Dark Thirst

by Angela Allen

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, rising to my feet and ignoring his outstretched hand. “You didn’t have to carry me.”

  “I didn’t,” says Tommy drily.

  I am surprised into stillness at his words. I know he is telling the truth because he cannot lie to me with the mental command I have implanted in him. But I gave no commands to Dmitri. He operates under his own free will.

  The ever-silent Dmitri shoots me an enigmatic glance before tossing down his cigarette, grinding it out with one boot heel and striding off toward the small rise ahead.

  “Tell me again how this is going to help us find Enrique’s killer,” asks Tommy. “My money is still on that nut underground. I’m not exactly happy to be digging up the grave of a dead man. Marco may have broken his vows to the family but he still deserves some respect.” Tommy crosses himself.

  “I told you, the King may be crazy, but he is only the body of the snake, not the head,” I answer. “His riddles were filled with odd hints about conspiracies and betrayal. If we solve the riddle, we find the real traitor to the family and the person behind the killings.”

  “And you think a field autopsy of Marco’s body has the answer?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, letting him come to his own conclusions about what that process will actually entail.

  “Right, we better get moving, we have three hours until high tide,” says Tommy, hoisting a shovel over one shoulder and flipping on his flashlight.

  After nearly an hour of digging, the gaudy gold casket is uncovered. Stepping on the casket handle, Tommy climbs out of the grave, his warm breath visible in the cold air as streams of white fog. A shirtless Dmitri stands wedged between the dirt wall and the closed casket, his shovel poised to pry off the lid.

  Tommy quickly crosses himself as the casket opens with a groan and a whoosh of air scented with death and formaldehyde rushes out. Inside, Marco’s decaying body lies on a bed of white quilted satin, a large, ornate gold cross clutched in his hands. After only a few weeks, the corpse resembles a mass of white, gelatinous pulp. The airless environment inside the casket has kept external predators out, but the internal bacteria and the inevitable processes of human decomposition have covered his flesh with a viscous liquid.

  “God! I think I wanna be cremated,” groans Tommy in disgust.

  “You’re sure there was no autopsy?” I ask.

  “No, like I told you, Don Micelli filled out the death certificate himself.”

  I climb down next to Dmitri, who, despite the noxious gases given off by the corpse, has seized the opportunity to light up. The brief flare of the lighter flame as he cups it to his mouth gives his face a pure and austere beauty at odds with the surroundings. By contrast, Marco’s face is an obscenity; the features blurred beyond recognition and the head itself a misshapen ball of discolored and swollen tissue. Strangely, his clothes are almost pristine, the white shirt only a little wilted and the black suit jacket and discreetly patterned tie virtually unmarked.

  “I’ll take it from here,” I tell him. Without replying, he heaves himself out of the grave, the long muscles of his back fluidly bunching and relaxing under his pale skin. I hear Tommy complaining about the foul smell as they move away, heading upwind of the open casket.

  Once they are out of viewing range, I quickly begin unbuttoning the black suit jacket, laying it open and undoing the white shirt underneath. The entry point for the fatal bullet is a small hole with blackened edges. There is relatively little damage on the outside of the wound, a mark of how well the hollow-point-tipped bullet did its job. It entered the body cleanly and once inside proceeded to tear through the vital organs with the force of a small hydrogen bomb.

  I strip off my leather gloves and plunge my bare hands into Marco’s chest, ignoring the cold, spongy feel of his decaying organs and pressing past his ribs and into his chest cavity until I feel his heart. I find the bullet near his spinal cord, lodged neatly between two vertebrae.

  At the touch of my fingers on the metal casing, I am wrenched into the past and images slam into me with a jolt. A carousel of memories crashes into my mind at high velocity—Sal’s face, the cigar dangling from his lips, a terrified Marco speaking rapidly and then a young woman’s face twisting in anguish, her words a tangled mix of Spanish and English.

  “That’s not his money,” says a young woman in her late teens with a thick Puerto Rican accent.

  “Shut up! I’m not talking to you,” accuses a red-faced Sal.

  “Sal, I swear, I don’t know where the money came from,” says Marco, tall and handsome like his brother Don Micelli, but without the killer edge. He looks at the suitcase full of bills in clear bewilderment. “I never seen this bag before in my life. I don’t even know how it got here. I never bring money here, you know that.”

  “What I know is you got half a million dollars that don’t belong to you,” screams Sal. “Youse been stealing from Don Micelli and stashing it here with your little whore!”

  “No soy puta!” cries the teen, her face crumbling. “No es ver-dad!”

  “Hey, you got no call to talk to Altagracia like that,” scolds Marco, gently wrapping one arm around the weeping girl. “She ain’t done nothing to you.”

  “C’mon, paesan,” he cajoles. “We’ve known each other for too many years to fight over money. In this business, crazy shit happens all the time. Whaddaya say you pack up the suitcase, take it to Don Micelli and we can straighten things out tomorrow.”

  “I’m telling you your days of cheating this family are over. You’re not walking out of here alive,” screams Sal, the veins standing out on his forehead.

  “Sal, I’m telling you I didn’t steal that money,” insists Marco. “It’s late, I’m tired. You take the money and in the morning we can talk to my brother. We’ll straighten this shit out like men, capisce?”

  “No!” shouts Sal, pulling out a shiny 9-millimeter Glock.

  “Madre de Dios!” Altagracia wails as the bullet hits Marco squarely in the chest, sending him staggering back, blood already bubbling from his mouth as the bullet tears through his arteries and his lungs fill with blood.

  I hear Sal scream, “Puttana! Get over here, you’re coming with me. I’m going to make sure you never open your mouth again…”

  My body feels so cold suddenly, like the temperature in the room has suddenly plunged twenty degrees below freezing. Random thoughts and pictures fill my head, the curve of Altagracia’s breasts when we make love, memories of my four daughters when they were babies, my wife Constance’s face on our wedding day, playing tag with my brother, my immigrant father’s pride when I graduated high school and his Italian accent, still strong after twenty years in this country, when he hugged me and said for the first time I could remember, “I love you.”

  “Why?” we ask Sal with our dying breath, our heart breaking with sadness and the pain of betrayal.

  “Cafone! I’m sick of taking orders from you and your brother. You think I can’t run this family? I taught you both everything you know about the business. With you out of the way I’ll be consigliere. And when I get rid of your brother, I’ll be the don,” Sal vows.

  “Hey, Sheila, how’s it going down there? You need a hand?” calls Tommy, impatience in his voice.

  I swim back to the present and shake off the last of Marco’s blood-soaked memories.

  I refasten all the clothes, taking care to cover the new, much larger hole in his chest. The soggy flesh around the hole sags inward now, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Finished, I clean my hands, draw on my gloves and clamber out of the grave. Dmitri shoots me an inscrutable look as he begins to shovel dirt onto the closed casket.

  “Well?” prompts Tommy.

  “Who was with Marco when he died?” I ask.

  He shoots me an impatient look. “Sal was with him. He’s the one who found him with the stolen money.”

  “Yes, but where was Marco at the time?” I say, drawing out the question.

  “At his
girlfriend’s apartment,” answers Tommy.

  “So where was the girlfriend while Sal was pulling the trigger on her sugar daddy?” I ask.

  “That’s a good question. I don’t know.” Tommy frowns. “Sal never mentioned her. And nobody’s seen her since Marco died.”

  “Maybe there’s a reason nobody’s seen her,” I suggest. “She was the only other person there that day, the only witness to what happened between Marco and Sal.”

  “But what does that have to do with the killings?” Tommy asks, his face reflecting his confusion as he follows my line of questioning. “You said that the person behind the killings was someone in the Commission.”

  “I think Sal’s behind the murders,” I say.

  “No! That doesn’t make sense, I don’t believe it,” he says, shaking his head, his brown eyes widening in disbelief. “Sal has always been like a father to all of us. When my own dad was killed by some street punk trying to make a name for himself, Sal stepped in to help my mother raise me and my brothers. He took us fishing, for God’s sake!”

  “Tommy, listen to me,” I say, moving closer, tentatively feeling my way through the thicket of his human emotions. I can hear his quickened heartbeat and sense his tormented anguish. “The Sal you knew then is not the same Sal who killed Marco,” I say. “That’s why we have to find Altagracia. She has to tell the Commission the truth about that night and what she heard.”

  “Okay, I can call in some favors down at police headquarters and get an APB put out on her,” suggests Tommy, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll say it’s for shoplifting or some petty shit like that. We can also swing by her and Marco’s old place and work the neighbors, ask if they’ve seen her recently.”

  “Alright, that sounds like a solid plan. While you and Dmitri handle that I’ll chase down other leads,” I say.

  “You have other leads?” Tommy frowns, a question in his voice.

  “Yes,” I answer without elaborating.

  He shrugs and turns toward the boat. “Whatever we do we better make it quick. High tide is coming in and the clock is ticking.”

  The return trip across the water is worse than before. The tide has roughened and swells rock the boat continually. I sit in a frozen stupor as we reach the halfway point between island and shore. My heartbeat is dangerously slow.

  For the first time since I have come to live among the humans I taste fear, rising acrid and bitter inside my weakening body. What a delicious irony, to escape the Inquisition, the Council’s thinly disguised trial by torture that proves the loyalty of those lucky enough to survive, only to die surrounded by water, alone and unknown. With that last despairing thought, my mind sinks into a state somewhere beyond the finite limits of life but not yet entering the vast infinity of death.

  When I feel hard arms enfold me I cannot even summon the strength to open my eyes. The boat pitches wildly, a rogue tide hitting us broadside. The salty spray splashes onto my face like icy drops of fire.

  “Shhh…” croons a deep voice from the man seated behind me as I unconsciously moan and try to turn my face away. A warm hand rises to cradle my cheek, gently wiping away the burning taste of the sea before tucking my face into the shelter of a broad chest.

  “Strigoi,” whispers the voice, using the ancient Romanian name for my kind, the name given to the first blood drinkers in that faraway land where we were spawned so long ago from the seed of a dark prince.

  A warm wrist is pressed to my mouth, the tantalizing promise of fresh blood lying just under the skin calling to me. Against my wind-chapped lips the soft skin feels as smooth as the most expensive silk. I open my mouth the merest fraction but do not have the strength to feed. The sea has stolen it.

  “Drink,” gently implores the voice. “The blood is the life.”

  Like a boomerang the words echo in my head. The blood is the life. The blood is the life. From somewhere I summon the strength to open my mouth and weakly sink my teeth into soft tissue, my sharp incisors opening a vein. The blood trickles down my throat to my thirsty cells as I slowly drink. The wrist is taken away after only a few moments, but it is enough to call me back from that dark purgatory of nothingness. My heartbeat quickens; I open my eyes. We have reached land.

  Dmitri’s arm drops away. Cold air rushes in to replace his warmth as he stands up. In seconds he is leaping onto the small dock and busying himself with ropes and knots to secure the boat.

  He stops momentarily when I ease to a standing position beside him. Tommy passes us both, making a beeline for his car.

  I grasp Dmitri’s arm before he can pull away. I push up his coat sleeve to bare his still-bleeding wrist, two small puncture wounds marking the spot where I fed.

  He gives an imperceptible jerk at the first touch of my tongue on his torn flesh. I slowly swipe my tongue across the marks, bathing the wounds until they close cleanly with no discernible trace of injury.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, meeting his ice-blue eyes.

  For a few seconds only, a light flush paints his face and I glimpse a scorching heat lurking in the depths of his gaze before he veils his eyes. When he reopens them, they are once again the impenetrable blue I have come to know. Without a word, he brushes past me.

  He is waiting when I arrive at dawn, his strong arms reaching out to hold me. I wrap myself around his body until there is no space between us. We interlock like two parts of a whole, connected from groin to lips.

  “Beloved, are you hurt?” he says, breaking away from the kiss. “I felt you weaken; I felt your life force in danger.”

  “Then why didn’t you come?” I cry, hating myself for letting him see my pain. “I nearly died tonight and you weren’t there to save me. As a power holder, you could have sent me a share of your power to strengthen me.”

  “Sheila, you know the Council forbids contact with anyone who has been banished,” he says.

  “I’m your life mate!” I scream, my open palm cracking against his face with a sharp sound.

  His eyes slide away in shame.

  “It has been difficult for me since you were accused of breaking the law,” he says. “I know it is difficult for you to bow to the Council in all matters. But you must learn obedience. The Inquisition is dangerous, but if you—”

  “—survive it I will be judged innocent? My loyalty confirmed?” I finish, not bothering to hide my scorn. “Do you know what it’s like to be driven from the world you’ve always known? To have your kindred turn their backs on you and to be shunned by your own life mate,” I say, forcing him to look into my blazing eyes. “I will never submit to their barbaric tests. I did not break the law and will serve my seven years’ banishment rather than bow down to arrogant dictates of the Council.

  “I have found a new life among the humans,” I add.

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  “Then you love an outcast. Unless you are prepared to join me in exile, it would be better for both of us if you didn’t come again,” I say, hardening my heart.

  The underground tunnels are as hot and humid as before, the thick air closing in on me as I retrace my steps, searching for the secret lair of the King.

  I am sure that with Marco’s memories I have now solved the murderous riddle of his death at Sal’s hands. There is one more piece to the puzzle that I must put in place before I can present my evidence to the Commission. Instinct tells me the missing piece is here, buried under layers of dirt and soil in an effort to hide the truth. The King’s words echo in my head, a bizarre map that when unraveled leads straight to Sal. The girl Altagracia is the key and I must find her before my time runs out. She is the key that ties it all together. I have sent Tommy and Dmitri ahead to the station to wait for my arrival. We are all conscious of the swift passing of time. I pick up my pace through the winding tunnels. It is the booming sound of his voice that leads me to him.

  “The time is now, my soldiers!” says the King. “We must take up arms and bring justice to all the enslaved citizens of this
corrupt city. We are the righteous leaders of the Kingdom Come!”

  A quick look around the corner into the large hall reveals the charismatic King surrounded by several dozen followers gathered about the dais. They look at him with rapt faces as he expounds on his vision for the future.

  I pull back and continue my search down a darkened hallway leading off from the main hall. Dust lies thick in the side passages, clumped in corners where spiderwebs gleam overhead and the sound of scurrying rats can be heard.

  At the third such passageway I catch a whiff of an odd smell that teases my senses. There is a faint flower essence, faded and elusive but oddly familiar. As I stand there I recall Marco’s last memory of Altagracia. She wore a light floral fragrance.

  I ease inside the room, the only light a single lantern placed on a small stool. In the far corner of the dimly lit room is a crudely constructed wooden cage. The sole prisoner is a badly disheveled girl wearing a ripped and torn blouse atop grimy jeans. Her skin is nearly gray with fatigue and shock.

  Before I can move closer, I hear heavy footfalls approaching. I slide back into the deeper shadows of the room, my black leather top and pants blending into the darkness. After long minutes, the heavy figure of Enrique’s killer, the man known as Tiny Tim, lumbers into sight.

  His eyes widen as I spring, covering the distance between us in one strong leap.

  “Stupid bitch, I’m going to kill you!” he rages, all but frothing at the mouth with incoherent fury, a look of vicious determination settling over his unshaven face.

  “Bring it on.” I smile.

  The bullet he fires from the cheap pistol he pulls one-handedly out of his waistband rockets past with a high-pitched buzz to bury itself in the wall behind me.

  “Are you aiming for the wall or did you just get lucky?” I say tauntingly. Before he can lift his weapon a second time, I wrap my gloved fingers around his wrist and close them with a vise-like grip, grinding the fragile bones under the skin into broken pieces.

  I clamp my other hand around his thick neck and lift his bulk until only his toes touch the floor.