by Marta Acosta
I leaned back in the wooden chair. “I do. I’d like to know what role religion plays in your lives.”
“Ah, do you mean if we have our own religion? No, Misss De Loss Santoss, we don’t have an ‘official’ faith, and mosst of us follow one of the major religionss. We do have ritess that celebrate our heritage and culture. We do not believe in the old ssuperstitionss, but I think it iss important to presserve these ancient customs sso they are not losst in the fog of time. Willem wass instrumental in reviving ssome of these practicess.”
His explanation demystified the strange ceremony at the ranch. “You know, there’s a group of Cuban anthropologists who sing folk songs as a way of preserving them.”
“Yess, this has an anthropological basiss.”
“Do all of you have exactly the same abilities? I mean, fast healing and immunity from disease? Or do some of you have other abilities?”
“The majority of uss have these characteristicss at about the same level. Ssome have less, ssome have more.”
“Like Ian Ducharme?”
“Yess, hiss line hass more pronounced abilities, as you put it.”
“Why is that?”
“Geneticss are not my forte, Misss De Loss Santoss, but I believe that thiss can be traced to the original intermarriages of the traders with the villagerss. A variation within an anomaly, but I am not privy to the details of his family line.”
“I suppose his sister, Cornelia, shares those traits.”
“Sssister?” Silas looked at me quizzically. “Cornelia is not hiss ssister. They are, ass they ssay, kissing coussins. Hiss family took her in when her own parentss died in a boating accident. It wass assumed that they would marry.”
Gee, and I’d thought I couldn’t feel any creepier about Cornelia. “What about the Grant family?”
“Very distinguished,” said Silas. “There wass the incident with Edna Grant’s book…”
“Chalice of Blood,” I volunteered.
“Yess, but she wass young. The young can be sso impetuouss,” he said sympathetically. “Ssadly, it caused the demise of her marriage.”
“Oswald’s told me that your lifespan is a little longer.”
“Yess, many of us live healthily to one hundred—which can sseem like an eternity, I ssuppose.”
“I imagine so. Also, do you have any, um, sensory differences from nonvampires? For example, if you touch someone, can you sense their, ah, inner organs?”
“What an extraordinary question, Misss De Loss Santoss! Unlike comic book superheroes, we do not have X-ray vision. When I touch someone, I ssee only what you would ssee. No more, no lesss.”
“Oh,” I said. I was the only one. “When was the last time someone survived infection?”
“More than three hundred yearss ago, or sso the story goess.” He smiled. “Sso you ssee, you are a rara avis.”
I didn’t want to be a rare bird. I wanted to be just one of the flock. Silas must have interpreted the expression on my face as hunger, because he said, “I have another meeting to attend, but pleasse have lunch here. If you can sstay, I have a report that may interest you, and we can continue our converssation thiss evening.”
I wanted to learn as much as I could. “Yes, I can stay. My things are down in my truck.”
“Give me your keyss and I will have one of the sstaff bring them up.”
I handed over my keys.
He opened a file cabinet and took out a bound report. “You will find this very informative.”
The report was called “Development, Migratory Patterns, and Evolution of Vampire Folklore.” Just glancing at the heavily annotated and footnoted pages made me long for a margarita and a gardening magazine. “I can’t wait to really get into it,” I said, “after lunch, of course.”
“When you have finished it, I will share a most important document, Willem’s Project for a New Vampire Century.”
“A one-hundred-year plan? I can hardly figure out what to do next week.”
Silas laughed politely. “All good thingss take time, and with our extended lifespan, we have more time than most. The project is Willem’s most brilliant work, his theoriess on how we can influence policiess to create a better world for everyone.” Silas’s pale eyes shone with a passion I hadn’t seen before.
“That sounds ambitious,” I said, trying to sound as neutral as Switzerland, except that I had no intention of shielding the bank accounts of evildoers. “What are your goals?”
“I cannot explain them all now, but in brief, we promote national fisscal ressponssibility, an elected parliamentary ssystem, and ssupport for familiess and children. With economic equality and ssocial justice, there comes peace.”
Thinking about Gabriel, I asked, “What about gay families?”
“The private ssexual practicess of individualss are unimportant to us,” he said with a patient smile. “We are concerned about sstable, ssafe homes for children and responsible parenting. Is the child fed healthy foodss, clothed, educated, and loved? Is the child ssafe and are there ruless, but not abuse?”
He should have a chat with my mother Regina about his standards for good child care. “It sounds wonderful, but how do you deal with corporate power and greed that circumvents the greater good of nations and peoples?”
“Ah, Misss De Losss Santosss, that is a problem for economists, and a few good minds are working on that now. There can be change for the better, I musst believe that, and the will of the people should not be underesstimated.”
His idealism was a warm breeze in a cold world.
We removed our gloves and left the research room. Silas locked the door behind us.
He showed me the bedroom I would be using. It was a small, austere room, done all in white like the quarters in a rest home in a chilly mountain village where one would go hoping to be cured of consumption: white coverlet, white walls, white flat-weave rug, white melamine furniture. Through a door I could see an all-white bathroom.
“My own needs are minimal, Misss De Loss Santosss, and I hope this will not be too uncomfortable for you.”
“It’s very nice. Where is it that you stay, Mr. Madison?”
“Some thrallss allow me to use their guest cottage when I am in the City. Otherwise I will work all night and exhaust myself.”
I imagined Silas toiling away, unaware of the hour, working on his important annotations and footnotes.
“Cuthbertson, our doorman, will be here if you need anything. You may call downstairs on this intercom. I will have lunch ssent up shortly.”
So he left and I found myself holding the hefty report. I read the introduction, which was a mind-numbing explanation of research techniques and methodology.
I had just finished this section, by which I mean that I had let my eyes move in total apathy over the pages, when Cutherbertson, the string bean, came upstairs with a white paper deli sack and my overnight bag.
“Your lunch,” he said, dropping the bag on the table. He tossed my bag onto the sofa.
“Thank you.”
He gave me a long look, then turned and left. I opened the white bag and took out a clear plastic container of fruit salad, a chicken sandwich, a bottle of water, and an oatmeal raisin cookie. I tried not to think of the blood in the refrigerator as I ate my meal.
When I was finished eating, I made myself cozy on the sofa and returned to the report. Silas was a very diligent researcher, but his intriguing personality could not be found in his writing. I would have had fun reading through the history of vampire myths if he’d thrown in a handful of active verbs and a sprinkling of adjectives. I liked learning trivia, such as the old-timey belief that if you put seeds on a vampire’s grave, he would get so preoccupied counting them that he wouldn’t run amok, eating villagers in the dark hours.
The report lulled me to sleep, and I awoke to footsteps on the stairs. I sat up, ran my fingers through my hair, and tried to look as if I was fully alert. When Silas entered the apartment, I said, “I’ve been so engrossed in yo
ur report that I lost all track of time.”
“You are too kind, Misss De Loss Santoss. When I checked on you earlier, my stolid work had made you doze off.”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t your writing. I was very tired. What time is it?”
“Just past ten. I hope you don’t mind me letting you ssleep sso long, but you sseemed to need the rest. It’s almost time for an exhilarating event.”
“Really?” I was glad we weren’t going to spend the entire evening discussing his report.
“Yess. Perhaps I am being precipitouss in asking, but you’ve shown such interest…would you like to participate in one of our most important ceremonies? It requiress a survivor, and when I heard about you, I knew you were the one. I’ve wanted to revive this rite ever ssince I first learned of its existence in a Latvian text on the mythology of the Latvju Dainas.”
This sounded as if it would fit Oswald’s description of his peoples’ ceremonies as long and boring. “Do I have to recite anything? Because if I do, I’d need time to memorize.”
“No, we will do all the sspeaking. Your role is ssymbolic.”
“Do I get to wear a folk costume?” I wistfully envisioned something with wooden clogs and an embroidered red felt hat.
Silas beamed. “Yess, you will look very beautiful in the traditional white ssilk gown.”
I liked dressing up, so I said, “Well, okay, then.”
Neither of us was very hungry, so we had fruit and cheese and blood spritzers. “What is the purpose of the ceremony?” I asked.
He opened his mouth and the strange noises came out. “It meanss ssolicitation to the ssun. You can imagine how anguished our forebears were without ssunscreen. They longed to walk in the ssunlight without harm. They believed that a ssurvivor would lead them to a new sstage and they would not fear the ssun’s rayss, but flourish in them.”
“That’s so poignant,” I said. “The sun always symbolizes life and growth, of course.” At least the latest infection hadn’t rendered me susceptible to UVA rays.
“We will begin ssoon. The gown is in the meditation room, and you can change there. The ceremony will be held on the stage of the club.”
We started downstairs, and I said, “Wait, let me get something.” I ran back up and grabbed my overnight bag and my purse, then returned to Silas. “I’ve got a few lipsticks, so I’ll see what goes best with the gown,” I said, holding up my purse. Then I indicated my overnight bag and added, “Luckily I brought all my things for the wedding so I can fix my hair, too. I want to look my best if I’m going to be onstage.”
“I appreciate your zeal.”
As Silas opened the door to the meditation room, Cuthbertson, in a red Nehru jacket and black pants, came through the door at the end of the hall that led to the club. In a moment, I saw a crowd of pale faces, thralls and vampires, all dressed in ruby robes, and I heard the eerie keening of the chanteuse, singing in the awful language. A chill ran down my spine.
Cuthbertson closed the door and came to Silas. “We are ready, sir.” The string bean’s jacket bulged at his side. I knew he had a weapon hidden. I knew without a doubt that it was the jeweled knife. His eyes homed in on me like a shark homes in on a seal.
“Thank you, Cuthbertson, we shall be ready momentarily.” Silas waited for me to go into the meditation room. The room had soft gray walls, large sitting cushions on the gray rug, and a low table. An aromatherapy candle was burning. The only window was painted black. It really was a meditation room.
On the table was a decanter of greenish liquid, a small carved wooden cup, and a neatly folded white item of clothing. Silas lifted the fabric and shook out the gossamer silk. The long gown was indeed beautiful, with a low, gathered neckline and an empire waist. The bodice was richly embroidered with a sun motif in gold thread.
“I will give you a few minutes to prepare,” Silas said. “Please have a cup of our traditional beverage.” He poured the greenish liquid into the cup and handed it to me.
I sniffed. It smelled herby. “What is this?”
“A fermented grain beverage, distilled with herbs. The alcohol content is minimal, but I thought you would enjoy experiencing all asspectss of our anthropological research. For the ssake of authenticity.”
“Thanks.” I put the cup to my lips and took a sip. It tasted like rubbing alcohol, dirt, and grass. I suspected that it would serve as nail polish remover in an emergency. “Mmm, nice green notes,” I said. “I’ll save it until I’m doing my makeup.”
“The tradition is to drink it quickly. Bottomss up,” Silas said.
I had to drink it if I wanted him to think I was complacent. I tipped the cup back and swallowed the vile beverage. I hoped the alcohol wouldn’t hit me too soon and too fast.
“Fabulous,” I said as calmly as I could. “Um, no one is going to walk in while I change?”
“Cuthbertson will guard the door. I must get ready, too.” He smiled broadly. “We will relive history tonight, Misss De Loss Santoss. We will pay homage to the sspirits of our ancestorss.”
I was pretty sure my ancestors would have lopped off his ancestors’ heads and rolled them down a pyramid, but now wasn’t the time to discuss cultural differences.
The moment Silas left the room and shut the door behind him, I went to the one window in the room. I opened it slowly and quietly, then saw to my dismay that security bars blocked my escape to the parking lot below. A small lock held the bars in place.
I got my phone out of my bag. The police wouldn’t come on my suspicion alone. Ian was nowhere around. I needed someone who could find this place fast and get me out. Zave’s scrap of paper was in my pocket. I took it out and called him. He answered right away.
“Zave,” I whispered. “It’s Milagro. I’m at the club and I have a feeling Silas is planning something bad.”
“Mil! I tried to warn you last night. They’re gonna bleed you.”
“Warn me? You asked me out for a drink last night. I’m in the meditation room and Cuthbertson is guarding the door. A pack of vampires and thralls are in the club. How do I get out?”
He paused so long that I said, “Zave, are you still there?”
“Yeah. You gotta get the key from Cuthbertson. He keeps a ring of keys in his pocket and he’s got keys for the window bars. I’m coming round back to get you.”
“How do I get the key from him?”
“Punch him out. He’s going to be using the knife on you.”
I’d seen the meanness in Cuthbertson’s face. I knew he’d enjoy hurting me. “Punch him out with what? The only thing in this room is pillows.” There was a tap at the door and I quickly put the phone away.
“Miss De Los Santos,” said Cuthbertson. “Are you almost ready?”
I went to the door and opened it a few inches. “Actually, I’m really nervous about being onstage. I always choked in my acting classes. Do you think I could have some champagne? Bring a bottle.”
His pupils were dilated and I could smell the herby alcohol on his breath. He stared at me hungrily and nodded. I didn’t want to know what he was thinking.
I put my bag and purse by the window and waited for his return. When he tapped on the door again, I opened it and ushered him in. He held a bottle of champagne in one hand and a flute in the other.
I took the bottle and said, “I think I’m going to have a little trouble with this dress. It’s not going to fit over my chest. Can you help?”
When he walked unsteadily toward the low table, I kicked the door shut and said, “Has everyone been imbibing this amazing grog?”
“Yes, we are all very, very excited.” He leaned toward me. “Is it true what they say?”
“What?”
“Is it true your blood is an aphrodisiac? That it arouses and strengthens? That it grants fertility?”
It took me a second to take in what he’d said, and then I answered in a husky voice, “All that and more, Cuthbertson. Will you be doing the cutting?”
His mouth was slack. H
e nodded. “Yes, I want to feel the knife going through your flesh.”
Any ambivalence I’d had about what I was going to do vanished. “Get the gown for me, would you? You can help me get into it.”
When he bent over to pick up the gown, I swung the bottle at his noggin. It connected with a sickening thud and Cuthbertson collapsed forward. “Better you than me,” I said.
He was breathing, but unconscious. I dragged the table to the door and jammed it underneath the knob to block entry. Then I fished in his pockets while thinking, “Ew, ew, ew,” and found the keys. I poured the rest of the grog over his face and shirt.
I ran to the window and examined the key ring. There were three smaller keys that might fit the lock. The first one worked. I swung out the security bars and hoisted myself on the windowsill. The ground was about fifteen feet below and I didn’t see my truck in the parking lot. I tossed out my bag and my purse. I hoped I wouldn’t break my legs in the fall.
I took a breath and counted, “One, two—” and then I heard the roar of a powerful engine. A silver and black Camaro swerved into the parking lot. Zave left the engine running as he jumped out and came to the window. He wore a beat-up black leather jacket, a faded black T-shirt, and old jeans.
“Jump,” he said, looking like a rock-and-roll Romeo.
“Three.” I jumped. I was not a frail and delicate creature, but he was able to catch me, even though the impact knocked us to the ground. He smelled of motor oil, sweat, and beer, and I thought it was the most fantastic aroma on earth.
We scrambled up and he grabbed my bags. “Let’s roll,” he said, and I had already thrown myself into the leather bucket seat and slammed the car door. He tore out of the parking lot and he was right; the car raced like a bat out of hell.
Eleven
Children of the Gravely Mistaken
“W here’s my truck?” I asked Zave.
“Silas told me to get rid of it. It’s at a long-term lot at the airport.” He looked at me and grinned. “Did you knock Cuthbertson out?”
“I did. I had a little help, since he was bombed on that weird vampire booze.”