by Leanna Ellis
“Yeah?”
“I saw her.”
Roc slammed the door closed. He walked back toward Eli, not breaking eye contact. “You saw Rachel?”
The boy swallowed hard and gave a quick nod. He had shed his coat, and his suspenders pinched the fabric of his white shirt over the sharp slant of his shoulders.
“Where?”
His gaze darted toward the house and field.
“I won’t say anything to anyone,” Roc assured him. “But if you have important information that could help me locate Rachel, then I need to know.”
Eli licked his dry lips. “In the barn here. I saw her here. She was talking to a stranger.”
Roc took a slow breath. Were Levi and Hannah right then? “A stranger? Who? What did he look like?”
“Can’t rightly say. I was up above.”
“In the loft?”
“I heard him…this stranger…an Englisher, I reckon, asking Rachel to go with him.”
“Go where?”
Eli shrugged.
“What did he say?”
The boy stood completely still, his face passive.
“Look,” Roc pressed, “time is ticking here. Every minute could put Rachel in more jeopardy.”
Rubbing his jaw, Eli thought carefully before he spoke. “The stranger said something about how she could help Josef.”
“As in her husband? How could she help him?” Roc pushed back the hair off his forehead. “How do you help a dead man?”
“I don’t know. That’s just what the man said.” Eli glanced toward the house. “I don’t know no more.”
“Did Rachel seem to know this stranger?”
Eli shrugged. “I thought he was a boyfriend or something. Weren’t my business. But she went with him, of that I’m sure. You gonna write all this down in that notebook?”
“I’ll remember it. Did he say his name?”
Scratching his head and tilting his hat precariously, Eli kept his gaze slanted away from Roc. “She acted like she knowed him at first, then didn’t. K…Keev…Kevin maybe? Nah, that weren’t it. I don’t recall.”
But it was close enough to chill Roc’s blood. He now knew for sure what he was up against. He clapped the boy on his shoulder. “You did right by telling me.”
“You think you can find Rachel? Bring her home?”
“I sure hope so,” Roc said. Because the alternative wasn’t good.
Chapter Ten
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow…
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travelers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh—but smile no more.
Akiva imagined Edgar Allan Poe wrote this poem with the apartment building where Akiva had lived in New Orleans in mind. Hoping at one time to bring Hannah back here temporarily, as he’d imagined them finding a place more suited for their future lives, he was now without Hannah, without hope, and without any place else to go.
“Akiva!” a throaty voice called to him. The deep tone defied the woman’s voluptuous form spilling over the boundaries of her extra-large clothes. “What you be doing here now?”
His footstep didn’t falter as he approached the building. Wrought-iron gates painted black surrounded its courtyard, and on the top step sat the old woman he’d known for almost two years. Her name was Orphelia, which wasn’t her original name, just the one she had adopted since her changing.
He squeezed Rachel’s hand and whispered, “Stick close to me.”
She kept pace with him but didn’t answer. He’d bought her English clothes in Tennessee: maternity pants and top. Amish attire stood out and became memorable. This way, she looked ordinary, uninteresting, and could easily be overlooked—except, in this place. She was alive, which made her intriguing to those who lived here.
The sun glowed an orangey-red along the horizon and made the elderly buildings appear gilded, like blood pouring out from a wounded heart, spilling down along the straight sides and over awnings.
“Where you been all this time?” Orphelia spoke in a tone that would have been suitable if they’d been three streets away, but Akiva whisked Rachel past the older woman without acknowledgement, reaching the heavy door at the top of the steps.
The reddish hues of sunlight glinted on the brass handle, making it burn as if it opened the gates of hell. He braced himself for demons to pour outward at his appearance, but the darkened entryway looked deserted.
Akiva grabbed Rachel’s arm and jerked her against him. “Stick close. You hear me? We’re going straight to the top of the stairs. Don’t stop for anything.”
“Ja, okay.” Her footsteps sounded heavy on the stoop, and she stumbled over the threshold. He righted her and ushered her inside.
Orphelia snagged his other arm. She had some strength in those old hands and some swift moves. She’d risen up from the step and now stood next to him, holding him fast at the threshold as Rachel slipped through his fingers and went obediently up the stairs. Akiva met Orphelia’s black eyes. She had a wide, dark face and thick, wiry hair, salt-and-pepper in color, which stuck out in all directions. Exotic scarves covered her round, lumpy body in a jambalaya of colors and textures that didn’t seem to go together and yet complemented her perfectly.
“Where you been, Akiva?” she asked him again.
“Up north.”
“Long time you gone.” Her Creole accent rolled across her tongue in a smooth, thick sound like molasses pouring over pancakes. Orphelia’s big black eyes shifted toward Rachel. “You bring a souvenir back with you?”
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. But where could he take Rachel?
Orphelia’s smile flashed, a gold eyetooth winking. “You gonna share with us?”
But as he always did with the bloods, he ignored her comments, shrugged out of her grasp, and walked right past Orphelia to the wooden staircase. He couldn’t see any of the other dwellers, but he sensed them, heard their whispers. This was a very bad idea.
Rachel was already reaching the second landing when a door opened in front of her. A deathly chill settled on Akiva.
Stephanos stepped into the hallway and leaned against the doorjamb. He had a sinewy body and looked much younger than he was. He had been the first blood Akiva had met living in the building. His shoulder-length hair had an unkempt look in its loose brown waves, with two blond streaks framing his face. He wore outlandish clothes—a velveteen jacket, silk shirt, faded skinny jeans, along with scarves and necklaces, bracelets and rings—all of which Akiva figured were a compilation of things the vampire had picked up throughout the two hundred years he’d lived in New Orleans.
Stephanos had once told Akiva, “I was a sailor on the Mohongo, come ashore to enjoy a doxie or two, when I met the wrong one.” The wide Mick Jagger mouth grinned. “Or maybe I should say the right one, eh?”
Akiva had laughed with him but wondered if he could believe what he said. “Where’d you come from?”
“Galway, Ireland. The famine hit us hard, and I got work with the McCorkells. Never looked back.”
“You don’t sound Irish.”
Stephanos had elbowed Akiva in the ribs. “Been here longer now. Right around…” He paused then shrugged. “Never was much good with my arithmetic. Came over to stay for good in fifty-three. That’s eighteen fifty-three. So it’s been a while.”
“Ever think of goin’ back?”
Those black eyes stared at him. “Why would I do that?”
With Stephanos’s eccentric looks, Akiva originally thought this was a building for dead rock stars and had looked around to see if Elvis, Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, or Jerry Garcia had apartments here. But these dwellers of the night brought a whole new meaning to the Grateful Dead. It had proven to be a good place to live after Akiva had been changed. Nobody bothered nobody. Nobody cared if they heard strange sounds coming from apartments in the middle of the night or even screams.
Stephanos was one of the most dangerous. Akiva had seen him bring young girls and women into the building. They’d disappeared into Stephanos’s apartment, clinging to his hand, curving their bodies around his as they sought a good time. But Stephanos was merciless. Akiva had heard the unending screams.
Now Stephanos’s black gaze traveled over Rachel, noting each swell and curve with keen interest. “Well, hello. And who are you?”
Rachel kept her hand on the railing and glanced back toward Akiva as if he would save her. He might have to try. He leapt up the last few stairs in one bound and put an arm around her shoulders. With a brief nod, he said, “Stephanos.”
“Akiva.” The vampire smiled, but his gaze remained on Rachel. “This your rent?”
“I sent payment while I was away.”
“You were gone a long while.” Stephanos shrugged a shoulder then ran a ringed finger along Rachel’s bare arm. “This could be payment for my watching after your stuff.”
Akiva stepped between Stephanos and Rachel, blocking her with his body. “What do you mean?”
“You weren’t here. Others wanted such a choice apartment.”
“So? I paid—”
“So, others were interested. Others needed a place. Some wanted to know more about you, where you came from, what interested you.”
A growl emanated from Akiva’s throat.
Stephanos’s smile widened, then he chuckled. “Don’t worry.” He placed a congenial hand on Akiva’s shoulder. Still he continued to watch Rachel with great interest. “I watched out for you. And you—”
“Look what Akiva brought home with him!” Orphelia’s voice trailed up the stairs after them. “Do you see? Can you smell her?” She drew a great breath, expanding her broad chest like an opera singer.
Stephanos breathed deeply, luxuriating in the delicious scent emanating from Rachel. “I do indeed.”
“She expecting,” Orphelia said, coming up the stairs. “He cannot—”
“Enough!” Stephanos shoved a hand out toward Orphelia, and she immediately stilled. “Akiva knows what he is doing, right?”
Akiva gave Rachel a nudge to the next set of stairs, and she stumbled again but righted herself this time. Akiva moved behind her, his hand still on her arm, but his gaze remained on Stephanos, who gave a slight wave of his fingers. “See you later.” He leaned to one side in order to gain one more look at Rachel. “You too, beautiful.”
When he reached the top floor, Akiva opened the door to his apartment without a key. What would a lock accomplish here? It wasn’t necessary or helpful. He couldn’t keep the bloods out, and no halfway intelligent criminal would dare cross the threshold below. At least not and live to tell about it.
But one quick glance told him others had been in here. His keyboard’s cover was on the floor, the keys and controls exposed to dust, and the power turned on. His state-of-the-art stereo hummed, and CDs, which consisted of an eclectic pairing of greats from Bach to Beethoven and Meatloaf to Ozzy Osbourne, were scattered on the floor.
Something fluttered above him, but he ignored the fact they weren’t alone. Here, they would never be alone. He should not have brought her here. Rachel leaned in the direction of the lumpy sofa he’d inherited, but he pushed her through the apartment. He couldn’t leave her alone for a moment, because another blood might swoop down and end his plan. “Come on. We’re not staying.”
“We’re not?” she asked, looking dazed and confused.
He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
She tripped on a cord stretching from the wall socket to his stereo. “Dangerous?”
“Come on.” He pulled her past the never-used kitchen toward the bedroom, which was where he kept pieces of his old life: his books about the authors he loved and their writing in novel and poetic forms, the Amish clothes he’d been wearing when Camille had changed him, and pictures he’d taken with a camera utilizing a telephoto lens. He’d returned to Promise after he’d been changed, simply to take photographs of Hannah: while she hung out the laundry on the line, rode in the buggy, carried eggs, and chased her little sister in the yard. He’d framed them around his bedroom, and he would lie on the bed, not needing sleep but aching for her and staring at those photos. This was where he had birthed the notion he would change her. The hope she would live with him throughout eternity. But it would not happen now. And he would not live without her.
He slammed shut the door to the bedroom, closing off the rest of the apartment, and stalked across the room toward the dusty bookshelves. The books were there, although he could tell many had been moved or riffled through. Some reposed on their sides. Some lay open, their spines cracked, their pages ruffling in the breeze of the air conditioner.
Akiva swerved toward the narrow closet and slid open the mirrored door. His black broadcloth coat, white shirt with dried bloodstains, suspenders, and straw hat were still inside. A fine layer of dust speckled the shoulders of the coat. Even his old, worn work boots remained on the floor.
Turning back toward Rachel, who now sat on the edge of the bed, he noticed something…something missing. The photographs of Hannah were gone, the frames blank vistas of cardboard backing.
He circled the room, staring at the tilted frames, stepping on broken glass under his feet. A growl rumbled in his throat and erupted as he knocked over a lamp.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.
“Everything!” He whirled toward her, and she cringed. But he stalked toward her. How could he explain? How could she understand what had been taken? Stolen! He kicked a foot at the bed and swore. Rachel only blinked at him. “Get up. We have to get out of here before—”
“Before what?” a high-pitched feminine voice asked.
Both Akiva and Rachel turned. A waif of a girl stood in the partially opened doorway. She had a pixie haircut like Peter Pan and skinny arms and legs sticking out of blue-jean shorts, and a pale pink shirt. She looked to be about ten or twelve.
“Who the hell are you?” Akiva asked.
“Jacob!” Rachel reached out to the child as if to protect her, when it was Rachel who needed protection from the black-eyed, pint-sized vampire.
“Did you do this?” Akiva ripped an empty frame off the wall and hurled it straight at the girl, who shifted sideways a couple of inches and avoided the launched missile, which smashed into the wall. The broken frame and glass crashed to the floor. “Did you steal my pictures?”
The young girl tipped her chin downward and shook her head. Innocence exuded from her, but those black eyes told Akiva she was anything but.
He narrowed his gaze on her, unsure if he should believe her or not. If she’d tampered with his stuff and stolen the pictures of Hannah, he’d rip her head right off her swanlike neck. “You
tell whoever did, they have twenty-four hours to bring my stuff back.”
Then he grabbed Rachel’s hand, flung open the bedroom door, and whisked her out of the apartment and the building, well aware that several pairs of black eyes trailed them.
Chapter Eleven
The good news: Roc knew what they were up against. The bad news: it was Akiva.
Chasing vampires wasn’t like chasing a criminal. They didn’t leave fingerprints or credit-card trails. They left only blood.
Roc had squeezed as much information as he could from his old cop friend, Mike. Which amounted to nothing much. The Philadelphia cops knew nothing about this latest disappearance of an Amish woman, and they cared less. Roc had driven all over Lancaster County, from Promise to Intercourse, asking folks if they’d seen Rachel Nussbaum. He couldn’t get any useful information though.
No one had seen her for days or weeks. It was as if she’d simply disappeared. No one had seen a man with dark hair and darker eyes, either. The Lancaster sheriff’s office acted a bit more interested, in light of the Yoder girl’s death, but they were like a fly swatter batting at Goliath. Roc had been to the train station, bus depot, and airport, and he’d come up empty.
What a fool he was for agreeing to chase after a hungry vampire and his next victim—an innocent, pregnant widow. Did it get more pathetic? Heck, he should go straight to CNN where this would be a great story. Or maybe The National Enquirer would be interested. Yes, definitely, add a vampire or alien and any sleazy rag would print the story on its first page with a big headliner: “Vampire Kidnaps Amish Widow.” Papers would definitely sell. Maybe they’d theorize it was a vampire from outer space. And then Roc would be locked up in the loony bin.
He could hear the boys back in NOPD. “Knew Roc was losin’ it.”
“The alcohol pickled his brain.”
“Nah, losing his wife put him over the edge.”
His last-ditch effort was Mike again. Even though out of uniform at the moment, he still had cop eyes, which narrowed suspiciously on Roc. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m telling you, this woman is missing—”