Corrupting Alicia

by Tsoukalas, Evan

  More thankful than if her search had produced solid gold bars, she pulled it from the hook, threw it over her left shoulder, and turned to a tall, mahogany dresser. The drawer handles were great brass knobs, and as she pulled the top drawer open there was but a whisper of wood against wood.

  Standing on her tiptoes, Alicia glanced over the rim of the drawer to find it empty. A curious discovery until she remembered that Jason was a great deal shorter than her five feet eleven inches. Considering her difficulty with looking into the drawer, she correctly assumed that Jason would not bother putting anything into it.

  Her confidence surged at her ability to reason out this small detail, anchoring her more firmly to the present and insulating her a little more from the previous night’s horror. Little things. Baby steps. Whatever the analogy, she was delighted by anything that helped her assert more control over herself and her thoughts.

  Closing the heavy drawer with a soft thump, she pulled out the second drawer and breathed a small sigh of thanksgiving. On the right-hand side lay the treasure she sought, several pairs of folded white socks. Grabbing the closest pair, she shut the drawer and returned to the bathroom, where she hung the robe on a brass hook next to the shower and placed the socks on the pine bench below it.

  She removed her clothes warily, constantly casting glances at the closed door as if she expected it to burst open any moment. When she pulled her shirt over her head, she noticed a dull ache in her shoulders for the first time, and as the shirt fell to the floor with a murmur of fabric, she swiveled her head to look at her left shoulder. A sharp breath punched its way from between clenched teeth as she saw the bruise, an angry, purplish-red splotch that extended from the very top of her shoulder to a few inches above her elbow.

  Turning her head, she looked at her other shoulder, which also bore a similar bruise. Frowning, she turned around to look at herself in the mirror that took up the entire wall behind the basins. Her hair was rumpled, her eyes puffy with sleep. Self-consciously she touched her cheek, leaning closer to look at the bruises. The marble was cold against her belly, but entranced by the bruises, she did not really notice. Their examination brought back bits and pieces of last night in thunderous explosions, forcefully bridging the meager separation she had managed to establish between it and this morning.

  She was there again, high above the street below. She could feel his savage grip on her shoulders, could feel the wind buffeting her like strips of icy steel, stealing her breath. It was so vivid, so real that she began to tremble.

  Before it could get any worse, she shook her head violently, eyes and teeth clenched tightly in an attempt to dislodge the past. Last night was over, but it had driven the point home. He had held death at bay, but he could deliver her to it at any time. She finally understood the precariousness of her situation. He did not have all the answers; this was all new for him, too, and they were both making it up as they went along.

  Last night’s events made it painfully obvious that he was as capable of being unsure of himself and his choices as she was, something she had never considered. Up to that point, she had been operating under the delusion that his picture could be found in the dictionary right next to the word “certainty.” She realized now that she would have to be a great deal more controlled in the future; she never, never, wanted to provoke him like that again, and she was fairly certain she could not afford to, either. An unshakable conviction twisted in her stomach, telling her that if there was a next time, he would find the strength to follow through.

  Not wanting to dwell on that, Alicia turned away from the mirror, absently rubbing the bruises on her shoulders. She was now convinced that she could not handle the prolonged vulnerability of a bath, so she stepped into the walk-in and cranked the hot water knob all the way until it stopped. Forceful jets of water splattered against the far wall, steam quickly filling the enclosure, and Alicia measured in the cold until it was the perfect temperature.

  The water stung her shoulders slightly as she bent her head under the spray, and her shower degenerated into a manic display of paranoia. Eyes darting toward the entrance to the shower, nerves raw and exposed as she quickly lathered up both body and hair, she occasionally ventured out from under the spray, braving the colder air to check the door to the bedroom. All in all it was the fastest shower she had ever taken, and she felt alarmingly unsafe as she toweled herself off with an instinctive efficiency.

  The robe felt like a suit of armor as she tied the sash at her waist. Rough and warm and safe. Expelling a ragged breath, Alicia finally started to relax somewhat as she donned the ankle socks and walked into the bedroom, still toweling the water from her hair. She began a comprehensive hunt for a brush that she did not expect to find as Jason had no hair. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, she gave up and finger-combed her hair, the action helping to work off a bit of the anxious energy pulsing through her with every heartbeat.

  Feeling a sense of fortification, though where it came from, and why, she did not know, she was again aware of her hunger. More than hunger really, she was famished, as if last night’s terror, and this morning’s aftermath, sucked the very nourishment right out of her for their own subsistence. Herding those thoughts away like stray cattle, she ventured out of the bedroom for the first time.

  Light spilled into the long hallway from the room at the far end, bouncing off the immaculate hardwood floors and making her squint and shield her eyes. With the powerful light came an even more powerful revelation of security. Sunlight meant safety from Jason and all those like him. Temporary safety, for certain, but safety nonetheless.

  Not particularly wanting to dwell on this line of thought either, she padded slowly to the end of the hall and stepped down into the sunken living room. The external walls of the room were all window, one set facing the Puget Sound, one set facing west. By the position of the sun she could tell it was very late in the afternoon, and that revelation surprised her, though it should not have; she had gone to bed just before dawn.

  She looked around for a clock and saw none, and as she approached the Sound-side windows, pieces of last night banded together and smashed into her. She placed a fortifying hand against the cool glass and gasped, her heart knocking painfully against her chest, and she had to force herself to breathe, force herself to open her eyes and let last night fade into the past where it belonged. Where it needed to stay. She needed to talk with Jason, to see him, to touch him. She needed a goddamn clock to find out how far off that was.

  Uneasy with her impatience, she wandered into the kitchen, where immaculate seemed to be the order of the day. An expensive collection of professional pots hung from the ceiling, suspended above the large island. Pristine appliances graced the countertop, each seemingly in the perfect place for functionality, and a large set of knives rested in a wooden knife block. The dual sink gleamed, a perfectly folded dishrag dangling from the main faucet, and a microwave displayed the time in sickly green numbers. 4:11.

  Although everything was in order and correctly arranged, something did not quite ring true. Alicia found it ironic that someone who did not eat mortal food should be so well-equipped to prepare it, but that was not what was wrong. It was too perfect, like everything had been initially arranged according to a photograph and had not been touched since. This was an immortal’s kitchen, and because the occupant of this house had no use for it, it was filled only for appearances, bearing none of the telltale signs of a functioning room.

  She hoped, for her sake, he had some food just for show as well.

  Alicia’s bid to make herself something to eat was a comical venture, to say the least, and certainly the most difficult attempt to make a couple of fried eggs in her entire life. For some reason completely beyond her, she was afraid to make noise, wincing every time the skillet banged too loudly against the stove, and when one of the yolks broke as she flipped an egg, she gasped as if it was her brain leaking out over the bottom of the pan and frying instead of the remains of an un
born chicken. Instinctively, she knew that her noise would not disturb Jason, but somehow she felt that doing things quietly reduced the magnitude of her violation, of this intrusion into his private space. She could not dispel the feeling that this small effort was the first step toward somehow sparing herself a repeat of last night’s events.

  It was obvious that a vampire would guard the location of his daytime dwelling place with the utmost caution, especially from mortals. She felt keenly uncomfortable in his house, as if her very presence crossed yet another unseen line. Of course, she had leapt over a double-yellow line separated by jersey barriers and concertina wire last night, but that seemed far different because she had not seen it coming. This morning, she was looking so hard for lines that she might have drawn a few, and whether real or imagined, this one loomed in front of her like a cobweb she could not quite pull away from her face.

  She scrubbed the hell out of the items she cooked with and ate off, returning each thing to its rightful place with obsessive-compulsive precision. She wiped the counter down twice, first with the dish rag, and then with some paper towels, and then she washed and squeezed every last drop of water out of the dish rag before placing it back onto the faucet. All the while, the exhaust fan rumbled on its highest setting in an attempt to rid the last vestige of her impact here.

  Finished, she let out a breath that she was unaware she had been holding. She wanted to chastise herself for her foolishness, but she could not bring herself to do it. On the contrary, she was unable to stop thinking about the paper towels that cluttered up the pristine garbage bag. She stared at it for a long moment, chewing on her bottom lip as she sought to ascertain if it looked like it had been noticeably disturbed. Quickly, she decided that she did not care how it looked; it had to go.

  Using trembling hands to sweep her hair behind her ears, she began a hunt for garbage bags, finding a box of them beneath the sink. Thankfully, the box was already open. Expelling a relieved breath, she pulled a bag from the box. Shutting the cabinet, she pulled the used bag from the plastic bin, placing it on the floor and replacing it with the new one.

  When she was finished, she picked up the used bag again, feeling ridiculous as she looked down at its caved-in, nearly empty form. If she had not been one gigantic raw nerve, she would have laughed out loud. Instead, she could only manage a self-deprecating half grin as she headed for the front door, feeling a little better for having recognized her paranoia. She twisted the deadbolt, her grin almost spreading into a full-fledged smile as she pulled open the door.

  And almost swallowed her tongue as she opened it to find herself face-to-face with a man in his late thirties, cropped, bottle-blond hair desperately needing another application, and his hand, full of keys and poised at knob-height, extended as if to unlock the door. It was a tossup as to who was more startled, but an impartial third party would have awarded that distinction to Alicia.

  “Jesus!” Alicia gasped, the bag slipping from suddenly numb fingers and her free hand coming to her chest. Instinct ordered her to recoil, but her legs turned to complete mush, and if she had moved, she would surely have fallen on her backside. Heart thudding in her chest at a pace that even Malmsteen could not have played to, she tried valiantly to force a single breath into her lungs.

  The man’s face registered shock as well, but he managed to keep from making a sound, though his mouth did open and close a few times. He blinked twice and then shook his head briefly, as if that might make his jaw work properly. His right hand lowered to his side and his left came up, palm out. He cleared his throat, and Alicia flinched. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said finally, a guilty expression coming over him. “I didn’t mean to startle you like that. No one’s ever been here before,” he offered with a meek look of self-flagellation. “I was beginning to think that no one actually lived here,” he continued, shaking his head savagely before running his outstretched hand through his hair.

  When this stranger spoke, Alicia thought she was going to pass out. Her vision blurred, a milky red filtering in at the edges. All she could hear was the shockingly rapid percussion of her heart, which could possibly be the precursor to a coronary right there in the doorway. If she had not been so worked up, she might have noticed the logo on the man’s T-shirt (Simply Michael’s - We do it all), the cleaning cart a few feet behind him, and the large Ford diesel in the driveway, an equally massive trailer hitched to the rear with all manner of landscaping equipment on it.

  “Ohh, shit!” he exclaimed quickly, as if he had read her mind. “Where are my manners this morning?” He extended a battered hand bearing several bandages, a disarming smile coming to his face. “I’m Michael Cannelli. I maintain your house, you know, landscaping, cleaning, general maintenance and upkeep, but you probably already knew that,” he said quickly, as if that explanation made everything perfectly clear.

  Eyes wide as manhole covers, Alicia looked back and forth between his face and hand for a full minute before she found her voice, and Michael shifted uncomfortably, trying not to look her directly in the eye. She swallowed, trying to force her heart back into her chest. This whole encounter had probably scared ten years off her life, and after last night, she did not have any to spare. “Who?” she asked finally, her brain still not caught up. Lack of oxygen was probably as much to blame as anything else.

  “Michael Cannelli?” he replied as if he was not at all sure. “I own Simply Michael’s. I don’t normally do the jobs myself anymore, but I’m the only one your husband allows in the house.”

  “My what?” Alicia choked, as if confusion were caught in her throat like a piece of hard candy. The utter absurdity of this encounter made her want to giggle, but she needed every bit of meager breath she was able to draw.

  Michael’s reaction was immediate. Embarrassment tinged his tanned face with a hint of pink. He looked away nervously, a small stud in his left ear glinting in the bright sunlight filtering in over his shoulder. “Sorry, I just assumed that Mr. Carter was your husband.” He shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other, eyes glued to her face, waiting for her to clear the matter up before he put his foot deeper in his mouth.

  Mr. Carter? Alicia thought. The name sounded vaguely familiar, and Alicia racked her brains to figure out where she had heard it be- No, not heard. Seen! she thought triumphantly. The name on the room service receipt at the hotel. Taking entirely too much pleasure in this small victory, Alicia was finally able to center herself. She smiled, a blazing, genuine smile that felt wonderful to mean.

  “Ohh, no, no, though he’d probably get a kick out of that. Michael’s my brother,” Alicia responded with a sigh of relief that a glimpse of her old self had returned.

  Michael seemed to recover a bit as well, a halting smile coming to reveal even, white teeth. Teeth that reminded her of Jason. And just like that, all her fledgling confidence disappeared again. It seemed so grossly wrong to be smiling at this man in Jason’s house! God, she really needed to talk with him, to touch him, to be touched by him.

  Michael sensed her shift, and quickly became all business. After a quick, cursory discussion, they both determined that it would be better if Michael skipped the routine today.

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  The Hunger interrupted an intensive mental flogging for my part in the Gisele Incident. It hovered just outside the edge of true pain, a constant reminder of the agony awaiting one false step, a single moment of unguardedness not unlike what I displayed earlier. To say that was a most unusual happening would be the understatement of the millennium. Most of the time, it’s nothing more than a nuisance to which I’ve grown eerily accustomed, and on occasion even a bizarre sort of comfort as it is one of the few constants in my revenant life.

  At this point, you may wonder why I continue to kill my mortal prey during feeding when I can easily sweep aside the pressure the BloodHunger exerts to do so. Well, the answer is, when it suits me, I resign myself to being the monster that I am. When it doesn’t suit me, I simply make it up as I go a
long, as I did with Alicia earlier this morning.

  Still feeling pretty crappy about myself in general, I wasn’t ready to face Alicia and another landslide of my own making. I had no desire to deal with my thoughts on the matter, never mind Alicia’s, so I took the cowardly way and decided to stall.

  I stepped out of the chamber, the cool, early-night air refreshing against my skin, and I savored the feel as I yanked the door closed by the inside. There is no handle on the outside portion of the door, so pulling it shut every evening is probably the single greatest exercise of my telekinetic powers. I pulled it until I just barely had room to slip my hand back out, and then closed my eyes and willed it shut with all my might. After several seconds it was in place, and I leaned back against the earthen wall of the tunnel, listening for sounds of Alicia.

  They were quiet, almost indiscernible from the other night sounds, but I caught them. A soft padding here, a faint heartbeat there. The sounds of the television. I knew it was her because I could feel her presence, could feel it flare the powerful ache within me. I thought I could catch just a faint trace of her smell, but I might have been imagining that.

  Satisfied that she was calm, and had indeed made herself at home, I shot up the tunnel like a wraith, floating into the darkness toward Seattle.

  I fed quickly, barely even discerning one mortal from another. I couldn’t be bothered to pull myself far enough out of my thoughts to be judicious in my selections. I wanted to be warm for as long as possible tonight, so I fed on four mortals, draining them completely. It is a truly dizzying experience; feeling stuffed is just as unpleasant for an immortal as it is for a mortal.

  Lightheaded and brimming with mortal blood, I flew back to my house, as ready as I would ever be to face Alicia.

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