by Sara Beaman
Jennifer puts on headphones and starts analyzing the footage. Every so often I take a peek, but nothing I see is of any interest. Then, out of nowhere, three or four hours after we left the hospital, she takes off her headphones.
“Julian, wake up,” she says. “You should see this.”
Julian groans softly and pulls himself up off the floor. Jennifer unplugs her headphones and turns the netbook around so that Julian and I can see the screen. She reaches around to the touchpad and hits Play.
It’s footage from the garage. A small woman with long, dark hair walks in backwards from the double doors, dragging a much larger man behind her. It’s clear from the hole in his head that the man is Adam. After several paces the woman stops, releasing his arms, and leaves him on the ground as she begins to search for an unlocked car.
The picture isn’t terribly clear, but I know what Mnemosyne looks like, and this isn’t her. Nor is it the Mirabel-copy body she stole from one of the doubles.
“That’s Aya,” Jennifer says.
“So it is,” says Julian.
I don’t understand. Mnemosyne said she took Adam. But here is Aya on the screen, climbing inside a sport-utility vehicle, returning for Adam and hauling him into the back seat.
Why would Mnemosyne lie about this?
“Very well,” Julian says. “I suppose there’s no point in changing course now. We’ll go back to the estate and hope that she follows us there. And if she doesn’t, we’ll try to think of where else she might have gone.”
Jennifer nods, closing the netbook.
Wait. That woman could easily have been Mnemosyne after all! She must have used an illusion to make herself look like Aya. That makes much more sense than the idea that she’d lie about taking Adam.
I watch Jennifer hastily stow her computer away, wondering if she didn’t just reach the same conclusion. I frown, trying to assemble the pieces of knowledge I have about her into a coherent picture. I think she might have helped me lie to Julian earlier, and Mnemosyne said I could tell her about my mission. And I guess she was dating Adam. Is she working with the House of Mnemosyne?
Why the hell would a Warden do something like that?
***
Several hours later we slow down, and a few turns later we stop moving. A panel slides open in the wall between the back of the van and the cab.
“Katherine, stay where you are,” Julian says as the driver appears in the window.
I grip the upholstery of the seat, straining to control myself, but still I feel my teeth sharpening. The horrible vise-like sensation around my chest returns. All of the guilt and disgust I felt after my earlier feeding attempt means nothing to me now. If it weren’t for Julian’s order I would attack again right this instant. I force myself to look away, hoping the urges will cease. They don’t.
“It’s past nightfall,” the driver says. “I’m gonna grab some food and be back in about fifteen.”
“Okay,” Jennifer says. “I’ll drive the next leg if you like.”
“What about her?” the driver asks, uneasy. It’s clear he means me.
“She can sit with me in the front,” Jennifer says.
“Okay.”
He slides the panel shut. I hear the front door open and close.
“Katherine,” Julian says like a kindergarten teacher speaking to a student, “I’m about to open the door to the outside. When I do, get out of the van and go straight to the passenger side door. Open it and get in. Sit down, close the door, and stay there.”
I take a deep breath.
He slides the door open. I step out onto oily pavement, breathing in fumes and frying oil and human sweat. We’re at an enormous travel center, lit up almost bright as day and nearly deserted. Human hearts beat in the distance, yards and yards away. I want to seek them out, but I can’t. I have to obey Julian. I climb into shotgun and stare out the window, past the gas station into the convenience store.
Jennifer climbs in behind the wheel and puts the keys in the ignition. “I know it’s hard for you to control yourself right now, but don’t worry—we’ll have a solution for you once we get to Julian’s estate,” she says.
The seraglio.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her. Why didn’t I fight Julian’s compulsion? I could have done what Richard taught me. I could have at least tried.
“You look bad,” Jennifer says. “Maybe you shouldn’t look out there right now…”
“I’m fine,” I snap. I watch a burly man return to his truck—the kind of person I might have been afraid of before I died. He’d have no chance against me now, I’m sure. I flex my fingers and ball them into fists.
“Kate, talk to me,” Jennifer says.
“About what?”
“It must have really sucked, being at SpiraCom so long.”
“Yeah. It did.”
“So, uh… what was the process like? You know, to make you a double?”
“Pretty much what you’d expect.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was…” I sigh nasally. “Look, it’s not like it was interesting. Just endless plastic surgery procedures followed up with some some B-movie style brainwashing. As I said, pretty much what you’d expect.”
“Do you remember much of it?”
“Now I do. Before I didn’t.” Inside the convenience store, a man peruses the drink cases. Even from this distance, I can see his jugular pulsing gently.
“Before what?”
“Before Mnemosyne killed me.”
“She gave you your memories back after she killed you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why?”
“No reason,” she says. “So how many girls where in the Program?”
“Hard to say, since we all looked the same.” The man grabs an energy drink and proceeds over to the cashier, an anemic-looking girl with fake black hair.
“How long does the Program take to complete?” Jennifer asks.
“I don’t know. I didn’t finish.”
I put my hand on the door handle. Julian didn’t say I couldn’t open it—
“Kate! What are you doing?”
I don’t reply.
“You go out there, I’ll seal you. You try attacking someone without being able to manifest. You’re not as strong as you think.”
“I can’t leave,” I tell her, annoyed. “You heard what Julian said. It’s not like he gave me a way out.”
She says nothing. Is she not convinced the Compulsion will hold? Maybe it won’t. Maybe she thinks I can overcome it. She threatened me; she must be scared of me. I think about the gun the driver pulled out of the glove compartment, back in the garage at Red Hook. Is it still there?
“Just stay here,” she says.
I take my hand off the door handle. I stare out the windshield, watching her out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her attention to falter. If I can’t catch an opening, the gun could be more of a liability than an asset. We sit like this for minutes on end, watching each other, waiting. But before either of us breaks, the driver returns, slides the back door open and gets in.
Jennifer turns the key in the ignition, and then we’re back on the road.
***
We reach the gates to Julian’s estate around three A.M. As we drive up the private road to the main residence, I watch the scenery unfold in our headlights—symmetrical rows of trees and bushes along a gentle arc that curves away before it hits the horizon. All of this is familiar to me; it all looks just as it did through Adam’s eyes.
We pass the sundial in front of the main entrance, drive down a hill and pull around to the garage. Eight or so human servants, mostly men, wait inside the garage. My hand goes to the door handle. I pull it, open the door, go to swing my legs out—
But suddenly I can’t. My legs are dead. I can’t move them even an inch. These humans stand right in front of me, taunting me with their pulse and scent and breath, and here I am, paralyzed.
Julian climbs out and rushes to my door. Shovin
g it closed, he gives me a reproving look.
“The two of us are going to wait here until everyone is gone,” he says through the glass. “And then we are going to go resolve this problem.”
I stare at him silently. I want to throttle him. He returns my gaze, utterly calm.
The servants shoulder the luggage from the van and carry it away through rows of spotless cars to a door at the back of the garage. Jennifer and the driver follow behind them. I sit and wait for Julian to release me, taking short breaths in and out through my nose. Everyone is gone. What is he waiting for?
Finally he opens the door. “All right. You may come out now.”
I jump out of the van, gritting my teeth. Julian looks me up and down with a deepening frown.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re covered in dirt and blood,” he says. “You’ll terrify my staff.”
“So? I’m a vampire!”
“A revenant.” He shakes his head. “I can’t let them see you like this. Hold still.”
I look at him sidelong. What is he going to do to me? Without explanation, he cocks his chin upwards and takes a long, slow breath. The muscles around his jaw tense up, then release.
“Better,” he says.
I look down at myself. My black jeans and T-shirt look cleaner than they did when I bought them.
“Quicker than getting you a change of clothing and a shower,” he says. “Now follow me.”
We walk through the garage, down a staircase and into the narrow, shifting hallways of the basement labyrinth. We pass painting after painting, landscapes and portraits rendered in a classical style, hung in gilded frames. Several of the portraits are of revenants I’ve met or seen in dreams. I pick out five of Lucien Verlinden before I stop counting.
“I’m taking you to my seraglio,” Julian explains. “The men and women there have agreed to allow us to impose upon them. They are paid well, and their medical needs are seen to, so you needn’t feel guilty about the arrangement.”
I should probably care about how weird this is, but I don’t.
“There are rules governing contact between revenants and redlisted,” Julian says. “God knows most revenants don’t follow them, but I will see to it that you do.”
“What are they?”
“You may drink only with permission. You already violated that rule with Matthew, but I consider myself at fault for that,” he says. “If your vessel loses consciousness, you must stop drinking. If your vessel requests that you stop, you must stop. You must drink only from the artery that they offer. And—this is crucial—you must not damage your vessel more than is necessary.”
“All right,” I say, wondering what ‘necessary’ is.
“We’re almost there,” he says. “Are you ready?”
I take a breath. “Yes.”
We turn a corner and find ourselves in front of the ornate wooden doors with the golden handles.
“You will follow the rules,” Julian orders me.
I nod.
He pulls a door open, and I step inside the seraglio.
Seraglio
In a haze of anxiety and desire I walk into the seraglio. Inside everything is crimson—red walls, red curtains, red cushions on the floor. Dim lights and soft conversation. I can hear more heartbeats than I can count, closer than close. I can almost taste blood in the air. My hands are shaking.
Julian said I had to get their permission. That’s my only restraint. Acquire permission.
I push aside the curtain hanging between the entryway and the interior. Three beautiful women and three beautiful men wait on the other side, sitting at low tables. Various expressions of panic paint their faces as they notice me.
“Miss Radcliffe?” one of the women, a blonde, breathes.
“What? No. Shit.” I run a hand down my face. “I’m not Mirabel. I’m not even one of her doubles. I’m not going to possess you or, uh…” I trail off.
The six of them stare at me.
“Look, this is my first time.” I sigh. “You know what I’m here for. Will one of you please just volunteer?”
The men and women exchange uneasy looks. I wait for their reaction, trying not to fidget. After a few moments, one of the men stands up and steps forward. The others slip behind the next set of hanging curtains, whispering in scandalized tones.
“I’m Alan,” the man says, offering a hand. He’s tall, strong-looking, with dark skin, very short dark hair and a face prettier than mine. “What’s your name?”
“Kate.”
I go to shake his hand. He intercepts mine and brings it to his lips for a kiss. Oh for the love of God.
“No,” I tell him, pulling my hand away. “God. Don’t, all right? I’m starving, and I don’t want to make this pretty. Can I just…” Drink your blood? Fuck. I’m having trouble saying it.
“Sure,” he says. “Why don’t you sit down?” He gestures to the table.
I sit down on a cushion, running my tongue along my sharpened teeth. Alan sits down next to me, his right thigh against my left.
“Here,” he says, offering me his arm. “Go ahead.”
He flexes his hand until his veins stand out. Unable to restrain myself, I grab his arm and bite down into his wrist. He doesn’t flinch, but I feel him tense up. I pull my teeth out and place my lips against the wound, sucking it, closing my eyes, relaxing. Blood fills my mouth, runs down my throat, permeates every cell of my body with warmth and pleasure. For a few moments everything feels right. No—not just right, but perfect, transcendent, like every happy memory I’ve ever had mashed into one incomprehensible torrent of joy. It’s wonderful. But I don’t expect it to last. It didn’t for Adam; it shouldn’t for me.
Adam. This stupid, awkward transaction is the same thing we used to do. He’d slit his wrists for me, but he wouldn’t tell me the truth.
Before long, my head clears, my teeth dull, and I feel I should stop. I pull my mouth away from Alan’s wrist. I’ve left a horrible circular gash in his arm. The sight of it makes me shudder.
“Oh, fuck, I am so sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what I’m doing…”
He grabs his wrist and forces a smile.
“It’s really not that bad,” he says. “I’ve had worse.”
I know he wants to make me feel better, but his words have the opposite effect. I feel mortified, disgusted with myself. I start to cry.
Alan puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I wipe my face and stand up. The fact that he’s trying to console me is so sad it’s almost funny.
“Look, I’m not, but why don’t you go see someone about what I just did to you?” I say.
“I’ll be fine,” he says. “Really.”
“Please just go,” I tell him.
He nods, stands, and retreats behind the curtains.
I close my eyes and clench my teeth. No point in feeling embarrassed. No point in feeling sorry for myself. I wipe my face once more; I don’t want Julian to know I was crying. I part the curtains, open the door to the labyrinth and step outside. Julian is leaning against a wall between a mounted lamp and a painting of the Hudson River. He pushes away from the wall as I emerge from the seraglio.
“That was quick,” he says.
I want to smack him. Instead I smile.
“It might be best if you had a chance to rest and clean up,” he says. “I’ll show you to the guest quarters.”
Julian leads me silently through corridor after corridor to a wooden door that blends in almost completely with the wall, where he stops and produces a key from his pants pocket.
“This is where Adam used to stay,” he says as he opens the door. “Hence the diplomas and the academic journals.”
I step inside and make a show of looking around. For the most part, the suite looks the same as I remember it from Adam’s memories. All the antique furniture is still here, his multiple diplomas hang on the wall above the mantle, and his ancient work computer is on the desk in his office next to
a framed picture of himself and his dead fiancee. Just a few details have changed—now there are more books on the bookcase than I remember seeing before, and a steamer trunk with a padlock on it in front of the four-poster bed. I peer into the bedroom and notice a pencil drawing in a simple frame on the left-hand bedstand. It’s a portrait. Of Adam. I frown. Why does he have a picture of himself there?
“There’s a tub and a shower in the back,” Julian says.
“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”
“I’ll give you some time.”
With that he slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Pulling my t-shirt off, I walk through Adam’s bedroom to his bathroom. I take off my boots, peel off my jeans. I turn on the tub faucet and let it fill as I take off my sports bra and my underwear.
Underneath my magically-clean clothing I’m a total mess. There’s blood dried in splotches all over my skin, where it soaked all the way through the fabric. I smell like stale sweat. The botched bleach job Haruko did on my hair left it looking stringy and frizzy at the same time. And, beneath all of that, I still look exactly like Mirabel. Too thin. Too much cruelty in my eyes.
I climb into the tub, sit down and wait for it to finish filling. I do my best not to think too much—not about my embarrassing encounter with Alan, not about Mnemosyne’s machinations, not about Jennifer and Adam.
She just looks so young. For all I know she’s a good century older than him, but she looks like she’s fourteen. I hope that’s not a positive for him.
Of course, I really am a lot younger than Adam, but at least I look like an adult. Like Mirabel.
I hope that’s not a positive for him either.
Fuck, I miss him. When he was here I felt like I had someone on my side. Jennifer’s been nice to me so far, I guess, but something about her has my hackles up. Probably just my own jealousy and resentment. Although, really, she should be angry at me, not the other way around.