“Go home, Tessa.” His voice was growing thin, beginning to fail. “Haven’t you heard? You’ll be better off without me.”
“My place,” she said, “Is here. With you.” Her words crackled with fierce energy. “We need you. I need you. Your school needs you.”
He turned his face to the wall. “It’s not my school anymore,” he breathed, and then his eyelids fluttered closed again.
Tessa slumped down on one of the Stickley couches in the Great Room. “How is he?” Portia said.
“He’s dying.” she replied.
“We should be dialing 911,” said David.
“And tell them what?” Graham drawled. “Send an ambulance quick, we have a sick vampire?”
Goosebumps prickled up and down Tessa’s arms, raced along her spine. Anastasia swept through the doorway, magisterial in the orange silk domino she had worn to April’s gallery opening.
Ignoring the art students gaping at her from the couch, she addressed Tessa. “What has happened to our Raphael?” she said, whipping off the dark glasses.
She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. It didn’t matter, anyhow; Anastasia had tasted the measure of her fear before she’d walked through the door. Tessa saw her steel herself, straighten her shoulders; with a rustle of fine fabric, she glided past her into the guest room, volumes of silk ballooning out behind her.
“How are you, mon ami?” she said brightly, bending over him.
At the sound of her voice, his eyes sprang open. “I’ve been better,” he replied, with a trace of boyish pugnacity.
“Get well soon,” she warned him. “Or Ram will rob you blind. He has an eye on your pie safe.”
“That poser,” he mumbled. His eyes closed again.
Dropping the light-hearted facade, she turned to Tessa. “Who did this to him?” she said. In her expression was anger blended with curiosity.
“We don’t know,” she replied.
Anastasia bent over and kissed the point where his hair met his forehead, held his face in her black-gloved hands, pressed her cheek against his. “Bon nuit, mon petit artiste,” she heard her murmur as she stroked the hair back from his forehead. “I hope they are kind to you, wherever you are going.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” said Tessa flatly, her arms folded defiantly over her chest.
Anastasia focused her attention on her now, drawing closer. With the hood framing her dramatic face, she had never seemed taller or more imposing. The flames in her eyes leapt and churned. “So. Now you have seen what he really is. And you still love him.”
“Yes,” she said. “Now I know what he struggles with, every day. If anything, I love him more.”
She pursed her dragon-red lips. “Well! Who would have thought. You seemed like such an ordinary sort of girl. I thought for sure you would run from it. I don’t suppose you are coming back to work.”
Tessa shook her head no. Anastasia shrugged, one Gallic lift of the shoulders. “Bonne chance, then, ma petite jeune fille. If you ever need anything, you know where to find us.” With a flutter of orange silk, she was gone.
She found the artists in the kitchen. They were going through the cabinets, the refrigerator, searching for something to eat. Graham had discovered that there were only two items in the refrigerator, a carton of Tropicana that had just passed the sell-by date and a desiccated lime. So far, Clayton was the big winner, with a box of Carr’s water crackers; then Gracie hit the jackpot, finding an unopened package of Chips Ahoy in a drawer.
“Say, is she a—” Graham left the end of the sentence dangling.
“Yes.” Tessa said shortly.
“We’ve been cleaning up the entryway,” said Ben, sounding distant, removed. “We filled ten of those big black leaf-and-garden bags with bloody paper towels. Bounty really is the quicker picker upper.”
“That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” said Harker. “And I’ve worked in a slaughterhouse.” As he rolled another one of his cigarettes. Tessa could see that his hands were shaking.
“Who would hate him enough to do this?” Portia wondered.
“A lot of people, I’ll bet,” said David.
“Angry ex-girlfriend?” suggested Gracie.
“Vampire hunters?” Clayton guessed.
“Someone who really doesn’t want him at that meeting,” said Graham.
Tessa shook her head wearily, massaged her forehead. Every time she closed her eyes, pictures flashed on the back of her retina, pictures she’d rather forget. Rafe, poised over Poppy behind the restaurant. Rafe, his fangs bared, crushing her to the pavement. Rafe, drenched in blood, motionless beneath the white marble angel. Rafe, his arms open wide, begging for another chance.
Harker prowled through the Great Room, looking for something, opening and closing the highly polished cabinet doors. Hidden inside a handsome Arts and Crafts hutch, he found a state-of-the art stereo system.
He punched a few buttons. The house seemed to levitate off its foundations; their hearts reverberated with the ominous cartwheeling synthesizer chords of Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb, pounding through the speakers.
“Hey,” said Harker. “He’s been listening to my mix tape.”
They all felt it at once, an electric sizzle in the air. Rafe was standing in the entryway, wearing only a pair of striped pajama bottoms. His eyes had gone that frightening hue, like scratched glass, burning, feverish.
“What are you doing out here?” he shouted, his voice raspy and raw. “Get back into the cellar! They’ll see you!”
He bounded towards her, moving like a jungle cat; they had never in their lives seen anyone move that fast. Launching himself through the air, he tackled her to the ground before Ben and Clayton were able to get to their feet. Crouching over her, he stared at them with frightened, smoky eyes; and then he passed out.
They decided to move him to a couch in the Great Room. He seemed to be more comfortable there, nearer to them, to the artifacts of his life. The light bothered him; they dimmed the chandeliers and the Tiffany lamps while Tessa shielded his eyes with her hand. Shadows danced. Gloom gathered in every corner.
“What the hell was that,” said Ben.
“Okay, I believe,” said David.
Preoccupied with tucking the covers around his shivering body, Tessa heard nothing but the rattle of Rafe’s chattering teeth.
“There’s gotta be something we can do,” Clayton struck his knee with a meaty fist. “This can’t be the way it all goes down.”
“Hey,” said Harker. “How about Magikal Childe? Katie says her boss has millions of books on the occult, a whole library. There’s got to be something there about sick vampires.”
“They can’t possibly be open this late,” said David.
Harker shrugged his thin shoulders. “Katie says they keep crazy hours. A lot of their clientele is only up at night.”
“I’m out,” said Clayton. “I’m not going anywhere that caters to the dark arts after midnight. I admit it. I’m just flat-out scared.”
“I’ll go,” said Harker. “I gotta get rocking, anyway. Death Monkeys got a late gig at CBGB’s.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Portia. “Tessa, you stay here in case Rafe wakes up.”
“No, ” said Tessa. “I can’t sit still. If there’s anything we can do, I want to be the first to know.”
She pulled on her coat, slung her knapsack over her shoulder. At the door, she looked wistfully back at the others. She was afraid of what she might find when she returned.
“Don’t worry,” said Portia, reading her thoughts. “I know where to find you if there’s any change. Now go.”
The storefront was nondescript. Magikal Childe, the sign said in medieval script. The display window featured a dusty signed copy of Lord of the Rings, Viking runes inscribed on ivory tablets spilling out of a wine-colored velvet bag, a crystal gazing ball, a kitschy cut-glass dragon, a mug with a wizard’s face on it.
Tessa pushed open the door, passed a bulle
tin board hung with flyers. Wiccan picnic scheduled for April 11 at Strawberry Fields. Rain date, April 18, said one. New Necromancy Group forming, said another. If interested, call Todd at 718-867-5309 after 5 p.m. No Weirdos!
Harker was already inside, conferring with a balding man in round rimless glasses behind the counter. Tessa made her way through the rabbit warren of glass display cases filled with jeweled skulls and magic wands.
The walls were painted black and lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, a very high ceiling, also painted black. Crowding the shelves were wide-mouthed apothecary jars, exhibiting various quantities of many-colored powders. A rolling ladder stood ready to assist with the items on the higher shelves.
Some sounded harmless; white sage, yarrow, chamomile, lavender, hibiscus, frankincense and myrrh. Then there were the others, labeled Croatian Mugwort, Carpathian Wormwood, Bat’s Head Root, Midnight Mandrake Root, Cat’s Eye, Calf Hoof, St. John’s Wort. Passing a half-empty jar with a metal scoop inside, Tessa saw that it contained dried newts.
“Arnie, you remember Tessa,” Harker was saying to the middle-aged man behind the counter.
“Sure, I remember,” he said. “Vampire situation. Man, look at all that hair! Are you sure you’re not Wiccan?”
“Orthodox Jew, actually,” said Harker.
“No way,” said Arnie, perking up. “My grandparents were orthodox. Anyway. How’d the vampire thing go for you?”
“The hex worked,” she said. “He couldn’t come in.”
“Cool,” he said.
“That’s kind of why we’re here,” said Harker. “We’ve got a sick vampire.”
“Really,” said Arnie. “And you came here instead of taking him to, say, a doctor?”
“I don’t think a doctor can do much for him,” said Harker. “He’s, well, you know, undead.”
Arnie had a particular expression, one he reserved for dilettantes and weepy college girls, and he was directing it towards them now. “There are a lot of people in New York who call themselves vampires. How do you know he’s for real?”
“Harker said you have a lot of books on the occult,” said Tessa. “Look up ‘The Angel of Healing.’”
Arnie disappeared into the back, returned with a large and dusty volume bound in stained brown leather. He cracked it open, ran a bony forefinger down a long column of words while muttering to himself.
Suddenly he stopped, tilted his head. The light reflected off his glasses, turning them opaque. “The Angel of Healing? You’re kidding. He’s your vampire?” She nodded. His eyebrows shot up. He looked back down at the book. “Wow.”
“What’s it say?”
He put his finger on the text, read out loud. “Angel of Healing. Born Raphael Sinclair, UK, 1909. Active since 1939. Known to have operated in Auschwitz, Poland, from 1943-1944. Possibly resurfaced in Marrakech in 1945. Last known whereabouts, New York City.”
“Whoa,” said Harker. Even his tattoos paled a little.
He put the book down. “The same Raphael Sinclair who’s always on Page Six?”
“That’s him.”
“Huh,” said Arnie. “Just goes to show you. You never know. Sick, how?”
Glancing at Tessa, Harker related the details. Arnie frowned. “Hm. Let me ask Laurie.”
Laurie was a girl with a plain oval face and long brown hair, not the sort of person you’d associate with a store catering to the occult. She was presently with a customer, scooping powders out of jars and shaking them into small plastic bags. When she was finished, she joined them in the back, holding a ledger.
“You know, I mixed up something for a guy earlier this week,” she said. “He said he was having some kind of vampire trouble. I offered him a stake, but he wasn’t interested.”
The words struck at Tessa’s heart. “What was in it?” she said.
“Ex-Lax,” said Laurie. “Also, tincture of wormwood. It’s not harmful to humans, aids in the digestion, actually, but it’s deadly to vampires.”
Harker frowned. “How would you get a vampire to drink a solution of Ex-Lax and wormwood?”
“Well,” said Laurie. “I guess you could slip it into his drink while he wasn’t looking.”
Arnie bent a scornful look at her. “What, like when you’re standing next to him at the bar at CBGB’s?” He turned to the art students. “You get some pretty girl to drink it. And then you get your vampire to drink from the pretty girl.”
“What did this guy look like?”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. Short. Tubby. Losing his hair. I couldn’t pick him out in a lineup.”
“Well, that only describes half the men in New York City,” said Arnie. “Including me.”
“Is there any cure?” Tessa said quickly. “An antidote?”
Arnie rolled the ladder to a shelf high above the counter. Climbing to the top, he reached into a bookcase, pulled out a book with a red leather cover. He thumbed through the yellowing pages, then ran his forefinger along a paragraph printed in tiny type. And stopped.
“You really care for this vampire?” he said to her, pushing his glasses down the bridge of his nose and looking at her.
“Yes,” said Tessa fervently.
“Then go home,” said Arnie. “Spend some time with him.”
“What do you mean?” she said wildly. “What does it say?”
“It says,” he said, “that the only cure for a vampire poisoned with wormwood is the heart’s blood of a virgin.”
He shut the book with a bang. Dust rose from its yellow pages. “Heart’s blood of a dragon, I can get,” he said. “But where are you going to find a virgin in New York City?”
“Oh, good, you’re back,” said Portia. She looked exhausted. Three blots of blood the size of a quarter stained her blue chambray shirtfront. “He was asking for you.”
Tessa threw her bag and coat down on a chair, went to him.
He lay on his back, his eyes closed. His hands were outside the blankets, waxy and still. At Tessa’s approach, he struggled to sit up, and failed. She gave him some water; he drank it gratefully, only to retch it back up a few minutes later. He lay back on the pillow, drained. Turning his head to look out the window took everything he had.
“What day is it?”
“Thursday,” she said. “The big vote is tomorrow morning. Eight sharp.”
He nodded, but his mind was elsewhere.
“Look,” she said firmly. “You’ve got to get better. Turner has been letting all the teachers go and replacing them with April’s friends. We need you to address the assembly. They’ll listen to you. You’re our only hope.”
“All right,” he said, to make her happy, but it was clear to both of them that he would be dead by morning.
She sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to notice that even this slight motion made him wince. “I have news. There’s a cure.”
“Oh,” he said, curiously disinterested. ”What is it?”
“It’s me,” she said. “Heart’s blood of a virgin.”
“Heart’s blood of a virgin? What does that mean?” he said, puzzled.
“Um…I don’t know, exactly. But it’s our only chance.”
“No,” he said. “I can’t. I won’t.”
“You have to,” she said. “We have to try.”
“No!” he thundered, and began to cough. He doubled over with the force of it, helpless against the explosions that convulsed his body.
“Okay,” she said, frightened. There were flecks of blood on his lips. “Never mind. It was just an idea. Rest, now.”
His lovely, almond-shaped eyes stayed closed until it passed. When they opened again, she was amazed to see that they had changed; the shifting colors, the opaline opacity, were gone. The irises had returned to an ordinary human gray.
And something else. The covers. They were moving up and down.
Unbelieving, Tessa leaned over, rested her head on his chest. Heard the steady thump thump thump of a beating heart.
�
��Rafe,” she whispered urgently, wanting to tell him. “Rafe…” But his eyes were closed, shut off from the world.
The students had built a fire in the giant fireplace, settled themselves around a comfortable leather couch and a matching set of club chairs from the 1930s. They fell silent at her approach.
“Is he any better?” said Portia.
“He’s breathing,” she said grimly, throwing herself into a chair. “He has a heartbeat. Probably not a good sign.”
“What did they say at Magikal Childe?” said Graham. “And, as an aside, I can’t believe I just asked you that.”
Tessa heaved a sigh. “Heart’s blood of a virgin.”
They stared at her.
“What the hell does that mean?” said Ben.
“I think we all know what it means,” said Graham.
“I don’t know about this,” said Clayton uneasily. “What if it means all of your blood?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said dully. “He already said no.”
“Hello,” said David incredulously. “Why are we even considering this? Medical advice from Magikal Childe, for God’s sake. It’s insane. You don’t even know if it’ll work.”
He gripped Tessa by the elbows. She had the impression that he wished he could shake some sense into her. “Did you ever think that maybe this is just the way it’s supposed to go? I know you have feelings for him, Tess. We all do. But let’s just look at this for a minute. He’s done some pretty god-awful things in his life. Maybe this is just his time.”
Ben leaned forward. His face radiated pity. “Tess,” he said gently. “He’s gone downhill since you left. He can’t keep a sip of water down. Every move is agony. He wants to go, Tess. He’s ready.”
“So we just give up on him?” she said desperately. “What about the school? I thought he was our only hope.”
“So, we lose the vote,” said Graham. “We’ll start our own school. The Sinclair School of Art.”
“Yeah,” said Gracie. “This time, no one can take it away from us.”
“You’re looking at the faculty,” said Clayton.
“We’re the lucky ones,” said Ben. “He’s already given us all the skills we need.”
She stared at them long and hard; and then she covered her face with her hands, her shoulders curved inwards and shook with grief. Ben put one of his big sculptor’s arms around her, held it there.
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