The Color of Light

by Helen Maryles Shankman

  “Are you feeling all right?” he asked her.

  “I hate my life, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, the words tumbling out of her. “I don’t have any friends here. I’m always behind with my schoolwork. I can’t seem to catch up. And I just found out I’m failing two classes.”

  He put the key in the wrought iron grill, turned the knob. Tried to summon up the proper things to say. “You do have a lot going on. Have you tried talking to your parents?”

  “My parents are divorced. I can’t reach my mom. She’s on a cruise with her boyfriend in the Galapagos Islands.”

  “What about Levon?”

  She looked gloomy. “He says I should work harder and stop going to clubs every night.”

  The grill was open. He inserted the key in the inner door, turned the tumblers in the old brass lock. “Sounds like good advice.”

  “Do you remember my boyfriend? You might have seen him at the Naked Masquerade.”

  Rafe tried to remember back to Halloween night. Allison, coming to tell him that Giselle was looking for him. Behind her, a first-year student, from Germany, maybe. Tessa, in a black crinoline skirt and a lacy black camisole.

  “Yes, I remember,” he said, rubbing at a place between his eyes.

  “He dumped me,” she said. Tears were brimming in her helpless brown eyes.

  “Look, Allison, it’s very late,” he said gently, patting her arm. “Everything seems worse at night. Why don’t you go home. You’ll see. It will all look better in the morning.”

  “I want to be like you, Mr. Sinclair,” she said. Suddenly, words were pouring out of her. “I saw what you did to that guy at the Met. I saw you change. I know what you are. Please. Make me like you.”

  “No,” he said, but it was late, he was tired, he had nothing left to give, he said it without conviction. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t want to be like me, Allison.”

  “I do,” she said fervently, drawing closer.

  Her desperation swirled patterns in the air around him. Her coat was open, exposing a length of white neck. She was wearing a velvet lace-up camisole she must have gotten at one of the stores that sold Goth clothing on St. Mark’s Place. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and wet and imploring. “I don’t want to feel these bad feelings anymore, ever again,” she said, her shapeless mouth contorting with sorrow, tears running down her face.

  The hour was late, he was sick at heart, and what he really wanted to do was get into bed, pull the covers over his head and sleep forever. He knew exactly how she felt. He was overcome by a strange pity; why not just give the girl what she wanted?

  Rafe put his hands around her small waist, leaned over. She stood on her tiptoes, stretching out her neck, long, longer. He pushed her hair aside, feeling for the artery, and then he put his mouth to her throat and bit down.

  He felt her nails dig into his arms, and she jerked, just a little. He bore down harder, and blood rose into his mouth. If he closed his eyes, she could be anyone.

  There was a bitter, herbal aftertaste. Suddenly, he was revolted. For God’s sake, one of my students. What the hell am I doing?

  He stepped back, releasing her. Startled, she looked at him for an explanation.

  “Go home, Allison,” he said, looking down into her eyes. “This is not the solution to your problems.”

  She protested, she wept, she swore it was all she ever wanted, but she came around to his way of thinking once he had her safely under his thrall. He put her in a taxi, waited at the curb until it rounded the corner on its way to some address in the East Village.

  There was a stiff breeze blowing across the park. Rafe shivered. Alone, he turned to mount the stone steps of his palatial mansion.

  He felt queasy, as if something he’d eaten disagreed with him. He frowned, put a hand to his stomach. In all his years as a vampire, this had never happened before. A wave of nausea followed, stronger this time. Then came the pain.

  A passerby might have noticed an elegant, well-dressed man in an overcoat and a fedora pause at the curb, a look of concern creasing his handsome face. Perhaps the passerby would have seen him lay a gloved hand across his abdomen and fold neatly in half, almost apologetic at the scene he was making.

  Something was terribly wrong; inside him, something vital was oozing, putrefying, slipping. Right away, he knew that he had very little time.

  Not going to die in the street this time.

  Already weakening, he gripped the balustrade and hauled himself up the stone steps. He just made it through the front door.

  Great, gushing fountains of blood erupted from his mouth, splattering the Venice plaster walls of the entryway. Blood spattered the cherubs flanking the fireplace, the graceful columns, the leather Morris chairs. He retched again and blood sprayed the quartersawn oak table, a vase of apple blossoms, the lamp with the mica shade made by a famous Arts and Crafts coppersmith. Blood jetted forth in a slippery river across the veined marble floor. A fine pattern of scarlet spots dotted the framed drawing of the mother and child.

  His vision fogged with pain, Rafe stumbled forward, scrabbling at the walls and furniture for support. His stomach heaved again and again, washing the foyer in fresh bursts of gore. In a brief moment of clarity, he wondered at the quantity; he didn’t think he’d drunk that much blood in his entire life.

  He made it as far as the sculptured angel, her arms open wide in welcome, before collapsing at her cold marble feet.

  12

  Tessa didn’t go to school the next day, or the day after that. She stayed in bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, fearful of leaving the apartment, fearful she would find him waiting for her.

  Ram called, wanting to know where she was. Anastasia was concerned, Leo was snappish and irritable without her. She told him she had class, she had to work on her thesis project, she had a bad cold, anything to get him off the phone. There was a silence at the other end of the line, and then Ram said cautiously, “Is this about Rafe?”

  She fell asleep shortly before dawn.

  By the time she awoke, it was nearly noon. Tessa peered through the blinds to find a day that was bright and cold. She stole a peek at the steps of St. Xavier, half-expecting to find Rafe sitting there holding vigil, but today they were just steps, polished by the shoe leather of decades of the church-going penitent, shining in the late-winter sun. She was beginning to feel a little better. Perhaps she would go in to her studio today.

  The doorbell rang. Frantic, she clutched at the blankets. Footsteps echoed through the hallway, followed by a knock at her door. She was embarrassed to find that her voice quavered when she asked who was there.

  “Tessa?”

  Portia’s voice, sounding concerned. Relieved, Tessa opened the latch and let them in. Behind her, Graham, Harker, Gracie, Clayton, Ben and David stomped in like elephants. They helped themselves to her cereal while she pulled on her jeans.

  “Where have you been, girlfriend? We haven’t seen you in days. We were starting to worry.”

  “She was worried,” said Clayton, tipping the last of Tessa’s box of Life cereal into a bowl. “Me and some of the boys here kinda figured that you and Mr. Sinclair were hooked up somewhere, riding each other like wild pink ponies.”

  “Clayton,” said Ben sternly, glaring at him. “We hate to bother you with this, Tessa,” he said mildly.

  A flutter of fear. “If it’s about Rafe, I can’t help you.”

  “Why?” said Portia, narrowing her eyes. She put her hands on her hips, looking suspicious. “I had a feeling. What happened?”

  “Let’s just say, it’s over.”

  The students glanced at each other. “Well,” said Harker. “We’re screwed, then.”

  Graham popped a handful of Captain Crunch into his mouth. “You remember what Levon said, Rafe’s our only hope. Well. No one can reach him. He isn’t answering his phone, he’s not calling into the office. This is the time to rant and rave and conspire. And no one’s seen or heard from him in th
ree days.”

  “We were kind of hoping we would find him here,” said Gracie sheepishly. “Now that he’s not on the board anymore, we thought, you know, maybe you two…”

  “What happened, Tess?” David finally spoke.

  Involuntarily, Tessa’s hand rose to her neck. She forced it back down, trapping her hands between her knees. “I caught him…I saw him…” Unwelcome visions of Rafe embracing Poppy in the alleyway, of Rafe lying on top of her with fangs bared, his eyes fierce and bloody, unrecognizable. Tears teetered at the edge of her lashes. She dashed them angrily away. “It doesn’t matter. You were right about some things, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”

  The students looked warily at each other. Ben spoke first. “We need your help, Tess.” he said, spreading his broad sculptor’s hands wide. “We need you to talk to him. If he doesn’t address the assembly tomorrow, the school as we know it will cease to exist, except as a footnote along the way to the death of art.”

  “Look,” said Graham. “I don’t know what happened between the two of you. And, for the record, I don’t give a damn. If he’s just sulking, we need you to work some magic on him. He’s got to be at that meeting.”

  “You don’t have to do it alone,” said Harker. “We’ll go with you.”

  Tessa, wanting very much to say no, looked to Portia for support. But her chin was up, she was pulling her hair back into a tight bun, fighting mode. This was beyond hurt feelings, beyond petty emotion. She was a Ballard, after all.

  “In every city in all the world,” said Portia, slowly but firmly, “there is someone like us, someone who doesn’t quite fit in. Someone who sees things a little differently than everyone around them. Someone who has the ability to do things that other people don’t understand.

  “This school is the only place on the planet where those people can come together; to become the next da Vinci, to become the next Michelangelo, to become the next Lucian Freud.

  “It’s not just about us, it’s not just about now,” she said. “It’s about the future of art.”

  Tessa was pale, as silent as death, her hands still trapped between her knees. Suddenly she rose, went to her art box, rummaged around till she found a yellow number 2 pencil. From the table, she took a pad of paper. With the tools of her trade in her hands, she could think.

  “Where there is no choice,” she said. “There is no fear.”

  13

  They walked. Though in reality, Gramercy Park was a scant fifteen minutes from her apartment, it felt like forever. As they drew closer to his home, as it took up more and more space in her field of vision, Tessa trembled. Never had the townhouse seemed more imposing, the brownstone darker, the knotted and gnarled wisteria vines more threatening. The gray and skeletal branches of the bare, mottled trees seemed to be reaching for her.

  Ben mounted to the top of the steps while the others remained clustered on the sidewalk. Mail stuck out of the slot, more was piled up on the landing. A couple of forlorn copies of the New York Times lay on the welcome mat, yesterday’s news, unopened.

  “Maybe he’s away,” suggested Tessa hopefully.

  He rang the doorbell. She could hear it chime faintly within, and her heart beat faster. But there was no electronic buzz from the speaker box, no answering footsteps. Apparently, no one was home.

  “Maybe it’s open,” said Gracie.

  Ben pushed the handle of the wrought iron gate. It clicked open at his touch. Turning around, he raised his eyebrows.

  “Try the door,” Portia called up to him.

  He put his hand on the doorknob; the heavy wooden door swung open.

  They saw him take a step forward, calling out, “Mr. Sinclair?” And then he stopped cold, involuntarily putting his hand to his mouth.

  “What?” said Portia. “What is it?”

  Ben turned slowly around. Looked directly at Tessa.

  “Tessa,” he said. “Stay there. I don’t think you want to see this.”

  She bolted up the stairs.

  The lights were off; something dark stained the walls in great brown fan patterns. There was a pungent odor, like the rank stink given off by a package of hamburger she had left too long in the back of the refrigerator once.

  David found the light switch and turned it on. There was a collective gasp. The pattern writhing across the walls was painted in blood.

  Only Tessa moved, picking her way through the long entryway, avoiding the pools of gore checkering the marble floor. She noted the blood drying on the chairs grouped before the fireplace, blood spotting the lampshades, freckling the petals of the flowers in a vase. Glancing up, she saw that there was blood on the ceiling. “Oh, God,” someone was repeating behind her. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

  At the far end of the room, before the curved double stairs, a heap of bloodied clothing lay near the pedestal of the sculptured angel.

  “Don’t, Tessa,” said Ben.

  “Please, Tess,” said David, catching her arm. “Come back outside. Let’s just call the police.”

  Tessa shook herself free, moved deeper into the hall. As she drew closer to it, the heap of clothing began to assume the shape of a man. She stopped. At her feet was a gray fedora, upside down in a crimson puddle. Her heart began to knock painfully against her chest.

  Rafe lay curled in a fetal position on the floor, painted in blood from his head down to his shoes. His eyes were closed. He had obviously been there for some time.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, a sob, a prayer, as she went down on her knees.

  He was cold to the touch. Taking hold of his arms, she turned him on his back. Gently, she stroked the hair off his forehead. It was stiff with congealed blood.

  “Come away, Tessa,” said Portia, touching her on the shoulder.

  She opened his coat, his jacket, looking for she knew not what, a stake, a wound, anything that would explain the carnage around her. But she could find nothing amiss; she cradled his head in her lap, took his face in her hands, and kissed the cold lips.

  He stirred, mumbled something, turned on his side. She drew back in shock. A clear red liquid dribbled out of the side of his mouth, and then he rolled over and retched, splattering her with gore.

  His eyes flickered open, focused on her. She tried to wipe his face with a corner of her shirt.

  “What happened?” she asked urgently. “Who did this to you?”

  “Tessa?” he said. He blinked once, twice, and then his eyes slowly closed again. “Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God.”

  The sculptors carried him up the stairs, Ben taking his arms, Clayton his legs. They laid him gently in the guestroom bathtub on the main floor. As the old fashioned claw-footed tub filled with warm water, they undressed him, using scissors to cut off his shirt, his trousers, looking for telltale wounds, signs of a struggle. Finding none, they withdrew, leaving her alone with him.

  As she washed him, the clear greenish water turned a brackish red. Blood had seeped everywhere; into his armpits, the hair on his chest, in his eyelashes, between his toes. At the sight of the star-shaped scar over his heart, the hand holding the washcloth faltered. Once or twice his eyes cracked open, and he smiled at her like a sleepy child before falling unconscious again.

  They lifted him out, dried him off, put him in bed. He was as pale as the sheets he lay on. Instead of burning with fever, like an ordinary human being, his temperature plummeted, grew colder.

  He must have been in pain; he moaned in his sleep. He couldn’t bear to have clothing touching his skin. After he ripped pajamas from his body for a third time, they gave up trying to dress him. In his dream, the shadowy child and his compatriots had their teeth in him, and they were tearing him to pieces.

  The art students tiptoed around them. Tessa didn’t stir from his bedside, her eyes fixed on him as if she could will his recovery, pressing his cold fingers between both of her hands. Occasionally, she would lean forward to touch his face; he would open his eyes to reassure himself that she was real
ly there.

  Portia came in, put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you take a minute to clean yourself up a bit,” she said softly.

  Tessa glanced uncomprehendingly at her shirt. She looked like an extra from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

  In the bathroom, she pulled her sweater up over her head. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she leaned closer. The scared little girl who had crawled out of bed at noon to peer fearfully through the venetian blinds had vanished. In the crucible of the past few hours, some element in her had changed, hardened. That girl was gone.

  At the sound of her footsteps, his eyes flew open. She took his hand, conjured up a smile. “You’re looking better. How do you feel?”

  “I think I’m dying.”

  Her bravado crumpled. It was a moment before she could speak again. “All those things I said to you…”

  He shook his head, impatient with her apology. A shock of pain accompanied his movements. He shut his eyes until it passed.

  “Where did you go after you left my apartment?”

  “Anastasia’s office. Almost sent her flying through those great bloody windows. She set the whole thing up, you know; she wanted you to see me like that.”

  “She thinks we should be more honest with each other.”

  “She did say something to that effect.”

  Shakily, he pushed himself up, bending over the side of the bed. She held the bucket for him. When he was done, he fell back onto the pillows.

  “I went home. Someone was waiting for me. I thought it was you.” He closed his eyes. “First-year student. Allison something.”

  Tessa frowned. “What did she want?”

  “She hates her life. She wants to be a vampire.”

  “What did you do?”

  He opened his eyes, looked directly at her. “I bit her,” he said. “And then I came to my senses and put her in a taxi.”

  Tessa sighed, put a weary hand to her forehead. His hand crept over the blankets, seeking hers. She took it, laced her fingers through his. They were as cold as ice.