Eden's Charms

by Jaclyn Tracey

  “Savanah—mouth,” her father chided.

  Savanah crossed her eyes. “Good to have ya back, Papa.”

  André offered his daughter his hand. “Savanah, I’m going to the wine cellar. Join me? Let’s go crack open a really good bottle of chardonnay. I think after the tense few days this family’s been through we need to relax.” André raised his voice, “I want you to be very cautious where Ethan’s concerned. You know the saying, Savanah, keep your friends close, your enemies squashed under your feet. He’s here because he has nowhere to go, and he knows it.”

  Savanah followed her father down the spiral stairway, through the heavy solid oak door to the climate controlled wine cellar where barrels of vintage spirits begged to be tapped open. She ran her hand across the smooth surface of the rich, warm, mahogany bar then reached up and grabbed a few glasses from the wine rack, then watched her father uncork a one-hundred-year-old bottle of champagne.

  “That’s not chardonnay, Pops.” She tapped the bottle with a grin.

  “Savanah, I’ve had a death-defying week.” He pulled up a stool next to her and poured the bubbling liquid into her glass.

  “Hey you two, wait for me.” Jonah grabbed a glass and sat down beside Savanah.

  Serina trotted down the stairs behind them and said, “Hey, hold up. We all need to drink a glass of this before you tap out the bubbly.” Serina walked behind the bar to a portrait of her and Jovan’s father and pulled the frame away from the wall. Behind it, a safe.

  Savanah asked, “Do you remember the combo?”

  She watched her aunt give her a slight questioning glance before she rubbed her hands together and then twisted the knob to the left, to the right and to the left again. The door unlatched after one solid clunk. Inside the solid cedar cavity, Serina pulled out a glass bottle with a corked stopper and handed it to Savanah.

  Savanah read the label aloud, “Eden’s Sins. Tell me this doesn’t conjure up some vivid images?”

  Serina giggled. “You, my dear niece, missed your calling as either an erotic author or a porn star. You pick.”

  Savanah’s jaw dropped but not one word fell out. André tapped her mouth closed.

  “It was our father, Father Butler’s homemade wine to be used only on special occasions. I think this qualifies. What I’m going to tell you stays within these walls. This is a diluted version of the original Eden’s Sins that I have safely stored for a rainy day or an all-out blood bath. The bottle held the blood of archangel Raphael, the healer and if it’s true what my dear mother, Olivia, told me, Raphael is mine and Jovan’s grandfather. Drinking this will ensure that you, André, walk in the sun. It was how Lucian, Raven and I do, but there is one catch. Your soul has to remain pure. You can’t ever go on a blood lust killing a single person. This includes my mother. If that happens you shall venture over to the dark side, and trust me, there are scarier things there than Darth Vader.”

  “Well then cheers on that lovely note. We bid fare thee well to our old lives or mine anyway. To new beginnings. I think this moment should be followed by me dancing on my grave.” André clinked his glass to each of theirs.

  ****

  Pacing the outside of the North Broadway, Queen Ann home, Xanti couldn’t relax. Without the Maestro’s hot rancid breath scorching his skin, and orders being sputtered in his ear, the vamp had no clue which direction the sun rose.

  Adrenaline, caffeine, and sugar-laced blood of the two cops he’d executed three days past still surged through his veins. Maybe, he thought, cops should become a steady protein replacement to my diet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d reaped such rewards for such a sustained time.

  Nervous, his fingers played with the deep cleft in his chin as he tried to plan his next move, namely, how to get home without his pilot, Ethan. His only saving grace had been he hadn’t killed Ethan. Getting the wolf back would be harder than proving the Immaculate Conception was really immaculate.

  The post-storm night air weighed down the atmosphere better than the cement shoes Xanti had used to dispose a few of his victims after he’d been a tad greedy with their blood supply. The clouds hid both the moon and stars, and gave Xanti that extra edge of jitters. “I can do this. I can go for a walk alone. Ethan doesn’t know diddly,” he said to no one as he memorized each mansion along the pristine street with their manicured lawns, and gardener’s dreams of overflowing flowers. Enthusiasm piqued as a few college students walked toward him, headed back to Skidmore College. A snack? Couldn’t possibly. He was still running off the high test the cops infused him with, but then again… The women amused him, laughing as they moved little lawn jockey statues from one home to the next in jest. Xanti tried to make eye contact with the two women, to bespell them so he could quench his thirst, but more times than not he lacked both the power and charisma needed to seduce one into his arms, hence the reason his father always served him sustenance.

  He trudged along.

  Before he knew it he’d walked the length of Broadway and entered Congress Park. He stopped in front of the carousel to watch people ride the painted horses in nauseating circles, getting nowhere fast. The motion made him dizzy. He ventured further back into the park toward a couple of teenagers wading in the Spit and Spat fountain. The two playful sculptures sat on opposite ends of the fountain and waged a water war between each other while the two teenagers exchanged a youthful hunger in sex.

  Looking between the pair, Xanti guessed neither were older than sixteen, both barely dressed. The young girl’s jeans cut into her hips showing a perfect plumber’s crack. Her bottom reminded him of the past century when women were robust and plentiful. This girl had meat on her bones, meat that Xanti really wanted to sink his teeth into. Stuffed into a push-up bra, her voluptuous breasts overflowed from every angle. On her lower back, Xanti noticed a large yellow celestial sun, surrounded by tiny stars. Her cotton candy, lavender-lilac-colored hair had spikes, as did her necklace—spiked, some turned inward, pinching her creamy-white flesh. In the center of the necklace, hung a large silver cross. Xanti twisted his lips, annoyed. She was obviously smarter than she appeared. Children of the Goth era would be his demise. Xanti shifted his attentions to the boy.

  The boy’s low-riding jeans revealed a pair of boxers sporting Batman. Having the exact same pair on tonight, Xanti became instantly smitten. With every step the boy took, the water weighed down his pants. His enthusiasm built waiting for them to sink.

  Xanti casually glanced at his own outfit and smiled. He thought he looked—nifty. Tonight, he donned black leather pants with a carefully wadded up sock tucked strategically down the front of them, giving him a plumper perception. Image first. His black tee shirt’s logo read, “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy.” And to top off the look, he wore a black felt cowboy hat, the string tucked neatly under his chin, and black cowboy boots with a thick heel, embellished with copper spurs. Xanti’s infatuation with cowboys never wavered. Having lived through it, he held fond memories of the Wild West era.

  On the edge of the fountain he teetered, drooling with one repulsive snaggle-toothed grin. “Boy, you might as well put your little toy soldier away. That’s just not right.”

  In a gutless rush, the young man, Jacob, backed away from the vamp, as he engaged in a tug of war with wet jeans.

  Xanti snarled. “Would you like to see how it’s done boy? Want the Maestro the second to show you a few pointers?” He tapped his fangs.

  For all the good it did him, Jacob whispered to his girl, “Dylan, run to Ben and Jerry’s and call the PEON’s.”

  “You can bet your pathetic little poker I’m calling the PEON’s and the cops.”

  “Madam, Dylan, is it? Come here.” Xanti looked the young girl directly in the eyes trying to lure her to him. The boy stepped forward, not out of bravery or loyalty to his friend, but because Xanti snared him instead.

  Giving the vamp the once-over Dylan blurted out, “Listen you freakish cowpoke, I wouldn’t come to you if you’d just waved two
front row tickets to the Korn concert this summer at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center under my nose. I’m so outta here.” Dylan swung her leg over the edge of the fountain and squeaked with each and every step she took away from them as she headed back toward Spring Street.

  “Are you going to let her go? Just like that, after calling you a cowpoke?” Jacob’s voice cracked with fright.

  He looked Jacob over. “Not to worry, mate.” Xanti grinned. “Right now it’s all about you.”

  “Look, Howdy Doody, this ain’t Brokeback Mountain, and we ain’t doing anything to the tune of it.”

  “You say that now.”

  His copper spurs scraped against the pavement as he strode down Caroline Street’s hill with a newfound self-assuredness. He took in all the scents from the men and their colognes, their pheromones scenting the area better than a bull during mating season, to the pizzas being baked, to the stale beer permeating from the bars, and he smiled. He was doing just fine on his own. Xanti lurked outside Sperry’s listening to the music tumble out onto the street. His feet found a rhythm, and he danced a lonesome two-step on the sidewalk.

  “Vampires dance with death Xanti—not country music. Those twangy tunes will make you die a slow death. Even slower than I could drain you.”

  “Maestro, what brings you to this neck of the woods?” Xanti asked through chattering fangs.

  “The fact that your mouth continually finds necks to ravage.” On thin air, Xier glided to him.

  “But Father, it is what we do.”

  “No Xanti, it is what you do without proper supervision. You are out of control and this needs to be fixed. Now. Where is my wolf?”

  Xanti shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not a child, Father. You can’t keep treating me as such.”

  “You’re right, Xanti. Children grow up and gain responsibilities. You just grew up. The plane is waiting at the airstrip. Come now.”

  “I don’t want to go home. What of the baby? I’m so close.”

  “I have no use for more children to raise, especially yours. Get into the car.”

  “No.”

  Xier dragged his son into the limo by his ear, spurs sparking against the pavement. “What? Have you been watching reruns of Big Valley or Little House on the Prairie in the short time you’ve been here? I’ll be the laughing stock of the century.”

  “Father, I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

  “That’s the problem in a nutshell. When we get home, Xanti, I’ve a surprise for you. I’ve found Dracula’s casket. Would you like to sleep inside it?”

  Already forgotten the fact he didn’t want to go back to jolly old England, Xanti blurted, “Splendid. Can I sleep in it indefinitely?”

  “Definitely.”

  Twenty-four hours later, Xier touched his son’s cold, sallow cheek lightly. He looked at Xanti, so content, so child-like and trusting as he lay there wearing yet another T-shirt he despised, “Some days it’s just not worth chewing through the restraints.”

  Xier wondered aloud, “Will you feel like this tomorrow?”

  “Like what, Father?”

  For the first time in nearly a century, the Maestro found his tears still ran blood red as he closed the lid to the casket and bound it in silver chains.

  Chapter Nine

  At four in the morning when the phone rings, you have three scenarios and pray for the latter two, really bad news, wrong numbers or a dear friend in another time zone who’s drunker than a skunk and has forgotten the time difference.

  The ringing in the background of Savanah’s dream intensified the longer it went on. Talking into her pillow, she repeatedly asked someone, anyone to get up off their lazy derrieres and answer the annoying device. Desperate for silence, her hand crawled out from underneath the cozy warmth of her blanket in search of the soon-to-be-flying-through-the-air-to-its-death nuisance. No such luck.

  The shrill pitch hammered into her head more so than the drinks she’d consumed earlier. Ring! Ring! Ring! Savanah held her head with one hand and groping wildly, found the phone’s cord with her other. She followed the line back to the wall and tugged—hard. The end of the cord broke free from its socket.

  “Ah! Silence.” Falling backwards onto the bed, she hit her head on the wrought iron headboard. Her unruly curls caught the intricately detailed scrolls. Blinded by pain, she attempted to untangle her mane when her cell phone rang even louder than the damned landline she’d just dismembered. “My bologna has a first name….” the cell phone sang its little ditty.

  “Oh, for Goddess sake! Who the hell wants me at this ungodly hour?”

  “I don’t know, but I wish you’d just answer the thing. The ringing woke me as well.”

  Savanah’s heart did triple time as she tried to free herself. Her mouth went bone dry. Not a drop of saliva to spit at her intruder. Her voice failed her miserably, etching out pathetic scratchy sounds instead of the really loud, horror movie scream she intended. The bed shifted as the stranger sat beside her, and covered her mouth to halt any further attempts of her trying to wake the dead.

  Kicking and swinging wildly into the dark, while still anchored to her headboard, did nothing to rid the stranger. It did however increase her anxiety.

  “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Yeah, right! Said no serial killers or rapists ever.”

  “I’m serious, Savanah. Stop. I’m going to untangle you from your bed, although seeing you tied up here is pretty sweet. The tables have turned—and in my favor.”

  “See—see what I mean. Get away from me.” Tears blinded her. She tried biting his arm, but that was over before it began. She even went as far as sending little zingers of electricity through his arms.

  He held her firmly. “Would you stop? Jesus, your uncles and father would shred me to pieces if I hurt you. I like the jolts, though.”

  “Ethan?”

  “Good morning, Pippy.”

  Savanah slumped on her pillow allowing the adrenaline rush to burn off. “What’s so good about it? And what the hell are you doing in my bedchamber? My Mum’ll kill you.”

  “Answer your phone first and then I’ll answer you.”

  “I can’t see the obnoxious thing.”

  Ethan snapped open the lid on the cell, silencing the noise. “Nice ring-tone.” Ethan placed the phone in her hand and then climbed over her, fiddling through her hair. Savanah looked into his eyes, eyes that seemed to light up the room, despite the dark hour. Inhaling, wild musk tickled her senses and made her nipples tingle. It was when a warm sensation traveled to her groin that she clamped her legs tightly shut. I’m so screwed. Without sensor, she thought about Ethan naked, touching her as he did now, this close to her and for the first time in her life, she had never wanted or needed anyone more.

  Yeah, too much wine still circulated through her system.

  She shook off the first idea that she really liked him being this close to her. Letting her fear and temper back into the equation, she bit out, “Just because you’re being a gentleman, doesn’t let you off the hook for being in my room. I want answers.” She went to tap him on the nose, but missed, and jammed her finger into his eye. “Ewh! I’m sorry. Not to worry. Maybe Xier’s got a spare marble Xavier used to wear after my Aunt Raven gouged out his eye. And why not? He’s got the dude’s hundred year old sperm…” She mocked. “Don’t forget, I can tell a lie a mile away.”

  “For a split second I’d have sworn you smiled.”

  She grunted.

  “You’re even cute when you make piglet noises.”

  She grunted louder. He placed the phone to her lips and coached her. “Speak into the phone. Do I have to do everything for you?” She went to shove him away, but he retained possession of her hand. Savanah tried to pull away, but again, his strength won out. He tapped the phone one last time.

  “What?” Her voice cracked into the little cell. A voice sounding a lot like Charlie Brown’s teacher trickled
out of the phone. “Who is this?” She huffed a chunk of black curls out of her vision, not that she could see anything other than green eyes hungrily devouring her. She covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “You done with your appetizer yet?” Ethan shook his head no. She shoved at his chest, purposefully letting her hand linger. She caught her breath when her fingers hit a wall of solid muscle. Sweet!

  Ethan smacked his lips together and whispered in her free ear, “You’re more like a happy meal, all wrapped up in one juicy box, babe.”

  Savanah loved the idea. Her thoughts spiraled down the gutter, dreaming up ways Ethan could devour her, until her cell phone started talking to her again.

  “Miss Savanah? It’s Mr. Colwell, from the museum, dear. I have some very disturbing news for you.”

  “Then call me back tomorrow, after ten.” Savanah hung up the phone. There was no sound logic to waking a person mid-dream to give them bad news. As far as she was concerned, the bad news would be there, like a fish that jumped out of its bowl, all dried up on the floor, waiting to be found, or flushed, come morning.

  The phone rang again. Savanah sent Oscar Mayer sailing to his death. Tomorrow she’d speak with the gallery and not a second sooner.

  Ethan got up and walked over to the light switch, and flipped it on. He retrieved the cell phone from the floor.

  “Forget the bloody phone. What are you doing in my room?”

  Sitting beside her once more he answered, “Well I was sleeping, but that time has ended and rather abruptly.”

  “Answer the damn question.”

  “No need for huffiness, dearest.”

  “My God, what’s with you? Get out now!” She pointed to the door. “Did cupid shoot your ass with a little arrow?” She shoved harder at his chest. “I can shoot your sweet, little tush full of silver.” She leaned toward her nightstand, knowing she kept a small pistol in there. She never loaded it, but he didn’t know that.

  “Is that anyway to treat someone you invited in?”

  “What? Are you—I most certainly did not, would never—not in a million years invite your furry little hide in here.”