Midnight Brunch

by Marta Acosta

  “Really? You contract out your remodeling to the thralls?”

  He laughed. “Oh, no. They are honored to provide for uss for free. We give them many assignmentss, from housecleaning to tax preparation. Sso useful.”

  “That sounds a little, well, exploitive.”

  “Iss it exploitive to allow people to do that which pleasess and fulfillss them?”

  I considered this for a moment, and then said, “Yes, if you know better than they that they are victimizing themselves.”

  “I admire your analytical mind, Misss De Loss Ssantoss, and I would agree if we were taking advantage of them. Our relationship is ssymbiotic. They do things for uss, and we do thingss for them. For example, our credit union offerss low-interest loanss for students and home buyers.”

  Well, this vampire world was much more organized than I’d suspected. “Tell me about your people.”

  I’d already heard most of the story that he told, but I liked listening to him talk. The vampires originated in villages on the coast of the Black Sea. Willem’s research had discovered a link with the trade caravans along the Silk Route from China, Tibet, and India. “Willem’s theory iss that some of the traderss had a recessive genetic condition. When these men took wives from the villages, the children had a unique genetic combination that resulted in our people.” These people then migrated west and north, most settling in Eastern Europe, but some traveling all the way to the Baltic Sea.

  SLIME’s family connection with the vampires could be traced back to the conflicts between Slavic pre-Christian beliefs and Roman Christianity in the ninth century. Secret alliances and organizations were formed then, and they still exist today, albeit for very different purposes. All the men in SLIME’s family were members of a clandestine order called Chalice of Blood, who knew of the existence of the clans and perpetuated horrifying myths.

  “How many of you are there in all?” I asked.

  “Not enough,” he said.

  Trying to get a straight answer out of a vampire was harder than cross-examining a schizophrenic. “A ballpark figure is fine,” I said. “A, zero to five hundred. B, five hundred to one thousand. C, one thousand to—”

  “We don’t know the numbers ourselves,” Silas said with a patient smile. “Some of our kind ‘pass’ as normal and vanish.” He sipped on his drink, gave a small “mmm” of pleasure. “Perhaps they have set up lives elsewhere. I try to take the more optimistic view.”

  The pessimistic view was that anti-vampire nuts had tracked them down and killed them.

  “But I have taken sso much of your time, Misss De Loss Santoss, especially after your traumatic experience.”

  I was a little tired. “Thank you for telling me so much. You said you had documents?”

  “Yess.” He leaned closer. “I feel that we are kindred sspirits, that you, too, have the ssoul of an academic and value the life of the mind. I would like to share my studies with you, but thiss is a sserious undertaking. There are family members who would be very displeased for someone outside to have ssuch a confidence.” He wrinkled his brow. “Perhaps I am alone in thinking that study can lead to advances in civilization.”

  “I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”

  Silas winked. “If you can keep a ssecret, Misss De Loss Santoss, sso can I.”

  He told me that if I wanted to read his research, historical documents, and Willem’s works we could meet here tomorrow during the day when the club was closed. “If you find the material fasscinating, as I think you will, you may want to stay and sstudy longer. We have an apartment upstairss that iss kept for guestss of the club.”

  I might never have this opportunity again. Maybe understanding the vampires’ history would help me understand Oswald’s character and his mother’s objections to me. “That would be wonderful.”

  “I am not so brave as you, however, so you cannot tell anyone, even your friends.”

  “You have my word.”

  He said, “Thank you. We have excellent ssecurity, but one cannot be too cautious when one possesses preciouss and unique antiquities.”

  Silas had to stay at the club for another meeting, but offered me a ride home with one of the club’s staff. He went to a back room and returned in a few minutes with a tall young man with longish dark brown hair. “This is Xavier. He will see you home safely.”

  Xavier was in his early twenties and wore an inexpensive navy blue suit and scuffed shoes. He was lean and sinewy, with high cheekbones and thick eyebrows. I could see the black edge of a tattoo on his neck covered by the collar of his white shirt, and dark pinpoints on his ears from multiple piercings. A scar ran through his right eyebrow, and he wore several silver rings on his fingers, and a black leather studded wristband. In short, he didn’t look like your typical suit-wearer.

  He gazed at me and nodded his head. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Hey,” I responded, and we walked outside. “I’m Milagro.”

  “Nice name. Does it mean anything?”

  “It means miracle. It’s kind of silly.”

  “I like it,” he said. “Not as bad as Xavier. Vampires always give their kids sucky names.”

  I thought it impolite to point out the appropriateness of this.

  “Call me Zave,” he said. “I’m parked over here.” He stopped at a dark midsize car. I saw a rat scuttling near a Dumpster, and I wondered if my extra-sharp vision was necessarily a good thing.

  We got in the car, and I told Zave the address. “Do you need directions?”

  “Nah, I know that street.” He looked at me and said, “You want some music?”

  “Sure.”

  He turned on the stereo and Metallica came blasting out.

  “You like the classics,” I said loudly.

  “Yeah.” He kept taking peeks at me as he drove.

  “Does something about me bother you, Zave?”

  He startled. “Huh? No, it’s just weird, you know, meeting you. I didn’t know your kind was real.”

  “What kind, Latinas or someone immune to infection?”

  He thought this was pretty funny, and that scored points with me. “I mean that you’re someone who drank our blood, like in the movies.”

  “It was accidental. I didn’t know your kind was real either. What’s your tattoo?”

  “It’s a coffin and a wooden stake. I was like wanting to be empowered for who I am.” He bashed on his horn and hit the gas to roar around a car that was going the speed limit.

  “Whatever turns your engine, Zave.”

  The light up ahead was yellow, turning red, and he sped through the intersection.

  I studied his hands. One of the rings was a skull, but the others were bulky plain bands. His fingernails were short and broken, and his fingers were stained.

  “What kind of work do you do, Zave?”

  “Stuff for Silas.”

  “I mean with your hands. You look like a man who knows how to use your hands.” I didn’t mean the comment to sound so suggestive.

  “I totally restored my ’73 Camaro Z28. It’s got a Turbo 400 trans, a torque converter, new cam and lifters, and a new paint job, silver with black stripes. It runs like a bat outta hell.”

  “Sounds like a sweet ride.”

  “She is,” he said. “It’s still early. You wanna go for a drink? I know a place.” He named a warehouse that was known for punk bands and brawling.

  Before Oswald, this was exactly the sort of thing I would have done for fun, and Zave definitely had a loose-cannon appeal. “Thanks, but I’ve had a long day.”

  “Yeah, okay, I know I don’t have money like Ducharme, but I’ve got ideas and plans,” he said defensively. “And I’m not some geezer.” Zave evidently defined geezer as anyone over thirty.

  “I don’t know who told you that I was going out with Ian Ducharme, but we’re just friends.”

  “You mean you’re not…”

  “No, Oswald Grant is my boyfriend. Do you know the Grant family?”
>
  “The ones with all the attitude? Like they’re too good for anyone?”

  “They’re really very nice,” I said.

  We arrived at Mercedes’s house. Zave parked across the driveway and got out of the car. I looked around before stepping out. Mercedes was still at the club, and the windows were dark.

  Zave walked up to the front door, triggering the motion-detector porch light. He stood at the door and waited while I unlocked it.

  “Thanks for the ride, Zave.”

  He watched me with a worried look and said, “You know, maybe it’s time for me to move on. Maybe you want to move on, too, get away from these tired old vamps.”

  “I’m just getting used to them.”

  “Why bother? It’s a big world out there. My car’s gassed up, ready to hit the highway.” His dark brown eyes stared into mine with promises of exhilarating and possibly illicit adventures.

  “Zave, we just met, and I’m in a relationship.”

  “Things change.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Here’s my number anyway. You got a fire in you and I can tell…we could have some good times.”

  “Thanks for the ride, Zave. Buenas noches.”

  He stood there until I was inside. Peering though the peephole, I saw him jam his hands into his pockets. The idea of a road trip with an aimless and energetic young man seemed romantic and impossible, and I felt a pang that my life had become so routine; I was not that wild girl.

  Then Zave turned and went back to his car.

  It was late and I thought Oswald would be asleep now. I called his phone and his recorded message played. “Hi, Oz, I hope your trip is going well,” I said in a cheerful voice. “I’m sorry about the argument and we’ll work it out.” I told him I now had a phone, and he could call me if he had a chance. “See you soon.”

  I called Ian again and left a message that I really, really needed to talk to him. Then I made up my bed on the sofa and lay in the dark, listening to the clatter, buzzing, and roar of the City, thinking of my last few days. I felt as if I’d turned a corner and that big things were happening in my life, things that would radically change my state-of-the-chica analysis. Like Silas, I tried to take an optimistic view.

  The next morning, I packed my bags before Mercedes was up. I folded my blankets and tried unsuccessfully to make Cuban coffee. The result was not foamy and rich but flat and bitter. I tossed it in the sink and made a pot of very strong tea.

  When I heard Mercedes moving around, I fixed toast with marmalade for her and toast with strawberry jam for myself. I was having a strong red craving.

  “Morning,” Mercedes said, coming into the kitchen in her robe. “You’re up early. Going back to the ranch?”

  “Yes,” I said. Of course I lied occasionally, especially when answering questions like, “Do you like my new haircut?” However, lying to Mercedes felt very, very wrong, and I promised myself that I’d make it up to her somehow. “If that detective gets back to you, which I doubt he will, give him my phone number.”

  “Sure.” She poured some milk in her tea. “I smell coffee.”

  “I ruined it. But I had a great day yesterday.” I told her about meeting Skip and said that I’d had a drink with Silas. She didn’t ask me the name of the bar, so I didn’t have to prevaricate.

  As I said good-bye, I gave Mercedes a hug. The visions of red pulsing through veins and flesh exploded in my head. I held tight to her sturdy frame, waiting for them to dissipate. But they continued, worse than yesterday morning when…when Mercedes had touched me.

  “Milagro?”

  I let go of Mercedes and fought the urge to let my knees buckle. The images quickly faded.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be that touching someone would do this to me.

  “I’m fine,” I said with a broad smile. “I just hate to say good-bye.”

  “It’s just hasta la vista, not adios, mujer.”

  She walked me out to my truck. I got in and rolled down the window. “Muchas gracias por todo.”

  Looking more serious than usual, she replied, “If you need anything, just call, okay?”

  “You know I will.”

  I drove until I was out of her view. Then I pulled into the first parking space I saw and dropped my head onto the steering wheel.

  What had Ian done to me? I tried to think rationally. I’d been very sick after my initial accidental infection with Oswald’s blood. I’d suffered a relapse early on and a second ingestion of his blood had helped me to recover. The quantities I’d taken in were mere drops, nothing compared to the amount that I’d received from Ian. And Ian was different from the other vamps. He was physically stronger, and he never seemed affected by alcohol or exhaustion. But those traits could be unrelated to his vampire condition.

  I needed to know more. I needed to see Silas.

  Ten

  Played for a (Blood) Sucker

  T he block of empty warehouses looked even more dismal in the daylight. Layers of soot covered the buildings, and even the graffiti was uninspired obscenities. I parked in a lot behind the club, where Silas had told me the truck would be safe.

  I knocked on the front door of the club, and the string bean, looking as colorless and nasty as a jar of marshmallow cream, opened it.

  “Hi, Silas is meeting me here,” I said.

  Without a word, he swung open the door, and I entered the cool darkness of the club. I followed him to the back door. He pushed a button and a few seconds later Silas opened the door. He looked younger, his small, thin body clad in jeans and a white T-shirt, his pale hair wet and spiky.

  “Misss De Losss Santoss, I’m sso happy that you came.”

  “So am I, Silas.”

  He ushered me into a nondescript hallway with gray industrial carpeting and said, “Let’ss go upstairs to the apartment, so we can talk and I can show you our hisstorical manuscripts.”

  We walked to the far end of the building. The windows here had been painted black, and pendant lamps illuminated the narrow stairs to the second floor.

  The apartment was enormous by city standards and starkly furnished. The large room had only a sofa, a few armchairs, a coffee table, and a dining set. To one side was an open kitchen and I guessed the bedrooms were behind the closed doors.

  “You’ve got a lot of space here,” I said.

  “No need to be polite. Xavier was supposed to put this place together for me, but he got into some sort of confrontation with one of the IKEA salespeople over bookshelves.”

  Laughing, I said, “Xavier in IKEA? He doesn’t seem like a guy who’s interested in household furnishings.”

  “No, he’s happier in an auto parts store, but I have hopess for him. May I offer you ssomething to drink?”

  “Yes, that would be nice,” I said. I was happy when he went to the refrigerator and took out a plastic pouch of blood. “Animal, right?”

  “Calf.” He filled two glasses with ice, added some blood to each, and then topped them off with Italian mineral water. Eyeing the glasses, he said, “Maybe a garnish? I’m not very good at these domestic embellishmentss.”

  “No, it’s fine, thanks.”

  “Drink up and I’ll sshow you the sstudy.”

  I preferred to sip, but I was craving blood anyway, so I guzzled.

  We went by the living room area to a locked door. Silas reached under his collar and pulled a silver chain with a key over his head. He opened the door, saying, “These papersss are irreplaceable.”

  The windowless room was dark until Silas turned on a lamp by the door. Three long oak tables were set end to end. One was bare except for green-shaded banker’s lamps, and the other two were covered with papers and stacks of books. Cardboard boxes of books sat on the floor, and maps and diagrams covered the walls. The only seats were wooden straight-back chairs. The air was cool and I could feel a draft from the humming ventilation system.

  “If you please,” said Silas, and handed me a pair of thin white glov
es from a box. “The oils from our fingerss can damage the ancient paperss. Sso can direct and fluorescent light and materials with acidity.”

  Silas unlocked a cabinet and took out a large cardboard box. He set this on the empty table and turned on a lamp. After removing the top of the box, he gently lifted out a book. The leather cover was worn through in places and the frayed edges looked as if mice had munched on them.

  “What is this?” I asked, running my gloved finger over the strange gilt letters on the cover.

  “The Book of Blood,” he said. “Our earliest hisstory.”

  I carefully lifted the cover. Thin transparent sheets separated and protected the pages. “What alphabet is this?”

  “It iss related to the glagolitic alphabet. The accepted theory is that St. Csyril and his brother, St. Methodiuss, created thiss alphabet, but Willem’s research showss that this version may well have derived from the Slavic runes used in pre-Christian ssacred textss.”

  As I stared at the strange letters, a chill ran down my spine. I’m sure it was only because they were so unfamiliar, the dark black marks on thick yellow sheets, the exquisite, brilliantly colored geometric illustrations that decorated the work.

  Silas was watching me and he said excitedly, “You feel the effect? The texts are not mere books. They are totemss, they have power.”

  I was never going to disagree with someone who said a book had power, unless he was talking about books made from movies. “But the power of books is in the words, the meaning,” I said.

  “Yess, but a rare few bookss have power in their very exisstence.”

  We sat down at a table and Silas talked about the book and gave a general translation of the contents, which correlated to his description of the vampire history. It was fascinating to be examining such an old tome and to think of the scholars who had painstakingly made these letters and intricate illuminations.

  “But I must be boring you, Misss De Loss Santoss,” Silas said, and he returned the book to its box, and the box to the cabinet. “You must have questionss.”