Zara's Curse (Empire of Fangs)

by Domonkos, Andrew

  Abby looked at the contraption with her mouth agape. “Do you even know how dirty that thing probably is?” Zara couldn’t help but wonder how Abby would cope with being a blood sucker. She threw up if she noticed pulp in her orange juice. None of it made any sense.

  “If you don’t both shut up I’m going to put myself in there,” Micah said.

  Drake frowned at him. “Seriously bro, lighten up. Don’t be mad because you’re gonna lose our little bet.”

  Micah scoffed and shook his head. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Yes, we will,” Drake replied coyly.

  Zara was lost in a dream state. She couldn’t understand what was being said. Something about a bet? The concoction Twig had given her was wearing off, and she found herself hanging on Micah. The spacious hall seemed to flux and sway.

  “See. We are almost bound,” Micah said, noticing Zara’s euphoric glow. He looked deep into Zara’s eyes. “Soon you will have whatever you want. You will have enough money to buy your father a proper house to retire in if that’s what you want. You won’t have to live on dreams ever again.”

  Zara thought of her father, and her resolve seemed to strengthen. “My father would know what I’ve become. It would destroy him.”

  Abby scoffed, “What a shame that would be. Who would cook my French fries?”

  Micah snarled at Abby. “Her father will believe anything she tells him. As will any mortal.”

  “I dunno, using persuasion on your own father, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself,” Drake said with a sarcastic tone.

  “Give it up Drake,” Micah said, annoyed.

  “Whatever, you all bore me. I’m going for a stroll down memory lane,” Drake said, before turning and walking down the spacious hallway. Abby followed him like a loving kitten. “Wait for me darling!” she shouted.

  Zara looked at the exhibit. So much pain could be felt by just looking at the old rusted relics. How many had been tortured and killed by these ugly things? How much agony was induced?

  She felt hopelessly lost. “How long will it take before I fully change,” she asked, while touching the exposed spikes of the torture device. They were still sharp.

  “Well,” Micah said thoughtfully. “Perhaps a couple hours, perhaps more. You seem to have taken something that is hindering your change. I’m not mad, of course. It’s natural to resist. Pointless, but natural. Abby will change any moment now.”

  Zara nodded sadly.

  “I don’t want you to be scared. There is no stopping it now so why worry so much? You will have to come live with us, of course. But is that so bad? Living in a mansion? Living with me?” He asked gently, running a hand over her hair.

  “I suppose not,” she muttered. “Will it hurt?”

  “Yes…a bit. Everything worthwhile usually does.”

  Micah smiled and put out his hand. “C’mon. Let’s go look at some paintings.”

  She took his hand and she pulled him closer and gave him a hug.

  They walked together to the staircase leading to the next floor. Upstairs she could hear Drake cackling about something. She slipped Micah’s car keys stealthily into her pocket and held them tightly.

  19.

  Twig tried to move but found he was very securely strapped down to a cot. Above, a fluorescent light flickered and buzzed. The room smelled faintly of urine and chemicals.

  He was woozy. He felt drugged. A man in a lab coat was sitting on a plastic chair next to his cot writing on a clipboard, occasionally glancing up at him. He had a bony face with wavy red hair.

  “Good morning Mister Sollero. Well, that was a short nap. I thought you’d be out longer. You know you thrashed pretty hard when they brought you in. Looked quite exhausting,” the man said in a bored tone.

  Twig tried to sit up again, and then slumped back. “So this is how it ends,” he said.

  “Well,” the doctor said before taking a sip of his coffee. “To be blunt, yes. Mister Caspari was a bad choice of people to try to murder. Did you know his donations paid for this entire wing?” The doctor went back to his clipboard. Twig could see he was doing a crossword puzzle.

  “So you’re all his puppets,” Twig said.

  “Yes. As are you,” the doctor gave Twig a stern look. “Want some free advice?”

  “Pass,” Twig said dryly.

  “You’re here for the long haul Mister Sollero. We have no interest in harming you, nor does Mister Caspari. He makes a good profit from this establishment and it’s just bad business beating on our patients. Above all else, I think what has kept Damon Caspari alive all these years is his ability not to take anything personal. Of course, you didn’t hear that from me—although it’s not like anything you say will ever be taken even remotely seriously ever again. So do yourself a favor and just accept this place as your home and settle in.”

  “Can I see my father?” Twig asked. His wrists and ankles were sore from struggling against the straps, and they burned and made him wince in pain.

  “Of course. If you behave, you can even go into the recreation room. There are plenty of board games to play and books to read, and don’t worry, we’ll give you plenty of medicine to keep you happy. But if you can’t behave…well, we have methods to correct defiance that one of us would not enjoy.”

  The man smiled and stood up. “Welcome to ward five. I’m the head doctor here. You may call me Doctor Jenson. I’ll have the orderlies come undo your straps and take you to the rec room.” He strolled out of the room whistling some low, somber tune.

  Twig laid there unmoving until two men the size of refrigerators came in and undid his straps. They stood him up, took him by the elbows and led him out into the hall. His legs felt like jelly, and his chest hurt when he breathed.

  The recreation room was large, with a few plastic tables and chairs and a few ugly couches here and there. Along the far wall there were big windows fitted with rows of thick white bars across them to prevent escapes. Between the bars he could see it was still dark, and he could make out a few bushy spruce trees that crowded the view.

  Most of the people in the room were elderly and had gathered around a very small TV that was mounted in the corner. It was showing an old episode of Quantum Leap at a loud volume. Twig knew the show well. He wondered what Ziggy—a computer that the hero of the show sometimes consulted for the probability of his mission’s success—would calculate the odds of Twig’s escape.

  He scanned the room for the aforementioned recreation. There was a warped ping-pong table that looked about 100 years old, with no net. Next to one of the couches some trashy romance novels had been messily piled into a shoddy bookcase. Sitting alone at a table by a large bay window, he saw his father James. He was much grayer since he last saw him, some years ago. He looked like he had doubled in age. He was now staring at a monopoly board and looked rather content.

  Twig jerked his elbow free from the orderlies’ grips. “Thanks so much,” he said bitterly to them, before walking over to his father and sitting down next to him. The orderlies each lumbered to separate doorways and leaned against them. They looked as bored and sedated as the patients.

  “Dad,” Twig said hoarsely. His throat was dry and cracked from screaming. “It’s me. Nicolas.”

  James moved a little metal thimble slowly around on the monopoly board, tapping it on each property and announcing the name and price as he went. Twig grabbed his hand and held it still. “I tried, Dad…I tried to end this. I had him in my sights and I blew it.”

  He finally seemed to hear him. “Damon,” he said quietly.

  Twig laughed lightly, “That’s right Pops. Your old pal.” He was relieved and surprised his father was able to respond sanely.

  “My old pal,” James repeated slowly. He crooked his neck and looked at one of the fluorescent lights overhead and shook his head as if he found something profoundly disappointing in it.

  Twig took a deep breath and looked around. “I want you to know I’m sorry. Sorry I doubted you when
you first told me about all this. I had to learn the hard way I guess.”

  “Me too,” James said, turning the thimble in front of his eyes, admiring it like a diamond.

  “I don’t suppose you have a tunnel going, or some brilliant plan to get out?” Twig asked, folding his arms on the table and burying his head in them.

  “No just this.” James laid his palms on the monopoly board and swept them gently over it, as if it was some precious heirloom.

  Twig looked at one of the doorways where a guard stood. There was a thick metal door with a complicated locking system behind him. Through the Plexiglas window on the door he could see trees. An exit.

  “That door. Who carries keys for it?” Twig asked his father.

  “Anyone with the right fingerprint,” he replied.

  “I can’t stay here dad. My friend has been taken by them. She…is turning.”

  “She is gone then,” his father said dryly.

  “I need to know something. The liquid sunlight, is it real?”

  His father seemed to concentrate. “Yes…yes,” he finally answered.

  “Yes what? Where did you hide it? It’s important dad…”

  “Somewhere safe,” he murmured. Twig put his hand on his father’s shoulder and turned him towards him, forcing him to face him.

  “Where dad? Tell me where.”

  His father looked at him with his sad and tired eyes. “I had to protect you from them. It never goes away, never…” he said finally.

  “Where?” Twig repeated.

  His father’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I put some in your blood. And hid the rest.” He grinned widely and slammed the thimble down on Baltic Avenue.

  “You did what?” Twig yelled, catching the attention of a few old ladies who told him to keep it down.

  “It was the only way to be sure they would never get to you. That you would never become one of them,” his father said sullenly.

  “Well, I guess I understand,” Twig said reluctantly. “But you have to tell me where the rest is, because if I ever get out of here I am gonna need something stronger than wooden stakes to take him out.”

  His father looked around and leaned in to whisper. “I can’t tell you. Not here. They listen to everything.”

  Twig felt helpless and frustrated by his father’s cryptic responses. He stood up and walked around the table a bit, noticing that both orderly’s eyes followed his every movement. He could see how someone could get a little paranoid living in this place. He wondered what time it was. There wasn’t a clock anywhere in the room.

  Zara…where are you, he thought.

  20.

  Zara took her phone out of her pocket. The others had left her at the thumb-screw exhibit when she began feigning painful cramps. This had annoyed Drake to no end. “I had my change in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by Turks,” he said, and with the mention of war, he and Micah began exchanging grisly war stories. They had to explain the wounds they suffered as they had no scars to show for them. To them, war had been a game. Zara watched them talk with fascination. All those years of life…centuries even, and they still talked and acted just like the guys from her campus. Maybe it was their perpetual youth that kept them like that—preserving their hormones and testosterone like some vital component of their being.

  She sat on a stiff wooden bench now. She supposed Micah wasn’t worried that she would run. Where could she go? No matter where she ran she would soon change, and then her blood bond with Micah would be unbreakable and she would be powerless to suppress her need to be with him.

  She looked at her phone. There was a voice message from Twig. She punched in the voicemail code and listened, her heart racing.

  She heard some sounds, and some conversation. Twig’s phone must have speed-dialed her in his pocket. Or he had wanted her to hear what he was hearing. She turned the volume of the phone up all the way up. She heard a muffled discussion, followed by some loud crashing noises, and then the piercing sound of a woman screaming. She listened while the message grew silent. Suddenly she heard the unmistakable sound of police shouting orders. “Lay down! Hands on your head!” Zara sighed and started to feel tears forming in her eyes. A moment later she heard the deep man’s voice again. “Don’t worry Nick. I have many friends at Whispering Pines. Seems we are both to have a family reunion.”

  Zara felt dizzy and sick. That must have been Damon’s voice. Alive and well. She had heard of Whispering Pines before. It was a psychiatric facility about twenty minutes north of Denver where the suicidal and violent usually wound up. She had heard stories before of shock therapy and other horrors that she had always dismissed as High School rumors. But now, with someone she cared for within its works, she felt a sudden dread they might all be true.

  With Micah and his pals upstairs admiring a set of French guillotines, Zara had her chance. She ran back to the set of stairs that led down to the first floor and flew down them, bounding six steps at a time with ease. She was much stronger since the last flush of painful sensations had shot through her body. She guessed this…metamorphosis, took place in stages. When she got to the front door, she found it fairly easy to kick it off its hinges. She raced across the dark parking lot, her mind twisting around like a dust devil.

  She opened the driver’s door to the Porsche, minding her newfound strength, and hopped in. When she started the car a thumping dubstep beat began to play on the stereo and vibrate the car. She looked back up at the museum one last time before she peeled out of the parking lot. The moon was full and high in the night sky. In a few moments she was on the highway heading north.

  21.

  Vivian Caspari stood impatiently at the counter. The girl at the computer was new, pretty, and a very slow typist. She was using one finger to tap on the keyboard, and finding each letter took her all the concentration usually reserved for finding Waldo.

  Vivian checked her watch. Almost midnight. She was worried. Lately Damon had started to ask questions about her ballroom dancing class, what steps she taught, and so on. He had become increasingly suspicious since his awakening, and each day his power to see into her mind grew stronger. But if he had known she had come to see…him, he might finally do away with her.

  The girl finally looked up from her computer screen. “I’m so sorry for the wait Miss Caspari, I have found your clearance.” She peeled a red sticker off a roll of tape that said W-5 GUEST, and handed it to Vivian.

  “Don’t worry that pretty little face over it, darling girl. But do go into the bathroom after I leave, and smash it against the mirror. Do it several times.”

  “I will do that. Thank you,” the girl said, sitting there with a vacant look on her face. The buzzer over the door leading into the ward buzzed loudly and the door opened. Vivian strode through the doorway—the sound of her stiletto heels against the linoleum floor filled the hallway and the lobby. The young girl turned and went to the bathroom.

  Doctor Jenson was still engrossed in his crossword when Vivian strode into his office. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he noticed her standing over his desk, looking down at him menacingly. “Jonathan,” she said sharply. He looked at her and his calm, professional demeanor evaporated, replaced by something like boyish terror. He stammered a hello while Vivian leaned on his desk. “Evisceration,” she said coldly.

  “I’m sorry?” The doctor said, confused and trembling in his suit.

  “A twelve-letter word for ‘cruel gutting’.” She drew a cigarette from a pack, lit it, and looked out of the office window overlooking the recreation room, and sighed.

  “That one. The boy. Bring him here and then go mop the sweat off yourself. You know how sweat repulses our kind.”

  The doctor jerked himself up, bowed his head and moved towards the door. “Of course, thank you, please tell your husband how much we all admire—”

  “Save your admiration for someone who has use for it, worm. Now. Fetch,” she fluttered her hand and the doctor bowed again and scurried of
f. She had taken a peek into his head before he left the room, and had seen a mind most foul and disturbed. She laughed. The old joke of the insane running the insane asylum had popped in her head.

  The doctor returned and brought in Twig before leaving them to go find a shower. “Mister Vanderbilt, was it?” Vivian said, sneering at Twig. “And this must be your father’s estate.” She swept one of her pale arms around the room. She walked over to him. He looked coldly at her and kept silent.

  “Sit,” she said, gesturing to a chair. He sat down, and she sat on the desk, very close to him, making sure to cross her legs slowly. She hardly needed to use her power of mind on men. Most of the time, a good pair of panty hose and a short dress did the trick.