had the body of a muscular, undeveloped child, from her severe training. She was strong—she would survive the change—and showing the first signs of the transition: the redness to the eyes and the calm, stony facial expression.

  Zack kissed Nadia on the lips, but she turned her face away from him and offered her throat, rubbing it against his mouth to snag it on a fang, like a cat brushing against a pant leg. They did so love the venom. It made Zack’s work too easy.

  “Not like this, love,” he whispered in her ear. “From behind. You have wet polish on your toenails, and these are new pants.”

  Nadia tucked herself around and wriggled backward into his arms. She twisted a very strong leg around his, hooking his calf with her foot, heedless of the polish on her toes. She pulled her hair back, exposing her nape. She rubbed her neck against his lips until the skin scraped on his fangs, so he bit her hard. She wanted it so much.

  Nadia’s blood was always hot and lush. She was the Master’s favorite: He said she tasted like a big, juicy Australian Shiraz. Zack drank deep, and soon, sated, held her in his arms for a few moments. “You and me, Nadia,” he promised. “Just as we always dreamed.”

  Nadia moaned in ecstasy, luxuriating in his embrace. But then a thought crossed her mind: “What of Madeleine?” she asked.

  “She can’t hold a candle to you,” he swore as he slipped the blade from his pocket. She died with that reassurance in her ear.

  Zack disentangled himself from Nadia’s limbs and arose from the bed. He surveyed the room. The three brides looked to have died in peaceful recline, except for all the gore. The smell of blood was pervasive, but Zack was well filled. He made his way toward the padlocked door to the rear of the room—the bridal suite—and Madeleine.

  From behind, the door to the hallway burst open, and there stood the Ancient, his eyes fiery with bloodlust. He held a gasoline can in one hand. The other dripped blood. Zack’s master did not kill with a blade, or with kindness. “You’re taking too long,” he reprimanded. “I need to take a quick shower and change. Maria was a bit feisty. Interpol is coming soon. I’ve blown the bridge; that should buy us a half hour, but we need to leave in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Zack promised. “I have to say good-bye to Madeleine.”

  “Do so, quickly,” the Master commanded. “Here is gasoline and matches. The brides in the other room are prepared for their pyre. Douse these four as well, and set everything ablaze before you ascend.”

  “As you command, Father,” Zack replied, sorting one last key in his hand.

  There was a king-sized bed in the bridal suite, with luxurious bedding. Madeleine had a vanity, and makeup to replace the fading bloom of her cheeks and lips. She was too close to turning to be trusted in the same room with the other girls, so she was separated. When Zack entered, she was at her vanity, brushing her hair. There was an alertness to the vivid red eyes that the other brides had not possessed.

  Madeleine was the only bride Zack had acquired for the collection. He’d stolen her from some kind of family trip, in Paris. It was her accent that had attracted him. She was not beautiful; pretty at best. She’d been wearing horn-rimmed glasses when he’d met her, though she didn’t need them anymore. Everything about Madeleine reminded Zack of home. Zack’s memories—not his ability to remember, but the ghostly draw of those things that he still cherished recalling—were fading steadily, with his humanity.

  Madeleine was a big girl, just Zack’s height. She was English, from Middleton. Zack was from Cheetham Hill, practically next door, near Manchester but not close enough to be a fan of City. They often talked of places they’d both visited, of sights they’d both seen. Maddy was intelligent, and the change hadn’t diminished her sense of humor. She liked Manchester United. That was her team, and no other. And this was a quality that couldn’t be replaced.

  “Have you killed the others?” she asked softly. She rose and stood before him in her nightgown. All the brides wore nightgowns. Maddy’s eyes were very red, the sockets rimmed in shadow. Her fangs were protracted, and her skin radiated the heat of the final fever. She would survive the transition.

  “I did,” he confessed. “We have to leave. The Master made me. It was for their own good.”

  “I smell Nadia’s blood,” she remarked. “I think I’d fancy her, over the others. Are you going to kill me, too? I may have a different opinion about what’s for my own good.”

  “The Ancient commanded me to,” he confessed. “I gotta leave with him. He’ll know if I defy him. Blood
y awful, innit?”

  “Go ahead and kill me,” she declared. “I’d rather die, if I can’t be with you.” She unbuttoned the top buttons of her gown. She had tears in her blazing eyes. They sizzled and evaporated as steam against her hot cheeks.

  Instead, Zack crossed the room to the dresser. He shoved it away from the wall, revealing a low, padlocked door. He removed his keychain again, sorting for the right one. “Through here there’s a crawl space that leads to a root cellar,” he told her urgently, tossing the lock on the bed. “It was our emergency escape route. I have to set the funeral pyre. Stay in the crawl space for as long as you dare. Don’t track us. We’re going north. You need to go west.”

  “But what of the Master?” she pled. “He’ll know if you lie. He always knows.”

  “A bit dicey, but I’ll chance it,” Zack insisted. He kissed her, but on the lips. He did not drink of her, though he wanted to, one last time.

  The Ancient and Zack stood and watched the mansion blaze from the vantage of the woods to the north. There were no sirens, but the Master knew they were near. He paid well for his intelligence, but it was a trifling to one who’d accumulated a fortune over the centuries. It’s easy for the ruthless to amass wealth, in certain trades.

  “We must go,” said the Ancient, turning. “Carry my bag.”

  Zack picked up his master’s steamer trunk by an end handle and hefted it onto his back with one hand, then picked up his valise with the other. They made a rapid pace, but Zack was very strong and nearly tireless.

  They walked on through the darkness, through the countryside. The Master had told Zack there could never be any survivors, and yet he’d again allowed himself to hope. He could never again allow himself to think of brides as people. He could never again allow himself to get attached.

  “Europe is a little precarious these days,” the Ancient lectured. “A number of my colleagues are feeling the heat from the authorities. It would be prudent to go somewhere else for a few decades, until things settle down here.”

  “Where shall we go, Father?” asked the youth.

  “America. Land of the free-range, milk-fattened, organic maiden. I’ve always wanted to go. A middle-sized town in the middle of nowhere, where we can operate without the interference of meddlesome authorities.”

  They walked briskly until nearly dawn, when they reached the outskirts of a rustic, hilly village. They’d be out of the country within a few hours, and then on to their new life, with their new identities. They stopped in the village square, near the train station, and sat on a bench in the little park to wait for the day to begin. When the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon, Zack and the Ancient put on their dark sunglasses.

  “How was Madeleine?” the Master asked casually. He rarely engaged in idle chitchat.

  “I did not drink of her, Father. I sated myself on Nadia. She was so delicious.”

  “That she was,” the Ancient agreed. “But you killed Madeleine, didn’t you?”

  “She is dead,” Zack replied.

  The Master raised his dark glasses up for a moment and focused on his protégé. Zack did not give himself away. It was a mere detail of ambiguity, but enough of one that the Master did not suspect the lie to it. Zack could not directly lie to him, but Madeleine was dead, technically. As was the Ancient. As was Zack.

  A relatively uneventful week passed, and it seemed like people at Middleton High were getting used to Norman. Esme and Norm were in three classes together, all Advanced Placement, so she saw a lot of him. She soon realized that if she wanted to stay the top student in every class, as had been her compulsion since grade school, she was going to have to work harder, because she finally had some serious competition. Especially in biology. Norm was miles ahead of the rest of the class in biology.

  On Friday, Esme sat at lunch with Norman again. She’d been up late the previous evening memorizing the bones and muscles of the hand, and wanted to work them into the conversation somehow, to let Norm know she was not going to lie down and accept second best, in any subject. Particularly biology.

  “Your hands are so huge,” she mentioned eventually, when the topic of conversation had not casually turned to bones of the hand. “I’ll bet you have sesamoid bones as large as some people’s phalanges.”

  Norman raised an eyebrow. “You know, sesamoid bones are just ossified nodes. So I’d think, no matter how large my hands were, the sesamoids wouldn’t be as large as even the distal phalanges of a pinkie finger.”

  “Well, I’ll bet your distal phalanges are bigger than my metacarpals, anyway.”

  Norman examined his hand. “I believe you may be correct, Esme.” His mouth twisted into a smile. “Have you been reading ahead in the textbook? Because I don’t think we’ve covered that material yet.”

  Esme was demure. “I like to stay ahead of the game. You seem to know a lot about anatomy.”

  “Call it a morbid obsession, from someone who’s been under the scalpel six dozen times.”

  “You’re ahead of me now,” Esme admitted, opening a sandwich bag full of vegetable sticks. “But give me a few months.” She chomped down on a carrot stick defiantly.

  Norman grinned back at her. “I’ll watch my back.”

  Is he mocking me? she wondered. There was something smug going on with the eyes, hidden in the shadows under the heavy brow ridge. Norman always seemed grateful for her company when she sat with him at lunch, but there was an underlying thing, an overconfident intelligence humbled by the indignity of his appearance. Norm was the gentlest person she’d ever met, but Esme also sensed a trace of superiority and condescension, which irritated the crap out of her. She frowned and munched vegetable sticks, looking down so he could not see her agitation, feigning fascination with the open calculus textbook on the table in front of her. Why do I always do this to myself? Why can’t I just admit that somebody else could be smart?

  A lunch tray clattered noisily to the table directly opposite Esme. A boy was sliding onto the bench across from her, beside Norman.

  “Hey,” he said. Esme knew him, from junior high. Wilson Armond. On the large side, and muscular, with close-cropped brown hair and acne. Wilson wore jeans and a T-shirt with a checked flannel shirt over top, unbuttoned like a cardigan, just like half the other boys at Middleton High.

  “Hey,” Norm replied.

  “Yeah,” Wilson said. “I’m Wilson.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Norm said. “I’m Norman Stein. Do you know Esme?”

  “Yeah,” he returned.

  “Hey,” said Esme.

  “Yeah,” Wilson reiterated. “Hey, I heard Coach asked you to play football next year.”

  “He said I should try out,” Norman said. “Are you on the team?”

  “Barely,” Wilson said. “But I got field time in the Jefferson game last year.”

  “I heard you guys got creamed,” Esme mentioned.

  “Totally. Most of the starters are graduating in the spring. I’m trying to make varsity next year, so I’m bulking up.” Wilson curled an arm into a muscleman pose and slapped his biceps. “I saw Danny shove you, you didn’t budge an inch. You gotta be pretty strong, huh?”

  “I am pretty strong,” Norman admitted.

  Esme watched Wilson reach way up and pat Norm’s shoulder. The gesture was casual, but Esme had observed this uniquely male behavior before. Always sizing each other up. She supposed if they’d been dogs, they’d have just sniffed each other’s butts and been done with it.

  “Damn, Norm, you’re solid as a rock,” Wilson appraised. “Listen, some of us work out in the weight room after school. Why don’t you come hang out today and show us what you’ve got?”

  “I don’t know … ” Norman hedged. He looked to Esme for an opinion. She just shrugged.

  “Dude,” Wilson said, raising his arms in open-handed supplication. “I’m asking you. Don’t leave me hangin’. If you wanna fit in around here, you should be more open to … you know, doing activities and stuff.�
�

  “When you put it like that, how can I say no?”

  “Cool.” Wilson stood and picked up his lunch tray. “I’ll see you in front of McKinley Hall at three fifteen,” he said over his shoulder.

  Norman turned to Esme for a second opinion. “You know that guy?” he asked.

  “I knew him in junior high.”

  “Is he okay?” Norm asked. “Is he someone who starts a lot of trouble?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. I haven’t heard anything about him, good or bad. Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Norm paused. “Smells a little off.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go,” she said. “It did seem a little staged.”

  “No, I’d better do it anyway. Best to let them satisfy their curiosity.”

  Esme waited in front of McKinley Hall after school for her posse. Veronica arrived first. “What happened to your leggings, Ronnie?” Esme asked, in a tone of disapproval.

  “I only wore those to get past Dad this morning,” Ronnie explained. “I hate when he tells me my skirt is too short.”

  “Your skirt is too short.”

  “See, when you say it, it doesn’t bother me.”

  “If you bend over, your underwear will be showing,” Esme critiqued.

  “So? It’s cute underwear.”

  Katy arrived, one arm in her cardigan, backpack slung over the shoulder, the other side of the sweater hanging. “You know Mrs. Finkle, the English teacher? She’s got the most adorable litter of miniature pinschers you’ve ever seen. You guys have to help me figure out how to get one.”

  “No way, Katy, you already have five dogs,” Esme said.

  “Not one I can carry around with me!”

  “Dad said you can’t bring anything else into the house that poops,” Esme reminded her.

  “You better back off, Esme, she’s got that look,” Veronica warned.

  Katy was flat-out slobbering crazy for dogs, and dogs for Katy. Dogs can always tell when a person loves them unconditionally with her heart on her sleeve. “We’ll talk about this later,” Esme said, motioning with her chin. Norman had just appeared in front of McKinley Hall.