“Who says I’m not happy?” she squeezed his hand and he leaned in and kissed her on the lips lightly. She felt a rush of something like electricity surge through her. She felt his breath on her, felt his icy hand run through her hair and caress the back of her neck.
“Sometimes it’s easier just to swim with the current. That’s all I’m saying,” Micah said, leaning back into his seat.
Just then, a loud Mustang roared up to the Porsche. She looked over and saw Drake’s devilish face.
Micah put her window down and leaned over her to talk to his friend. Zara looked at his neck, and felt dizzy with urges she could barely suppress.
“Just in time bro!” Micah said. “Ready to get gruesome?”
“Hells yeah. My girl loves bondage,” Drake cackled. Abby’s head leaned into view. She frowned. “Hello Zara.”
They all got out of their cars and the two couples stood opposite and seemed to appraise each other.
“You couldn’t have picked someone else to hook up with, could you? You know her little hipster friend almost got me mad the other night,” Drake said, while leering at Zara’s legs.
Zara narrowed her eyes at him and then stared daggers at Abby who was giggling. A rage began to boil in her and her muscles tensed.
“Knock it off dude” Micah said. “I’ve made my choice and you made yours. No point in bickering now.”
Zara had no idea what they were talking about, had he meant they had chosen brides? She felt oddly relieved by the notion. They wouldn’t kill their brides? Would they?
Drake snorted and put his arm around Abby’s waist. Abby kissed his cheek and then stared daggers at Zara. “Sure bro,” Drake said. “But do yourself a favor and clue her in. She keeps company with the Sollero kid. Who knows how much she’s told him already.”
“I don’t know why you chose a peasant to begin with,” Abby snapped. “She’s not like us.”
Drake grabbed Abby her by the throat and lifted her up off the ground like a toy doll. She began to kick and wheeze. “You’re not like us. Not yet.” Drake snarled at her and the evil painting popped back into Zara’s head.
“Stop it, both of you,” Micah shouted, and Drake set Abby down and she coughed and gasped for air.
“Mister chivalry,” Drake said with a sneer. “I remember when you used to have a sense of humor.”
Micah ignored him and turned and looked at Zara sympathetically. “You know what we are. And you know what you’re becoming. It’s not unlike a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. Call it a metamorphosis if that helps you. Soon you will look at humans and wonder how you ever suffered being one. How you ever could be so weak and helpless. They are animals. Soon you will have a real family. A strong family. You don’t understand how great an honor it is to be chosen…” He seemed to lose his train of thought and then smiled. “But enough of that. Let’s get some culture.”
“That was a good speech. We’re gonna have to get you into office very soon. Mayor or something,” Drake said, slapping his friend on the shoulder. The two of them walked ahead, towards the museum entrance, speaking in hushed tones.
Abby stood there with Zara for a minute while recovering from being choked, but when she caught her breath she croaked: “Leggings, really?” Zara almost laughed. Some things never change.
Zara was debating whether or not to run when Drake shouted at them, “C’mon, get your asses in here!” She knew she wouldn’t get away. She had to maintain her act until the time was right.
Abby followed after Drake and Zara followed her. She wondered how Twig was doing.
17.
The kitchen was dark save for a little light that crept in from the living room. Twig remembered the layout from the party, and made a point not to bump into anything. He noticed that he was breathing loudly and tried to calm himself. This wasn’t some third-stringer he was coming for—like the last few he had staked—this was the big leagues. He wouldn’t underestimate the comatose Damon. He would be quick about it, he told himself in an effort to still his agitation.
He suddenly froze—there was a light on in the living room and two people were talking, a man and a woman. They were listening to some old classical record, Beethoven, Twig guessed, but he wasn’t exactly knowledgeable on the subject of classical music. Damnit, he thought. Who the hell were these people? The house was supposed to be empty!
The woman’s voice was not Vivian’s. It sounded a little older, and when she laughed there was a lilt that was usually common in the laughs of the privileged and elite. He suddenly remembered it. Norah Winters. But who was the man?
He crept quietly towards the archway and peaked in. The man was sitting on a leather couch with his back to Twig, and Norah was dancing seductively in front of him in a dark purple dress and a glass of wine in her hand. She was wearing dark red lipstick and her hair was loose and wild. This wasn’t the same Norah Winters who had sprayed disinfectant on every chair Twig had sat on when he attended her daughter’s graduation party with Zara. That woman was as stiff as a shot of Wild Turkey. Twig watched her sway and dance. She must be one of them, he thought. Everything had suddenly gotten very complicated.
Twig waited in the shadows. Eventually Norah started towards the kitchen to fetch something. The man seemed content to bob his head to the music and rap his fingers on his knee to the thunderous concerto that filled the house. With his other hand the mysterious man waved a glass of brandy with the jerky movements of an orchestra conductor. Next to him there was an ashtray with a smoldering cigar butt in it filling the room with wisps of smoke. The smoke smelled like old leather to Twig.
When Norah reached for the light in the kitchen switch Twig grabbed her arm and spun her around so her back was to him, then locked his arm around her neck and put a stake to her chest. She shrieked, and Twig began to drag her into the living room.
“You flinch and she dies,” he said to the man, who continued to bob his head to the music and sip on his glass of wine.
“I’m talking to you!” Twig shouted. And the man sighed and set his glass down next to the ashtray where the cigar stump still burnt. He stood up and walked over to the old record player and lifted the needle off of the record. His movements were fluid and easy.
“Were you? I guess old age has either left me with poor hearing or poor manners.” The man turned and faced Twig. He looked to be about 45-years-old. He was broad shouldered and tall, and wore a dark suit and wingtip shoes. He had his short black hair slicked back, with grey patches above the ears, with a sharp black goatee framing his chin. Both his eyes were a light shade of blue.
Twig tightened his grip and Norah whimpered. He stared at the man menacingly.
“You need to get the hell out of here and don’t look back. I’m going upstairs to end this,” Twig said firmly.
The man laughed. “By all means, go up there and end whatever you need to end. There is nobody up there.”
“Damon Caspari is up there. Save your lies, I’m not like the other sheep.”
“Even a vampire can’t be in two places at once,” the man replied evenly.
Twig felt his heart sink.
“Go ahead and stake her. I would love to watch you explain to the police how you just murdered a well-respected socialite like Mrs. Winters here because you thought she was a vampire. Maybe your dad can corroborate your story from his padded room.” The man Twig now realized was Damon Caspari moved swiftly closer. He stood before Twig, completely unafraid.
“You know. I’ve been under the weather lately. It happens when we don’t…expand.” Damon said. “But luckily for me my son has brought new life into our fold, and it has so revitalized me. I feel like ten men.” Twig dropped Norah and she fell to the floor, wailing.
“Norah, you’re having a wonderful time.” Damon snapped, seemingly annoyed by the shrill noises she was making.
She jumped up and smiled. “I am having just a wonderful time.”
“Fetch our guest a glass of wine. He looks positively
parched.”
Twig kept his stake raised, and Damon turned his back to him and walked over and sat on one of the couches. “Come, sit. I’d say I don’t bite but we both know that’s a lie.” He gestured his hand towards the couch that sat opposite of him.
Twig moved closer, still holding the stake in front of him.
“Now…now. I don’t want to have to break that arm. Please lower it. It’s so rude.”
Twig lowered it, and sat down.
“And pointless I might add,” he opened his shirt and displayed a small patch of black strapped over part of his chest.
“Kevlar. Very resilient to pointy sticks. You know, I tried to get an old friend to wear something similar a long time ago. But he was just too damn proud. Pride is a real killer you know.”
“Your friend. His name was Vlad wasn’t it,” Twig said, trying to buy himself time to think, and his best bet was to keep Damon talking.
“Yes…a great man,” Damon said sipping on his wine. He looked happy to be recalling such a fond memory of his ancient friendship. “I can still remember the battlefields near the Danube. They say that the fat little Sultan Mehmed turned away in horror, back to his own country, when he first saw the impaled soldiers. A forest of corpses, with not a drop of mercy spared to a single one of them. My only regret is that I didn’t get to see his face when he saw our little work of art.”
The cold, sadistic pleasure Damon was getting from recalling skewered soldiers filled Twig with fear. He had never sat next to someone who had committed genocide. He wracked his brain for a way out of this. He could feel power radiating from the creature. Twig felt weakened just being in his presence.
“Tell…me. Do you really think killing me is going to help your friend?” Damon asked. “I’m not the one who bit her.”
“You’re the elder…the head—” Twig began.
“—Please,” Damon snorted. “That’s not how it works, boy. Only by slaying he who actually did the biting can you break the bond.” He leaned in and glared coldly at Twig. “But it must be done quickly, before the turn is complete. After that, well…” Norah returned with two goblets of wine and set them on the table. Damon kissed Norah on the cheek and grinned.
Twig tried to stay as composed as he could. “After that you become a mindless agent of evil. A blood junkie, right?”
“Please. Don’t be so naïve boy. We just cull the undesirables from society. It’s not like we are out there killing anyone of value. Blood is blood. Might as well get it from those nobody is going to miss. Like you for example. Why are you hunters always such whiny liberals? Are you and your ancestors so innocent?”
“My ancestors didn’t exterminate anyone,” Twig retorted, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. “Far as I know, they weren’t murderers. I’ve only killed your kind in defense. Also, I’m a libertarian.”
“Don’t be so sure of the innocence of your elders, boy. I know more about your kin than you do.” Damon took a long swig of his wine and closed his eyes, savoring the taste. Twig noticed it was a very dark red wine.
“I specifically remember a scrawny young painter, Enzo Sollero,” Damon said once he had snapped out of his ecstasy, “who tried to drive a sharpened paintbrush into a man he was painting. Of course, this painter was punished in a very ugly way, and his family had to flee the country or face the same fate. Over time, the Sollero name was forgotten. A fly in the ointment that was squashed. That was until your own father began delving into the old family business. Shame really, he was making such strides in his field I’m told. There was even a rumor being circulated by a few of my colleagues that he had developed some kind of concentrated sunlight, a rather vicious chemical weapon intended to be used on my kind.”
“So perhaps it was not that your ancestors didn’t exterminate us, but that they couldn’t. Then, centuries later, your father also tries to destroy us. As you do now. It must be something in the blood that compels you both to such foolish pursuits. You see, my dear boy, we are all, in the end, slaves to our blood.”
Norah refreshed Damon’s goblet from a dusty green wine bottle. Twig’s head reeled from Damon’s story. He suddenly felt like an insignificant pawn in some greater game. He wondered if Damon had lied when he told him how to stop Zara from turning. If it was true, he had endangered Zara’s life for no reason—he had sent her to her doom.
“Thank you darling,” Damon said cheerfully to Norah, who blinked back at him vacantly. He looked at Twig and shrugged, “Norah is such a beautiful woman, don’t you agree? She is thinking of leaving her husband you know. Poor woman, he treats her terribly. Also, Mrs. Winters has connections in Washington, and I’ve just been dying to get out there and rub elbows. Maybe put a word or two in the President’s ear.”
Norah slumped on the couch next to Damon and he began running a finger up and down one of her legs. She cooed and purred at him.
While Damon seemed distracted, Twig seized the opportunity and grabbed the tube out of his pack and aimed it at Damon’s chest.
“Oh dear boy,” Damon said with a laugh. “I really didn’t want this to get messy. I just had the floors buffed. You see, the police are already on their way. I sensed my poor nephew’s blood on one of your stakes when you came onto the property and did what any responsible citizen would do and called them. They should be here shortly. An amateur mistake on your part I suppose.”
“Let her go,” Twig said sternly. Damon pushed Norah away from him and leaned towards Twig, sneering with contempt.
“I figured you would want to be reunited with you father, but if you prefer the morgue, I guess I can exercise my right to defend myself against burglars.”
“I swear I’ll spray this right in your smug face,” Twig said, sweating bullets now, the vampire’s ancient power burning away the power of his father’s resilience potion. He could feel his resolve wavering and began to hear faint whispers in his head. The room felt like the inside of a furnace.
“Holy Water? How quaint. I drink the stuff with some a slice of lemon. And I use the Bible as a coaster for my evening coffee. Crosses and holy water don’t work. Catholic nonsense,” he said, dismissively.
Twig narrowed his eyes. He squeezed the trigger of the spray gun and sprayed Damon in the eyes. “You drink hydrofluoric acid too?” The corrosive liquid made Damon double over and emit a tortured roar of pain.
Twig sprung to his feet and freed his machete from its sheath and took a wild swing down at Damon’s neck, but Damon was swinging wildly himself, and one swipe caught Twig on flush in the chest and sent him flying across the room and into a bookshelf. A shower of weighty tomes crashed down on him.
Twig groaned in pain. He lumbered up slowly to his feet and moved in for another attempt while Damon was still flailing, but Norah jumped on his back and began clawing at his face and pulling his hair, shrieking wildly. Twig wrestled her off of him. “Snap out of it! I’m trying to save you, you idiot!” he shouted at her, but she clung to his leg. She bit him in the calf and he kicked at her. One kick caught her hard across the face, and the shock of pain seemed to make her snap out of whatever delirium she was suffering. She let out a whimper and crawled to the corner of the room.
When Twig looked up Damon was gone. He scanned the room desperately and swung his machete crazily in front of him. The needle on the record player had been lowered again, and a creepy sonata had begun to play. Something fluttered to his left. Then his right. He spun desperately around, swinging his machete into the air. The smoke in the room made his eyes water and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest like a piston. He heard Damon laugh—a demonic, inhuman sound that seemed to come from all around him.
Twig panicked, and ran for the front door. He had to regroup, he had to get help—Damon was much more powerful than he had anticipated. He swung open the door and froze. Half of the Denver police department had their guns trained on him. He dropped the machete and laid down as they yelled instructions at him.
He looked up to see Damon stand
ing over him, his face fresh and unmarked. “Don’t worry Nicolas. I have many friends at Whispering Pines. Seems we are both to have a family reunion.”
18.
“Now this is art!” Drake said, tracing his fingers over the outer shell of an iron maiden. I remember a girl I used to know, and she had something exactly like this. What was her name Micah?
“Elizabeth of Bathory,” Micah said dully.
“Right! She was a kinky one for sure. And she knew how to throw a party.” He opened the Iron Maiden and cast a sinister look at Abby. This is where I’ll put you if you ever forget your place.
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