Dark Thirst

by Angela Allen

  “NO!” I say, pulling back from that black abyss. The power recedes as I return to myself and cross back into the consciousness of now. I lock the images away for later examination and rise to my feet.

  While journeying into the past I have been blind and deaf to the present, but already I can hear the faintest vibration from distant footfalls. It is time to go. I push my still-tingling fingers back into the glove and move toward the high, barbwire fence at the rear of the alley.

  With a running leap I somersault over the fence to land on the other side. I hear a yell of alarm as someone finds the bodies of Enrique and his friend. As I turn to leave, a small voice calls out. “Are you a superhero?” the round-eyed child lisps from her perch in a window a few feet away.

  These humans are so fanciful, so ready to believe in the power of cartoons and fairy tales but unwilling to accept the reality of beings other than themselves when confronted with living evidence.

  “No, superheroes aren’t real—vampires are,” I reply.

  “Sheila, Dr. Micelli’s been asking for you. What took you so long?” asks Tommy as he opens the door of the small but ornate two-story brick home crammed next to its neighbor in the densely populated hills overlooking the bay. I absently register the gun clearly visible in the shoulder holster strapped over his shirt.

  “Enrique is dead,” I say, starting down the marbled hallway.

  “Did you kill him?” he asks matter-of-factly.

  “No,” I answer without turning.

  “Sheila, there you are,” breathes the Doctor in cultured tones as I enter his study, a lavish and soundproof room with an antique armoire full of out-of-date medical journals and a bar stocked with first-rate whiskey and fifty-year-old French wine. “I was beginning to worry. I trust all went well tonight?”

  Dr. Anthony Micelli is the ideal of an aging but still-handsome professional, his gray-flecked dark hair carefully cut in a conservative but flattering style: tasteful gray slacks, a navy blue sweater and a crisp white shirt set off his Florida winter tan to perfection. To all appearances he is the epitome of a physician relaxing at home in front of the fire after a busy but rewarding day healing the sick.

  That image is a lie. The Doctor’s real business is not medicine but money laundering and drug trafficking.

  An ambitious Micelli had cheated his way through classes at a small Catholic college and bought his degree from an even smaller medical school in the Caribbean. The well-informed knew he was the son of a notorious Mafia don. And the very well informed knew he had risen through the ranks of La Cosa Nostra to become boss of one of the most powerful crime families in the city. Not an ounce of marijuana or a gram of cocaine or heroin came into the city that wasn’t cleared by the Micelli family.

  “Enrique is dead. He and the lookout were both killed before I arrived. His killer didn’t take the package. It’s all here,” I say, withdrawing the money and placing it on the desk in front of him, ignoring the third person in the room.

  “Hmm, that’s three couriers in one month,” muses the Doctor, a faint frown creasing his forehead. “And you say the killer didn’t take the money? I had assumed it was simple greed behind the first murder, but maybe it’s more than that, maybe some new street gang needs to be disciplined. Tommy might have to look into this.”

  “You fucking kidding me? You wanna send out a capo to chase down some filthy street thugs who probably whacked each other over a pair of sneakers? Gimme a fucking break!” says the smoke-roughened voice of the man reclining on the sofa with a cigar clutched between the thick fingers of one hand. “We got bigger things to worry about here. We nominated Tony Jr. to be made and the Commission is meeting next week. We don’t wanna piss anybody off in the other families. If they think we can’t handle the business they might get scared; somebody might think we’re weak and they can challenge us. No, Boss. We gotta keep this quiet for now.”

  “Sal, you’re my consigliere now and you’ve been with the Micelli family more than twenty years. I trust your judgment,” says the Doctor. “My first priority is my son and the continuation of this family. If anything should happen to me I want him to be able to take over.”

  “I’m honored to serve under you, Don Micelli,” rasps Sal. “I’m gonna do everything I can to help Tony Jr. after he takes the Oath of Omertà and becomes a made man. Then we’ll take care of that other shit.”

  “A parola d’onuri vali sangu,” intones the don in Italian. A word of honor is worth blood.

  “Sheila, please forgive my lapse in manners. This is Salvatore Marzanzini, the new adviser to the family,” says the Doctor, waving toward me. I give him the barest nod of recognition. “Sal, this is Ms. Sheila Seven, a new associate who helps us with collections.”

  “When did you start hiring moolingnannes?” he asks, raking me from head to toe with obsidian eyes set under graying eyebrows in a lined and sagging face.

  “I keep up with the times, I’m an equal opportunity employer,” says Micelli, laughing. I can see that Sal realizes he hasn’t really answered his question but he isn’t willing to risk pushing him over it.

  The truth is I had carefully implanted the idea of hiring me into the Doctor’s mind months ago. Unlike the paranoid delusions depicted in the movies, where victims are hypnotized with a single burning glance, the art of mind control is both time-consuming and exact. I had secretly visited the Doctor for weeks before our first carefully orchestrated public meeting. I had struck when he was most vulnerable, during the darkest hours of night, when the conscious brain shuts down and the subconscious takes over. It is only then that a vampire can breathe upon a human and sow the seeds of subliminal suggestion.

  I can see Marzanzini drawing his own conclusions about my true job here. He thinks I’m on the payroll because I’m sleeping with the Doctor. I know what he sees when he looks at me, and it is a carefully cultivated image designed to deflect suspicion.

  I deliberately shift my weight now, drawing his gaze to my legs outlined in supple, formfitting, black leather pants. I brush back a handful of long, night-dark braids and fold leanly muscled arms, the color of richest brown chocolate, left bare by the sleeveless vest I’m wearing. I check his reaction with a sideways glance from slanting, honey-gold eyes.

  Sexual desire blazes from him despite his best attempts at concealment, snaking out toward me along with his scent, which swirls into my head on a flood of angry indigo blues and virulent reds streaking through the icy white of the truly amoral.

  “Sheila, I have another assignment for you. Tomorrow night I need you to ride out to the Brooklyn Navy Yard around ten and pick up some election results. Sal will have everything ready for you,” says the Doctor, rising and coming around the desk. “Tommy will meet you there in case there’s any trouble,” he adds.

  “What kinda trouble I got fixing one little election?” Sal laughs. “It’s in the bag, Don Micelli. I’m gonna be president of the Union of Ship Haulers and Plastic Fitters. That multi-million-dollar pension fund they got is already in my pocket.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” says Micelli. “Just consider this a little insurance in case anyone decides to check the ballots. I don’t want any evidence of our involvement on the premises. A paper trail for the feds to follow is the last thing we need.”

  “I know how to handle the feds, I’ll have ’em fucking swimming with the fishes!” Sal growls.

  “I’ll finish up here and be at the Navy Yard tomorrow at ten,” I say, tiring of my little game with the overweight Sal and eager to leave. I have not yet fed this night.

  “Good, good. I want to hear all about it when you get back,” says the Doctor with a perfect smile that never reaches his eyes.

  After leaving the study, I easily wind my way through the subterranean passageways that lie under the house, finding Tommy in the weapons room oiling his guns. He looks up with a ready grin as I enter the small space. Three of the four walls are covered with gun racks and the fourth holds specially built glass ca
ses for storing ammunition.

  Tommy “Two Guns” Celona is that rare individual, a cop who was also a made man. On paper he manned a desk at Manhattan headquarters. But in real life he worked full time on the other side of the law as a capo for the Doctor. He had fifteen years on the force and was looking to make twenty and retire with a full pension. He showed up for promotion days and cop funerals. He got a check in the mail every month and his departmental evaluations were outstanding. No one bothered to mention that the deputy inspector who rubber-stamped his attendance record was his second cousin. He wore two guns—a Glock Model 19 tucked under the shoulder and a sleek little SIG Sauer P-226 tucked in an ankle holster.

  “Sheila, what do you think of our new consigliere? Sal’s such an old-timer I think he was in the original version of The Godfather,” he jokes. “When my brothers and I were young he used to take us on fishing trips and he wouldn’t allow any of us to speak English—soltanto italiano. He said we had to remember our roots.”

  “What happened to the old consigliere?” I ask. I’d never had a chance to meet him.

  “It’s a sad story but I’ll tell you now so you’ll know the truth,” he says, responding just as he should to the mental implant. My directive for him had been simple: trust me.

  “The official version of his death is he had a heart attack, but that was just something nice for his wife and kids, to save the family honor and keep the name clean,” he adds. “The God’s honest truth is he was caught stealing from the don. About a month ago Sal found him with a stash of about half a million dollars. Marco was like a son to Sal, but when he drew on him he did what he had to do. He took him down. It was very traumatic for Sal. He still feels guilty about it.”

  “He was walking around with half a million dollars?” I ask in disbelief, knowing the Mob’s fondness for small, untraceable bills. You couldn’t lug around that much cash in one small suitcase.

  “Not exactly, they found it at the apartment he kept for his co-mare,” he says.

  “So you’re telling me this wise guy is so wise he hides a fortune in stolen Mob money at his mistress’s place,” I muse. “That’s a pretty stupid thing to do.”

  “Yeah, if Sal hadn’t told me he’d seen it with his own eyes, I never would have believed it either—Marco was the don’s brother.”

  The long road that leads to the place where I sleep is surrounded by a thicket of desolate streets holding burned-out factories that see few visitors during the day and none at all during the night. The only rent-paying tenant is a city sewage plant that spits out toxic fumes that hang in the air like a warning to the sane to stay away.

  This night the bleak silence is broken by angry shouts.

  “Are you trying to cheat me, bitch! Are you? Because I know you made more money than this,” the man screams as the weeping woman cringes behind the decaying hulk of an abandoned car. Her makeup has streaked her face, giving her the look of an olive-skinned raccoon. He towers over her, his dark hands clenched into angry fists that are covered in heavy gold rings. “You were working that corner for six hours, Marylene. I want the rest of my fucking money!”

  “That’s all I got, I swear, Johnny-Boy,” she sobs.

  Neither one looks up the first time I ride past. When I swing the bike around, heading back in their direction, the man looks up with an angry scowl. I can see him trying to peer behind the tinted visor of my helmet to decide if I represent a threat or not. I roll to within a few feet of them and cut the engine.

  “Nosy bitch, this ain’t none of your business. You get back on that bike right now and I might forget I saw you,” he commands in a rough voice as I swing my leg over to dismount.

  “But I won’t forget I saw you,” I say, continuing to walk toward him.

  “We’re just talking. Everything’s fine, miss. I don’t need no help,” pleads Marylene, looking up at Johnny-Boy as if checking for his approval.

  “Help? I didn’t come to help,” I say, beginning to laugh despite myself.

  “Stupid bitch, when I finish with you your crazy ass will be needing some help,” he snarls, advancing toward me across the gravelly stew of shattered glass and small stones littering the deserted lot. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”

  I wait until he springs forward, his body weight off center and falling before I turn, twisting in a graceful arc of motion as the power wells up inside me, coursing through my veins and ending in a surge of adrenaline so powerful that the impact of my foot hitting his thickly padded torso sends an audible crack through the still night air.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, Johnny-Boy!” screams Marylene, peeking out from behind her fingers.

  “Arrghh…” groans Johnny-Boy, grimacing and clutching his broken rib as he staggers back a step. He regains his footing and a twisted grin blooms on his face.

  “Just for that, I’m going to carve my initials in that pretty face after I beat your ass,” he threatens me in a vicious whisper, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a butterfly knife that he deftly flips open.

  He charges toward me, coming in with the double-headed blade held low, aiming for where he can do the most damage. As he closes in, I sidestep and grab his outstretched arm, snatching the dagger away in a movement so fast it appears as a blur and using the momentum of his own body, slam him to the ground, twisting his wrist as he falls so that once again a sharp crack cuts the air.

  “Still think I’m here to help you?” I ask, crouching over him and grabbing his uninjured hand to pin it high above his head.

  “Arghhh…you bitch, you broke my wrist!” he moans, gazing down his arm at the now limply dangling wrist in horrified disbelief.

  “And here I thought you liked this game. Wasn’t it your idea to play rough?” I say. Out of the corner of my eye I see his companion hit the road, stumbling over the uneven pavement in her three-inch high heels but still managing a good jog. “It looks like it’s just you and me now.”

  This close, his smell is nearly overpowering, the blacks and browns swirling together like the fierce winds of an ocean storm, with the vermilion of human blood roiling in the center like the untouchable eye of a hurricane. I give in to temptation and lower my face, breathing in deeply the scent of blood, of flesh, of food.

  “Get off me, you crazy bitch!” he defiantly shouts, spraying my face with spittle.

  I catch his eyes, holding him with the force of my will. “You have something I want.”

  “Yeah, yeah, take it. The money is yours,” he pants breathlessly. His eyes flicker rapidly as a look of sly cunning steals over his face. “What I said before, I was just playing, you know, just playing. That bitch Marylene made me so mad I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  In my time among the humans, I have found that those who project an image of viciousness and cruelty are often the most malleable. The braggarts and bullies amount to nothing more than hollow shells who readily bow down before any force stronger than themselves. It is the outwardly meek and quiet ones who inwardly possess an iron will that refuses to bend.

  The man is sweating now, desperation stealing over him, his onyx-colored eyes wide with fear. I can tell by the loud pounding of his heart that he feels the storm hanging over him, but his limited intellect is unable to comprehend the true danger.

  His street-honed instincts whisper to him that one small woman is no threat; hasn’t he always subjugated her sex with violence and intimidation? It’s a hard world and the weak have to give way to the strong. But something beyond the five known senses is screaming that this time things are different.

  “This is for Marylene,” I tell him, grasping his jaw in an iron grip.

  His scream echoes off the walls of the empty buildings around us as my upper lip curls back and gleaming, white incisors slide out. The sound is abruptly cut off as I find the pressure point on his neck, pinching it just enough to temporarily paralyze his vocal cords.

  The first taste of blood is like a jolt of pure energy, red hot and
steaming, streaking through my veins and into my starved cells on a wave of nearly unbearable pleasure. It curls through my belly and up to my brain, purring in ecstasy, arching and twisting in hedonistic delight.

  It is a struggle to stop but I tame my thirst. I close the puncture wounds with a swipe of my tongue and wrench his head around to face me, issuing a single command: forget.

  It is impossible to completely erase another’s memory; the connection between synoptic nerves, chemical triggers and the memory banks of the brain itself are too deeply entrenched, but I can blur my victim’s recall, giving the events the quality of a dream, where the details are hazy and hard to grasp, until remembering is like reaching for smoke.

  Long hours later, the sun finally slips below the horizon and the coming night chases away the day.

  I lie dreamlessly inside the wood-lined walls of the wine cellar. The air is fragrant with the smell of fermenting grapes. Dusty bottles of the finest merlot and aged whiskey rise all around me in solitary splendor, the forgotten treasure of some human long gone. The only sound in the sparsely furnished and austere room is the irregular thumping of my heartbeat, slowed to the infinitesimal pace required to support life functions, living yet not alive.

  “Sheila,” calls a deep, intriguingly accented masculine voice. A second, stronger heartbeat invades the room. It is the one person who has the right to freely come and go here in my underground home and not fear death.

  My body temperature rises and my heartbeat quickens as I come to life. I rise from my sleeping mat and light the long, red tapers placed around the room before I sink to one knee, bowing my head respectfully.

  The visitor extends one hand before my bowed head.

  “I honor you and I honor your line,” I whisper reverently as my tongue lightly traces the deeply etched lifeline in his palm.

  “It is dangerous for our kind to dwell so long among humans,” he says. “You must come back. You must come home.”