Blood Red Dawn

by Karen E. Taylor

  Vivienne picked up her mug, inhaling the aromatic steam. “What is this, Lily?”

  “Moon’s special serenity blend. Catnip, lemon balm, and just a touch of lavender. It’s too bad she’s dead. For many reasons, actually, most of them incredibly selfish on my part.” She sat down at the table with us, her hands wrapped tightly around the warmth of her mug, a wistful expression on her face. “But right now because she’d just be tickled to see who was sitting at her kitchen table.”

  “Oh, she can see all right, Lily. Don’ you worry none ‘bout that.” Recognizing the voice, I turned in my seat to stare over at Angelo, standing in the kitchen doorway, framed by the huge bulk of Claude behind him. He flinched slightly as my eyes met his and tried to retreat, but Claude gave him an ungentle nudge in the small of his back and Angelo shot forward, laughing uneasily.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Greer.” I half-expected to see him wring his hands, instead he slumped down just a bit and nodded his head. “No hard feelings from last time we met, I hope.”

  “None at all, Angelo. You almost did me a favor, since the circumstances were the only reasons Lily would let me out. I can’t afford to dwell on the past, anyway, so you have no worries on my account.”

  “Good, good.” He looked at Vivienne and gave a broad smile. “Very pleased to see you again, missy. Always with a handsome man, always the same strong heart. Solved your problem from last time we met?”

  “Oui, Angelo. That I did.” She laid a hand on Sam’s arm. “And this is Dr. John Samuels. Sam, this is Angelo. You’ve heard a lot about him.”

  “Mostly good stuff, this one hopes.” Angelo reached out a hand to greet Sam who seemed rather surprised at the strength of his handshake. Angelo looked frailer than he was.

  Claude moved into the kitchen and handed Lily a brown paper bag. Angelo’s eyes hungrily followed the exchange. “As chance would have it,” Claude explained, “he was lounging around the liquor store when I got there.”

  “Not chance,” Angelo watched hungrily as Lily broke the seal on the bottle. She poured some into an empty jelly jar and he reached for the drink. “Thanks much, Lily. It never be chance. I feel you back in town, Lily girl. And feel your need in the night air. The spirits, they whispering to me, always whispering.” He drained his drink in one swallow and set the glass down on the counter. “Now let me have a good look at you, Lily. You changed some since last we spoke, round ’bout the time that Greg man end up with the nickname of Lefty.” Angelo gave a long, wheezing laugh, shot me a quick glance, and grew serious again. “But you, Lily, you no longer a little girl, are you? More like the dark queen of the night.”

  Lily’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, right, Angelo. Whatever you say.”

  “No,” Angelo pulled himself up straighter and laid both of his hands on Lily’s cheeks. “There be a strength deep down inside you that weren’t there before. I glad to see it, Lily child. And Moon, she be so proud of how you become what you should be.”

  She filled his glass again and handed it to him, turning away quickly, but not before I caught the gleam of unshed tears in her eyes. “It’s not as if I had a choice in the matter, ’Lo. So let’s drop it, okay?”

  He nodded to her and then to the rest of us. “There always a choice. Always.” Angelo drained his glass again, giving a loud belch when he’d finished. “Pardon,” he said. “So, the fine Claude man here tell me you need some information from ol’ bow-legged ’Lo. That true?”

  “We’re looking for a woman and her son. My son. She’s tall, with dark curly hair, green eyes, very pretty. And the boy is about twelve or so, but might seem older.”

  “Your son?” Angelo gave me a questioning look. “I thought you married Lily’s mam and had only one child from before. And they say he be dead many years now.”

  “They?”

  “The spirits whisper, Mitch. I only listen.”

  I was beginning to lose what little patience I had for the man. I reached out and gripped the front of his shirt. “And what do the spirits whisper of the Others, Angelo?”

  “Your son one of they?” He shook himself out of my hands. “That a powerful magic at work. And the woman one of they, too. Only female and a Breeder, eh?”

  “Exactly. Have you seen her?”

  He pursed his lips. “Maybe I see her. Maybe I don’. Either way, there be payment needed for getting into it with such as they.”

  “How much, Angelo?” Lily sounded almost as frustrated as I felt.

  “We ol’ friends, Lily. I don’ cheat ol’ friends. Five hun’red be good enough for me.”

  “I have it,” Vivienne got up from the table and went to her bag in the hallway. When she came back, she handed Angelo five crisp hundred dollar bills. “Payment,” she said, “but if what you say isn’t worth the price, mon chou, be prepared to give it back in trade.”

  “Trade?” Angelo voice cracked slightly as he stuffed the bills into his pants pocket. His eyes darted around the room, as if searching for escape. Finally though he looked back at her, giving a slight shiver as he caught the full brunt of her gaze. “Trade? What trade?”

  Vivienne didn’t say a word. She merely smiled, exposing her fangs and licked her lips.

  Angelo got the message. “That woman is down in the French Quarter right now. I see her go into her little house earlier, a pretty house with wisteria crawling all ’bout it. But she not pretty, nor do she have an eye for pretty. I see into her soul as she pass me on the street and she crazy, blood red crazy and hungry for death. She walkin’ with murder and death wrote all over her. But the boy, he ain’t with her. No sign nor scent of him.”

  “Can you take us to her?” I asked.

  He laughed, a croaking, wheezing sound that seemed to explode from his throat. “I show you, sure. Why you so bound and determined to see her, I can’t even figure. But I show you only from a distance. Me, why I already been close enough to her to last me the rest of my life.”

  “Thank you, Angelo,” Lily said, handing him another glass of brandy. “That’ll be fine. For now.”

  Chapter 16

  Deirdre Griffin: New York City

  I finally awoke the evening of the next day. I felt woozy and shaky, but more importantly, I thought, rubbing the sore spot on my arm where the needle penetrated, I was angry—so angry I wanted to take Max apart with my bare hands. I couldn’t even begin to imagine his rationale on drugging me. Once again everything he’d been doing to me made no sense.

  The sound of his key in the lock made me wild. I sprang out of bed and hurtled toward him, hands extended, nails crooked. He caught my wrists and roughly pulled them down. “Awake, I see,” he said, a twisted smile distorting his classically handsome face.

  “No thanks to you, Max. Was it necessary to drug me without my knowledge? This sort of action goes above and beyond the bounds of spousal duty, don’t you think?”

  “You were in a rare mood last night, little one. You’d worked yourself up into a fit complete with full-fledged delusions of a life that never existed. All that nonsense about Larry Martin and Mitch Greer and my keeping coffins in this room.” He laughed and I bristled to feel his condescension. “In a mood like that, you’d be capable of anything, so I took what action I deemed necessary. You are my wife, after all.”

  “Your wife?” I gave a snarling laugh, sounding almost hysterical even to my own ears. “More like your prisoner, I would say. So what is on the agenda for tonight? Whippings? Interrogations?”

  He looked hurt. “Why do you persist in making me out to be your enemy, Deirdre, when you must know, deep down in your heart, that I only want what’s best for you.”

  “Then let me go, Max. That would be what’s best for me.”

  “You say that, but you are still—”

  I practically howled in frustration. “Sick? Yes, yes, yes. I am willing to admit I’ve been sick. I even vaguely remember the symptoms you’ve described. But I also remember other things, vivid things, important events which, no matte
r how hard you try, you cannot control or change. You may deny it all you like, but still, I know I have led a life that did not involve you. And that life was chosen by me in lieu of what you had to offer me. A life led with another man in another time and place.”

  His voice lowered a bit, seeming, if possible, to be filled with love and pity. “Oh, Deirdre,” he said, “my sweet little one, I very much wish that things had turned out differently for us. That you hadn’t been struck with this damned sickness holding you in delusions and false dreams. We were happy together once, surely you can remember that?”

  And as he said the words, I realized that, in some small way, what he said was true. We had been happy together. At some point in my forgotten life, I had wished for nothing more than a chance for the two of us. In that moment I softened toward him, wanting more than anything to be held in his arms. It would be so easy to quit fighting, to swallow my pride, to abandon my delusions as he called them and reclaim the warmth and safety of his protection. Mouthing a soft word of consolation, I took a step toward him, stopping short when I caught the triumphant gleam in his eyes. What the hell am I doing? I thought, this is Max. He’s manipulating me. As he always has. I swallowed and hardened my heart. “No, Max,” I said, glad to hear that my voice sounded steady and calm. “There was someone else; he and I were happy. You and I, as a couple, as man and wife, never existed and will never exist. As much as you keep denying these facts, you know they are true. Otherwise you wouldn’t hold me so close.”

  His mouth narrowed. “And you are still insisting the man in question is Mitchell Greer? Detective Mitchell Greer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then we will put this delusion to the test. Do you recall what Greer looks like?”

  I closed my eyes for a second and a face formed in my mind. Blue eyes, so very blue they were almost electric, his nose, strong and hawklike, and his hair, gray. I remembered the sound of his voice and the feel of his arms around me. I felt his body moving above mine and could taste his lips and his skin and his blood. My mouth curved into a smile, and I felt a contentment wash over me, the first wholesome emotion I’d experienced since waking up in this place. “Oh, yes. There’s no doubt in my mind. The man I was married to is Mitch Greer. And I would know him anywhere.”

  “Good.”

  Good? His pleasant response threw me off balance. He should, by all rights, be in a rage. How could he think any of this was good?”

  “With your permission then, I will try to arrange to have Detective Greer visit us tonight. If I remember correctly, and there’s nothing wrong with my memory,” he gave me a wink, “he’s still working in the same precinct as he did when you met him.”

  That sounded wrong to me. Mitch hadn’t been working as a policeman for years. Had he? We’d been away, for quite a while. I felt the truth of that in my very bones, but I kept my objections to myself. What if Max really could get Mitch here? The possibility took my breath away.

  “And if you meet him,” Max continued, not noticing my hesitation, “you will know him, right?”

  I nodded, wondering what Max hoped to gain by this tactic. It would do him no good, since as soon as Mitch knew I was here, he’d take me away and we would resume our lives. I felt quite sure that being in Mitch’s presence and with enough time all of my memories would eventually return.

  “And so, when he is not the man you expect,” Max continued, “will you allow that I might be right, that all of these flashes you take for memory may indeed be nothing but delusional dreams?”

  “If. Not when. And it won’t happen the way you say, Max. When will he be here?” My heart pounded wildly and I felt flushed with excitement. Mitch. Here. With me. Finally the nightmare was over for good.

  Max glanced at his watch. “The sooner the better, my dear. I’d like to close this issue right now.”

  I wanted to laugh at him. Wanted to gloat about how I’d been right all along, to throw back into his face the fact that he was not the one I chose to spend eternity with. Yet there was something unsettling about the certainty he exuded, the willingness he showed in offering to arrange this meeting. Did he not know how it would turn out? How on earth was this to his advantage? I might not have remembered all that much, but I knew for a fact that Max never did anything from unselfish motives. It was difficult to reconcile this Max with the man I thought I knew. “You surprise me, Max,” I admitted. “I’d think the last person in the world you’d want me to meet at this point in time would be Mitchell Greer.”

  He inclined his head, hiding his eyes from mine, but not before I caught that same triumphant gleam I’d seen before. “I’ve told you, over and over, Deirdre, that all I want is what’s best for you. And this meeting will be good for you. Will be good for us.”

  “Finally,” I smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek, “we are agreed on something.”

  “And afterward you will be able to resume the life you once led, the life we once led, free of the delusions and the fevered dreams.”

  Again his certainty disturbed me, but I said nothing.

  “Then it’s settled. Now, why don’t you get dressed in one of those pretty outfits we bought last night. I’ll try to get in touch with Greer and I’ll wait for you outside.”

  I noticed then that I was wearing a nightgown and not the clothes I’d had on earlier. I shuddered; the thoughts that he’d undressed me and re-dressed me while I was sleeping offended me, frightened me. What other liberties did he feel entitled to take upon my inert body? I glared over at him but he ignored my glance and walked out the door closing it softly behind him.

  “Bastard,” I whispered. “I still can’t imagine what you hope to gain by this, but it will finally be made right. Mitch will make it all right again.”

  Smiling, I looked through the armoire and tried to determine what one should wear to be reunited with one’s husband.

  Something about the arrangement of colors—all black, red and white with one touch of green—and the scent of new garments triggered a flood of memories that had been tickling my mind since our shopping trip. I saw an office, filled with racks of clothes, my clothes, but not ones I would wear. Rather they were clothes that I had designed. Another missing piece clicked into place. I’d been a fashion designer in that other life. The recognition of that fact combined with my vision of the office invoked memories of late nights spent working on sketches and materials invoices and pattern constructions. There seemed to always be the smell of strong coffee in the air along with a faint whiff of roses. There were voices lifted outside of the office along with laughter and the face of a good friend. Her name rushed into my mind like a giant gulp of air—Gwen DeAngelis. And along with the name came a great wash of sadness and anger. I saw Gwen, staked to a bed, her bright blood coating the walls and floors, the victim of a crazed attack by Larry Martin. Mitch had been there, too. I remembered the comfort of his arm tightening around my shoulders just as clearly as if his arm were resting there now.

  And what was it about Larry Martin? There was something about him that continued to haunt my thoughts. Mitch had killed him, I remembered that, but there remained a nagging doubt that his death hadn’t been the end. Try as I might, though, the way forward remained blocked. The memories had a perverse way of staying just slightly out of focus. No matter, I knew that I was now reconstructing my prior life. Perhaps it was the fact that I’d quit taking the drink Max provided me. Perhaps it was just a natural progression as the sickness that had enveloped me abated.

  Whatever the cause, I still believed that being with Mitch again would solve everything. “But,” I laughed to myself, “you can’t meet him wearing this nightgown.” So I tried on three of the outfits before finally deciding on the last: a pair of skin-tight black velvet leggings and a loose-fitting hunter green sweater that hung to midthigh. Once again Vivienne’s face came to my mind. She was laughing, she seemed to laugh a lot, and she was saying how green would compliment my complexion. I insisted the color was unlucky
for me, not knowing why. I felt silly thinking it at the time and I felt silly now. Luck is what one makes out of life. I would wear the sweater, regardless of its color.

  I slid into a pair of ankle-high black suede boots and began to apply some of the makeup I’d bought, using the armoire mirror. Then I stood back to check my image, running my fingers through my short bleached hair, wishing I’d had a chance to stop at a beauty salon. “But it doesn’t really matter,” I told my reflection. “Mitch loves me regardless of how I look. I know he does.”

  The eyes that stared back at me were filled with a combination of hope and doubt. “He does,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “You know it’s true.” I dared not say out loud what I was thinking. What if Max was right? What if it were all only a dream? Why else would he allow me to meet Mitch? My throat closed up in momentary panic, I drew in a ragged breath. My mouth felt dry and cottony. “Damn Max,” I said, balling my hands into fists until I felt my fingernails bite into the skin. “Damn him to hell. He’s wrong. He must be wrong. Has to be wrong.”

  Chapter 17

  Taking a deep breath, I exited my little room into Max’s office. He was talking on the phone and when he looked up at me, he lowered his voice a bit while giving me an appraising glance. I noticed a hint of caution in his tone as well as a proprietorial approval of my appearance in his eyes. For some reason, his look annoyed me. He didn’t own me, he’d never own me, and I hadn’t dressed for him.

  “Good,” he said, glancing back at his desk and turning his chair so that his back was turned to me. “I’ll expect to see you in an hour or so. I needn’t remind you that this is extremely important to me. See that you get it right this time.”

  His words held an unspoken threat and I wondered briefly if he was talking to Mitch. The thought disturbed me; it sounded as if Mitch was in Max’s employ. Could things have changed that much in just a short time? However, when the person spoke from the other end of the phone I recognized the voice. “Practice makes perfect, Max,” Derek said. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”