The Vampire's Doll (The Heiress and the Vampire Book 1)

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  Parsons parked her imported Cadillac next to the one other automobile in the lot, which had as many parking spaces as the entire nation had cars. But this would soon change. One of the many things her father took a hand in was making sure the city planned ahead.

  Els’ day dress stopped just short of brushing the ground in back. After stepping out of the car, she swept her braids up so they draped across her arm and tucked her hands in her opposite sleeves so her hands would stay just below her breasts and the ends of her sleeves would stay off the ground—the pose of the Halnari lady. She did it unconsciously by now, or at least it seemed that way. But Parsons never got used to the fact that her rebellious friend had given in to societal expectations.

  “Stop that,” she grumbled, and tied Els’ sleeves into a slip knot to shorten them. “Let’s pin up your braids so we can run around.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Els said. “I just hope I don’t see anyone my parents know.”

  “So what if you do?”

  “It’s just—I need to behave myself a little bit.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can marry a Daramon boy and still get my dowry.”

  “Marry?” Parsons didn’t restrain her scowl. “Which Daramon boy?”

  “That, I’m not sure yet. I just know it will be a Daramon boy. It won’t be a Halnari, that’s for damn certain. Mother and Father seem to be loosening up to the idea, since I’ve been paying a little more credence to tradition. I don’t think they mind if I marry a Daramon man, as long as they feel assured that I won’t act like a Daramon woman.”

  “You get worse every year,” Parsons said.

  “Come on, I’m not that different. And once I’m married I can do what I want.”

  “You say that until you have little brats running around, and your mother’s always nagging you to make them behave.”

  Els lit another cigarette as they joined the back of the line for the ferry. “You always say ‘brats’ like it’s a bad thing. What else would you have called us? I hope I do have brats.”

  They had to wait for the second boat. The ferry was perpetually cramped and sometimes choppy, but luckily not today. Parsons always crammed into the interior part after the time a wave sloshed on deck and almost soaked her legs. Fanarlem were very vulnerable to water; Parsons’ skin was waterproofed in certain places but only water resistant in others. Inside the ship’s cabin was a tiny snack bar, and some benches that were always full. Everyone was in a good mood despite the stuffy air. They were all talking about the dragon attack but no one seemed worried.

  The side of the island facing the mainland showed only a rocky beach with some stubby evergreens and a hill that was popular for picnics. All the action was on the other side of the island, facing the open sea. This was by design to keep the park secretive, hidden from view.

  The crowds disembarked onto a pier lined with snack and souvenir shops that led into the official park. Parsons and Els were recognizable enough and had been to Wonderland Park so many times that the employees waved them through without even checking their pass cards.

  Just inside, a band organ piped loud, jubilant music. A mechanical conductor mounted on the front was flanked by dancing figures. The conductor waved his stick at the pipes, drums, tambourine and other instruments lit within the huge painted and gilded casing. The band organ was somewhat legendary; supposedly it had been stolen from a fairground in the middle of the night by two Daramon sorcerers.

  Beyond the band organ stretched a midway with games. Sometimes they ran into Els’ male entourage here, and ended up getting caught in a dull round of the boys competing with each other to shoot and toss to win her trinkets.

  Fortunately they were sans boys today, so Els and Parsons ignored the games and headed for the rides. There was a huge slide and swing seats that spun in a dizzying loop, a ride that mimicked a race course where metal horses ran on tracks, and a fun house of mirrors and crooked stairs and secret passages.

  Usually this was one of the few places Parsons still felt free to act like a kid and forget her troubles, but today her mind kept wandering. She had to be careful or Els would start asking questions about Dennis.

  When they got tired of waiting in lines for the rides, they strolled toward the brand new motion picture theater. The only movie they had was a short, comical film, and they showed it over and over while waiting for something better to come in from the Fallen Lands. Parsons had already seen the short film three times, so they didn’t bother with that, but browsed the vendor out front who sold postcards of actresses.

  Parsons flipped through pictures of human actors. Were these the best looking men in the Fallen Lands? Dennis might look better than any of them, with some proper clothes, a good meal, and some rest. Damn it, she’d hoped Wonderland Park would be enough of a distraction. The image of him chained to the wall was burned into her imagination.

  “Don’t you think?” Els was asking her.

  “Um—what were you saying?”

  “If you did your eyes like that, you’d look even more mysterious.”

  “Like a man?” Parsons looked at the picture of ‘Theda Bara', her eyes lined with thick black liner. In Nalim Ima, this was a strictly male fashion.

  “I was saying, pretty soon all the girls will be mimicking the human actresses, I bet. You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” Els patted her hand. “Maybe no more humans for you.” She looked at the display of actor cards. “Do any of them look like Dennis?”

  Parsons ignored that. “I just—I’m tired.”

  “Sure.” Els took both her hands and forced her to dance to the faint music of the band organ still in the distance. “Come on. You have fun or I’ll force you to have fun.” She held her hand over Parsons’ head like she was manipulating puppet strings.

  “I hate you.”

  “Maybe it’s time for candy,” Els said.

  “It’s always time for candy.”

  As they were walking along, the fortune teller blocked their path. She was a bedraggled Miralem woman with thick brown hair, and dark robes with a lot of mystical-looking jewelry and a magical staff that probably wasn’t even magic at all. Parsons sometimes saw her soliciting other people on the street to drum up business, but she had never bothered Parsons before. “You can’t stop thinking of him, can you?” the fortune teller asked.

  Els giggled into her sleeve.

  Parsons ignored the woman. “You know she says that to every girl.”

  “I foresee dangers. You will lose him if you aren’t careful.”

  Parsons, curse her feet, slowed down despite herself. “She doesn’t really know the future,” she told Els. “It’s a scam.”

  “It is only one half-piece to hear my warning,” the fortune teller said.

  “One half-piece!” Els urged.

  “Fine.” Parsons crossed her arms and followed the fortune teller toward her curtained stall. “You stay out there,” she told Els before disappearing.

  “As a show of good faith, I won’t even hover. I’ll go buy nut twists,” Els said, peeking around the curtain. “But you’d better tell me the verdict.”

  Parsons sat down, keeping her arms crossed, trying to look skeptical. She didn’t feel anyone messing with her mind. Although Miralem were telepathic and Daramons were not, most Daramons sensed interference unless the telepath was very skilled. And no truly skilled telepath would be a mere fortune teller. In fact, it was pretty much guaranteed that this woman had to be a very untalented telepath, maybe even half-Daramon.

  The woman had a large ball of rose quartz sitting in an ornate pedestal, which she swirled her fingers around. Silly trappings.

  “This man,” she murmured. “You have not known him for long, but he has made a strong impact on you, which you are trying to deny.”

  Parsons shifted in her chair, trying not to look uncomfortable. “I don’t know about that.”

  “You have never had feeling for a man before, I believe. And this one seems most inapp
ropriate.” She glanced at Parsons. Crystal earrings winked from behind her thick curls of hair. “Still, your draw to him cannot be denied. And deep down, he feels the same, even though he might not show it.”

  Parsons rolled her eyes.

  “Well—if you have this much disdain for my gift, you may leave. I won’t tell you what else I see.”

  “All right.” Parsons groaned. “I’m sorry. Tell me.”

  “You have a chance to help him, and he has a chance to help you—but you must be willing to open your heart, both to him and to yourself. You will never be happy until you learn to listen to what your heart tells you. Even when other voices attempt to influence you, your heart will never lead you astray.”

  “I don’t speak to fate,” Parsons said, annoyed. “I think you are undermining the directives of the Wodrenarune a bit with these fortunes of yours.”

  “You’re right, of course,” the fortune teller said. “It is so much easier to surrender your will and do what someone else tells you. Some authority figure who has had a powerful influence over your life?”

  Parsons tossed a coin onto the table and left the booth without a word. “Typical Miralem nonsense,” she told Els.

  “Heyyy.”

  “She probably ought to be arrested.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She said I shouldn’t listen to Calban’s directives.”

  “Really? She knew you work for Calban?”

  “Well—not exactly. She said I should listen to my heart even when others try to influence me, but—”

  “That’s pretty different from the first thing you said.”

  “Either way, she didn’t really know anything about me. She’s a fake.”

  “Maybe.” Els handed her a nut twist, a thin flaky cookie dipped in a thin layer of caramel, chocolate, and chopped almonds. “I mean, I agree. I don’t think anyone can see the future. But it is a little bit possible that she can read people’s troubles based on their face and their energy, and give them some good advice.”

  “Waste of a coin,” Parsons said.

  “Parsons.” Els gave her a crooked smile. “I know you don’t like to talk about what you’re really thinking, and goddess knows, I understand how hard it is to figure life out. I know you think I’ve just given in, but I never really had a choice. When I was a kid, I didn’t understand why all the shape-shifting and clothes and formality when everyone else at school just got to be themselves. But I get it now. It’s how our culture has stayed so strong. We can never be diluted and lose ourselves, because we’re all marked from birth. Even if—when—I marry a Daramon, I’ll never assimilate.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Maybe sometimes it is.” Els looked at the sky. “It gives you something to lean on.”

  “Lean on? Other people dictating your entire life?”

  “You’re one to talk. You just want to impress Calban.”

  Parsons ignored this attempt to turn the conversation back on her. “And you still want to marry a Daramon? Even though they think men should rule over women?”

  “Not all of them think like that.” Els nudged her. “Such a cynic. Anyway. I guess as I’m growing up, I’m still my own person but I just don’t want to fight every battle. It’s exhausting. Sometimes it’s okay to just…be normal.”

  Parsons had known Els so long that she knew what Els was trying to do. She was trying to imply that it was normal for Parsons to be attracted to someone. She knew without being told that Dennis had provoked some feeling in her.

  Not attraction, though. Not for a man who didn’t even want to look at her. He was a pretty horrifying creature himself, when she thought about it. Vampires were born to seduce and kill, that was what his file said. She had sympathy for him, maybe. Whatever they thought of each other, they both missed their mothers and their old selves.

  “Don’t hate me,” Els said, “but I ran into Venn while you were talking to the fortune teller. I told him to go away, but he asked me if I’d meet him for one dance at Fair Flowers.”

  Parsons growled. Els dragged on her arm. “Only one, I promise.”

  “So I can stand there on the sidelines and watch? My favorite thing.”

  “I’ll buy you more candy.”

  “Like I don’t have my own money.”

  “It tastes better when someone else buys it.”

  Parsons let herself be dragged along. It was useless to fight, even though one dance often turned into two.

  Fair Flowers was the dance pavilion at Wonderland. It was open to the air, but framed by rose bushes and arches of flowers that formed several entrances to the floor. It had a sturdy canvas roof. The interior of the ceiling was painted with scenes of dancing ladies in colorful costumes with laced bodices, aprons full of flowers, and men wearing short vests and jaunty hats with feathers in them. Parsons had a vague sense this was inspired by the Fallen Lands—the people reminded her of pictures in the book “Heidi”—but their black hair and eyes were very Daramon. The wooden floor of the pavilion was as large as the ballroom in the Palace of Blessed Wings and already scuffed from the past decade of dancers since the park had opened.

  Venn was waiting for Els outside the pavilion, hands in his pockets. He straightened when he saw her, his face brightening, eyes only for her. Els briefly cupped her hand to his cheek in a Miralem gesture of affection.

  She was different with Venn lately. More serious than she was with other boys. Parsons had a feeling of dread whenever she saw them together.

  “Just one,” Els reiterated, speaking to Parsons and Venn at once.

  Venn laced his fingers with hers and led her through the arch of flowers. A live band was already playing ragtime. Some of the couples knew the dances well, having learned them from people who had traveled to Earth, but most of them were only faking it and inventing steps as they went along. Venn and Els found a place on the sidelines to chat a moment before he took her in his arms.

  Parsons looked down at Alexandra. The little snake slithered down her arm and across her palms. She watched Alexandra’s tongue flicker.

  “Miss Belvray!”

  Parsons froze, recognizing the voice behind her. Mr. Samaron. The last man she would want to meet while standing alone adjacent to a dance floor.

  “I’m waiting for my friend,” she said, avoiding his eyes as he walked right up in front of her. He was tall even for a Daramon, towering over her by almost a foot and a half.

  He twitched with surprise when he saw Alexandra, and then laughed. “Where’d you get that thing?”

  “She’s one of my pets,” Parsons said.

  “You are full of surprises. But what a waste, for you to be standing here alone with all this gaiety going on around you.”

  She shrugged.

  “I would be honored to have a dance,” he said. “If you can find somewhere else to put that snake.”

  “I’m sure you would.” Parsons put a protective hand on Alexandra’s body, her muscles slithering slowly past Parsons’ fingers. “But I have a tethering spell on her, so she’s not going anywhere.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll have to keep her with you, then. Come on. It’s a beautiful evening and you’re a beautiful girl. One dance wouldn’t hurt.” When she didn’t react, he went on. “Don’t lump me in with the rest of them. I should have said something, the other day with the magazines. I want you to know that I would never condone such behavior. If it happens again, I’ll stand up for you. I have great admiration for your father and from what little I know of you, his daughter as well.”

  “What do you know about my father?”

  “I’ve met him. And I know his reputation. I know you deserve better than the treatment you’ve been getting.” He moved a little closer to her still, and she desperately wanted to edge back. He was looking at her with dark, gleaming eyes, that hint of smugness in the shape of his mouth. His expression said, She is perfect. In all the wrong sort of ways. If he was the sort of man who liked Fanarlem g
irls best, she would be the ultimate prize. Not a concubine, but a woman who could be married legally, and the sole heir to her father’s fortune.

  He put a hand on her arm. She stepped back immediately.

  “No thank you,” she said sharply. “I’m just waiting for my friend. I don’t want to dance.”

  “Dancing never hurt anyone. It might even do a world of good. Don’t tell me you never dance. You’re a young woman. You should be having fun.”

  “I am having fun.” Parsons bowed her head curtly and turned away.

  She crossed the lawn to the line of food vendors and bought some fried sweet creams. Fresh out of the fryer, the first one pained her tongue, but she ate it anyway. She had eluded him, but she still felt dirty by association.

  She never got used to these encounters. She doubted that she ever would. The true curse of being a Fanarlem came in adulthood. No man could look at her like a regular girl; they only saw her race and assessed her according to whether they found Fanarlem women repulsive or strange or alluring.

  Els hurried off the dance floor. “Are you okay? I saw that guy poking around. Do you know him?”

  “He works with me.”

  “Oh. Not good.” Els heard every sordid story about Parsons’ job. “I’m sorry, I tried to get away as fast as I could.” She rubbed Parsons’ arm. “I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?”

  “No,” Parsons said. “You really can’t.”

  Chapter Eight

  The next day, Parsons attempted to return to the prison, but the guard—a different one this time—blocked her attempts, with some excuse about heightened security.

  “The Peacock General himself told me I have permission to see him,” she said.