by Densie Webb
She looks shocked, then amused. “Are you saying that you believe that I literally can’t go on without you?” She’s wearing a sick grin.
“Andie, I don’t think; I know.”
“And what about you? Can you go on without me?” she asks, her voice infused with sarcasm.
And a dash of fear.
“I wouldn’t want to and it would be painful, but it’s more complicated than that.”
“So, let me get this straight—you’re telling me that I’m sick because of not being with you and, if we split up, that I’ll get sicker? Seriously, Vincent, I’ve heard some lines before, but…”
This is where I stumble.
“Do you believe in the supernatural?” I blurt out. Not the question I intended to lead with. The shock on her face is answer enough.
“Andie, I’m not what you think I am.”
She leans away from me. “What the hell does that mean?”
“There are things beyond your wildest imagination that exist in this world.” I look directly into her eyes and tighten my grip on her hands. “And I’m one of them.”
Her eyes dart to the door and she wrestles her hands free. I let her and I feel her reluctant regret at having done so.
“Andie, please try to understand. This was all beyond our control. I didn’t want to interrupt your life, force you to make this choice.”
“What choice?” She’s screaming at me now, her face flushed, her voice hoarse. “What are you talking about?”
I rush to Danielle’s portrait, pointing at the date. “It says 1862 because that is when it was painted.” I wait for that information to soak in. “Do you understand what that means, Andie?”
Her lip trembles and her face is bloated with sadness. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “You’re certifiable! I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Mack tried to warn me.” She looks at me, her eyes shining with tears not yet shed and whispers to her herself, “She was so right.”
Chapter 34
Andie
How can someone so beautiful, so successful, so well-spoken—so fucking together on the outside, be such a cracked mess on the inside? I need to get the hell out of here. But the thought of walking out the door, down to the street and away from his house—from him—triggers that same penetrating sick feeling that has cast a pall over every waking moment since I kicked him out of my apartment. I’m losing my mind, losing my grip on reality—like Vincent.
“Andie, please sit back down and give me a chance to explain.”
I glance around the room to get my bearings, to reclaim reality. The wraparound windows frame a twinkling outline of the Hudson River; the circular staircase that I can only assume leads to another breathtaking floor; and the delicate chandelier that looks like a cluster of budding tree branches.
An eclectic collection of artwork covers the walls. Sculptures and delicately painted vases with fresh flowers decorate every available surface. A Persian rug covers part of the marble floor. I feel as if I’ve stumbled onto a movie set. And I’m the ill-fated star. My eyes land on the front door. It seems miles away.
“I told you that my wife died from a sudden illness. What I didn’t tell you, what I couldn’t tell you then, is that she was murdered. I was ‘spared,’ but was changed—into what I am now. I am one of the Kindred. Do you know what that means?”
I’ve read my share of paranormal novels and I know what it means, at least what it means in fiction.
But this is real life.
“You can’t be serious.” I’m shaking my head, refusing to look him in the eye, refusing to believe this is happening. “Please don’t be serious.” He’s pushed me off the edge of the precipice, but his next words stop me mid-fall.
“So, Andie, ma chérie, then you know what the Kindred do to survive?”
I have to look at him now. He believes every word he’s saying. I see it in his eyes. But, it’s junk, the stuff of horror movies and erotic novels—it’s the talk of someone having a psychotic break.
I instinctively raise my hand up to my neck.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. That night, my passion pushed me over the edge.”
“You’re telling me that you—need blood—that you drink blood?”
He winces, hangs his head. “Yes.”
“And you think you bit me—to drink mine?”
“I wouldn’t have, I…”
All the bizarre events that have happened since we met flash through my mind. I tick them off mentally, one after another. Suddenly, it all makes some kind of wild sense. For a nanosecond I actually entertain the idea of joining him in his bat-shit crazy belief. But then, just as quickly, I come to my senses. I have to make him see through his delusion, to help him make his way back to reality.
“Okay, so if all that’s true, how come you go out during the day? Sunlight’s supposed to burn your skin. I’ve got a string of garlic in the kitchen that’s never bothered you. And crosses. What about crosses? There were some at the Met!” I’m losing it, waving my arms frantically. “We’ve walked by countless churches. And I don’t see any coffins around here.”
I cross my arms to punctuate my statements and do my best to sound like I’ve got the upper hand of this ridiculous, frightening exchange, but my defiance makes an abrupt departure and I’ve never felt less in control.
The corner of his mouth softly slides into a half smile. The smile that used to make my heart melt, but now feels like he’s humoring me, or worse, in an unexpected role reversal, he’s pitying me.
Again, I try to appeal to logic—if he has any left. “Okay, so if you’re what you say you are, your reflection wouldn’t appear in a mirror. But, I remember watching your reflection as you walked out with that woman at Lizzie Borden’s.”
“None of that is true, Andie. It’s an amalgam born of fear, misunderstandings and myths.”
“Wooden stakes to the heart?”
He shakes his head. “It would heal.”
“So, you’re the exception to all the books and movies about”—my mouth twists with the distaste of having to utter the word—“the Kindred?”
“No, not the exception. The rule.”
His tone is patient; he’s speaking to me as if trying to explain to a child why the sky is blue.
“So, you believe there are more like you.”
“There are, but Nicholas and I don’t associate with any others.”
What had Nicholas said as he left? “Good luck, Mate?” He must be aware of Vincent’s delusions. How could he have left me here, alone with him? I have to keep talking.
“So, you believe Nicholas is like you as well?”
“He is.”
I have to find a way to distract him. So I can run. I take a small step toward the door. There must be an entrance to a stairwell. I can’t run out and then wait for the elevator. For now, I’ll pretend to go along with his fantasy, his feverish belief, his fetish, as I slowly make my way to the door, get out and move on.
“And so the blood thing is true.”
He turns away from me. “Yes, it is.”
That exact moment I spotted Vincent at Lizzie Borden’s is seared into my memory. There he was, looking like every girl’s fantasy and inexplicably staring at me—like he wanted me. And every day, every moment since then, he’s been on the edge of my every thought, even shadowing me in my dreams.
When we made love—oh my god, when we made love—the feel of his hands on my body. And I needed him, like a wild animal in heat. But what’s happening right now, what he believes, what he wants me to believe is not something I’m equipped to handle. This is far from what I had envisioned being with him would be like. Like, another-planet far. My heart has been clamped onto a torture rack and is slowly, painfully being ripped apart.
He needs help—psychiatric help.
I take another small step toward the door.
Chapter 35
Vincent
Disbelief is written on her face, displayed in her defiant stance,
in her list of my failures to act like the Hollywood version of what I am. Why should she believe? Until I was faced with the horror of it myself, I had scoffed at the superstitious fools who believed such things possible.
I’ve taken the first step and must now find a way to convince her of my repellant past, my unsavory truth. But what can I do to prove the veracity of my story? Words are easy, but she requires evidence, physical proof, some undeniable action. I walk into the kitchen, slowly slide open a drawer, and retrieve a corkscrew.
She shakes her head and sighs, exasperated. “Vincent, seriously? Now? I don’t want any wine.”
I grip the corkscrew tightly against my wrist and look her in the eye.
Before she has time to react, I shove the sharp end into my flesh, slashing the skin up to my elbow and drop the corkscrew onto the floor. Blood from the gaping wound pours down my fingers and pools onto the tile floor. She slaps her hand over her mouth and jumps from the stool, knocking it to the floor.
“Shit! Shit! Oh my God! What have you done?” She grabs a dishtowel, runs to me to tie it around my arm and stop the bleeding. “I’m calling 911!” Tears stream down her cheeks. She runs toward the bedroom to retrieve her phone.
“No, Andie, No! Don’t! Just look!” I unwrap the blood-soaked dishtowel.
“What are you doing?”
I hold out my arm to show her. She grimaces and covers her eyes with her hands.”
“Andie look!”
The seconds pass, filled with her silent desperation and fear, I step closer and she lets her hands fall and opens her eyes in time to witness the wound closing, healing.
She lifts her shirt to wipe her tears and stares at my arm, then looks up at me. “If this is some kind of trick, it’s not funny. Not even a little. You think you’re some kind of Houdini? Well, you’re an asshole,” she says, her last volley weak.
I hold my hand out to her and she recoils.
“Andie, I want you to understand.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to understand.”
“I am what I say I am. That cannot be changed, but for reasons that even I cannot understand, fate has brought you and I together. Normally, this would be happening only between two Kindred.”
“Normally?” she says with a forced laugh.
“I had been told that this connection, our connection, could not happen with a human, but—"
“Human? So what are you—an alien?”
I forge ahead. “Andie, I knew what this was the first time I sensed your presence at Lizzie Borden’s.”
“You ‘sensed’ my presence? What the hell does that mean?” Her teeth are chattering with fear.
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“Of course it is; everything about you is difficult to explain,” she says, her sarcasm shaky. “So tell me the truth; how did you do that thing with your arm—and my neck?”
“It wasn’t a trick, Andie. My body heals itself spontaneously and my actions that night temporarily transferred that ability to you.”
“I ask for truth and you give me bullshit.”
“I will cut myself once again if you need more proof.”
“Fuck you!” She takes a bold step forward. “Vincent, get out of my way, I want to leave. Now!”
I place myself between her and the front door. She is too distraught to leave and I know her departure would be short lived, no matter how badly she would want to stay away. I reach out for her again, but this time she runs into the bedroom, slams the door shut, and the lock clicks into place.
“I’m calling the police!”
I have no choice but to knock the door down. As it crashes to the floor, she screams and, crying hysterically, scrambles to the far side of the bed and curls her body into a defensive ball in the corner. The Sévres vase on the nightstand crashes into a pile of turquoise rubble on the floor. I don’t care about the knick-knack; it is her helpless whimpering that threatens to destroy me.
“Andie, please, please believe me. I won’t harm you.” That I even have to say the words, breaks my heart.
She attempts to stand, but her trembling legs give way and she slides down the wall and slumps into her original position on the floor.
“Andie…”
She shakes her head, so I stay where I am, letting her crawl over to the bed and lift herself up of her own accord. Sitting upright on the edge, she takes a breath and, in a tremulous, but tender tone, says, “Vincent, one of us is crazy and I can’t decide if it’s you or me—or maybe both of us should be committed.”
I gingerly approach and sit next to her on the bed. She doesn’t resist this time but turns to me and begins beating my chest with her fists, twisting the cloth of my shirt in her hands. Her muffled sobs mutilate me.
“Vincent, you have to let me go,” she pleads in between heaving sobs. “I don’t know what kind of control you have over me, but I want my life back.”
She looks up at me, her eyes pleading. She doesn’t yet know that she has the same effect on me. I unclench her fist from my shirt, one finger at a time, and kiss her palms.
“It’s our life now.” I stop and ponder my next words. “This is painful for me to share, but you must know. You deserve to know and the best place to start is at the beginning.”
“The beginning,” she mumbles, her voice hoarse.
“The night Danielle and Phillipe died began like any other.”
“Who’s Phillipe?”
I hesitate. “My son.”
She is stunned, grieving for me. I try to put myself in her place, imagine what my reaction would have been if someone had sat me down and explained everything to me before it became my reality— incredulous, disbelieving, suspicious, angry.
Before I begin, I brush her hair away from her face. “Promise me that you’ll just listen. After you’ve heard my story, then you can decide if you believe me.” She nods.
“We lived in Paris. I had a home, a beautiful family, a job I loved. My life was good. Far better than I deserved. One evening, after dinner, and after negotiating with Phillipe over dessert, we sent the housekeeper home for the evening and retired to the sitting room. The sunlight had dimmed, so Danielle lit the candelabras and took her place at the piano. I stood behind her, as she thumbed through stacks of sheet music. She took my hand and gently kissed it. ‘What would you like to hear tonight, Vincent?’ ”
“Tchaikovsky.” She always asked and my reply was always the same. “Concerto Number Four” was one of my favorites and she played it beautifully. Phillipe was on the floor, lining up his building blocks in a row, along with his tiny tin soldiers. As soon as Danielle’s fingers hit the keys, he began to sway to the music, humming. Danielle had begun his musical instruction and, though he was only four years old, he was taking to it quite naturally. I was so proud.
“This was my favorite time of day—enjoying the satisfaction of a delicious meal, settled and content within the cocoon of my family. We had recently learned that Phillipe was to become a big brother. His freckled face lit up at the news. Danielle’s hope was to have a girl. My only hope was that the birth would be uncomplicated, Danielle would be safe, and that our second child would be as healthy as Phillipe. There was so much to be thankful for in our life together that it often felt as if I had been handpicked by God to receive his blessings. As I took in the scene, I sealed my gratitude with a sign of the cross.”
Andie’s eyes widen as she leans forward to hear the rest of my tale. This reveal of my loving family to Andie must sting, but that is not my intent. No, I simply want her to understand that this is not a work of an overactive imagination, not a late-night horror story told for a thrill. This was my life. I was a man, my wife and son were flesh and blood and they were stolen from me, the taking swift and brutal—and absolutely final. And my fate was sealed.
“Danielle had barely begun the first movement, when there was a knock at the door. The arrival of guests unannounced after dinner was a bit unusual, but not so much that it
triggered worry or suspicion. Danielle stopped playing and I opened the door.
“I knew her—in a manner of speaking. She had waited for me outside Papa’s after a social gathering. As I was about to enter my carriage, she had inquired about participating in one of my classes at Ecole Supérieure de Commerce de Paris, the university where I taught, though it was well known that women were not allowed to enroll. It was an odd request, and her appearance told me that, regardless of the rules, she did not have the means.
“After, she began showing up at the University, at my office, outside the lecture hall, hovering as I sat on a bench on the grounds in between classes. She had attempted to initiate conversations, but her behavior told me she was either quite unstable or that it was a prelude to asking for money in return for her company.
“Her instability became clear when she went from asking to enroll in university to inquiring whether I was in need of a chambermaid. I had been polite at first, then curt, even as I dropped a few francs in her dirt-encrusted hands. I thought I had been successful in my efforts to discourage her, as it had been weeks since she last accosted me. It was completely unacceptable that she would show up at my doorstep.
‘Madame, I must ask you to leave from here and not disturb me and my family again.’
‘Who is it, Vincent?’ Danielle called from the other room.
‘Mistaken address, ma chérie,’ I called back to her, never taking my eyes off the woman.
‘Please leave,’ I whispered to her, in an effort to appeal to her sense of decency.
“I stepped back to slam the door in her face but, with stunning strength, she pushed back.
‘Will you invite me in, Vincent, or shall I scream rape?’ I hesitated and she opened her mouth to scream.
“I looked up and down the street. ‘Come in. Come in,’ I said, waving her into the foyer. In the candlelight, I clearly saw her cruel smile and shocking blue eyes—pure evil. And her pale skin. I didn’t remember such blazing intensity from our previous encounters.
‘Where are your darlings?’ she cooed. With one hand, she shoved me aside, and entered my home. The speed of her step across the foyer shocked me as she headed in the direction of Phillipe’s playful laughter. I ran after her with the intention of showing no mercy. I had never struck a woman, but I was prepared to do whatever it would take to keep her from harming my family.