"Come, Valeria, let's take a look at that grill,” Alana said, heading out to the garden and pool area.
"Can you lend me one of your bathing suits?” Valeria said, a bit timidly, following her.
Outside, the glaring sun blinded them for a moment.
"Yes, don't worry,” Alana said.
"The black bikini?"
"Whichever you want."
Alana halted.
Something bright red at the bottom of the pool...
Her mother in her bright red bathing suit at the bottom of the pool, face down, brown hair undulating...
Her mother, dead, drowned.
For a fraction of a second Alana stared, thunderstruck, chilled to the bone. Then reality hit her at full force. She screamed, calling out to her mother, calling out to her uncle, and then she dove into the water. Frantically Alana grabbed her mother by the waist and pulled her up.
By the time Alana broke the surface she realized her uncle had also jumped into the water and was helping her to hoist Laura over the edge of the pool.
Valeria was sobbing, her face red with tears, her hands crossed in front of her mouth as if in prayer. Her big brown eyes were widened with shock and disbelief.
Laura's inert body rolled over the concrete floor to stare face up at the sky. She was shockingly pale and cold, and her eyes were open and fixed. Uncle Angelo checked her pulse ... nothing ... nothing.... Yet still he refused to give up and he tried to resuscitate her by using mouth to mouth. Breathe. Please, dear God in heaven, breathe.... But it was no use, and Alana knew it, and Uncle Angelo knew it, and Valeria knew it.
Laura was dead. Had been dead for some time.
This isn't happening, this can't be happening, Dear God, this can't be happening!
A giddy feeling gripped Alana, a feeling of unreality. She clung to her mother and shut her eyes tightly, engulfing herself in her own pain, in her own agony, hardly aware of her uncle's sobs, of Valeria's husky voice, distorted with grief, “Alana. My God, Alana ... !"
The ambulance, which Uncle Angelo had instructed Valeria to call before he jumped into the pool, arrived fifteen minutes later. The police, too, were also notified.
Beside a lounge chair by the pool, they found an empty bottle of white wine along with some magazines, a suntan lotion, and a little pill box half-filled with sleeping pills.
The whole thing pointed to an accident. Laura had mixed the wine with the pills, then she had gone into the water and somehow drifted off into unconsciousness. Either that, or it was suicide, though this was highly improbable, considering all the circumstances. Of course, they would have to wait until after the autopsy before they would know exactly how many sedatives Laura had consumed.
Once the autopsy was done, everything was officially declared an accident. There was a slight level of sedatives in Laura's blood along with a higher level of alcohol from the wine consumed.
Only one thing didn't fit: Alana knew that Laura never took sleeping pills when swimming in the pool. Indeed, Laura knew how dangerous this might be. Alana and Uncle Angelo had never seen her doing this, mixing alcohol with sleeping pills while at the pool. It was true, though, that on some occasions they had seen her mixing alcohol with her migraine medicine. Laura had this incredible notion that by doing this she always got rid of her headaches.
And then it was speculated that Laura, already muddled by the wine, had made a mistake and taken the sleeping pills believing them to be migraine pills, thus explaining the minute amount of sedatives in her system. The pill boxes were almost exactly alike, as were the pills. Someone already muddled by wine may not have noticed the difference.
Nothing to do ... An accident...
A month after the accident was Alana's thirteenth birthday and Uncle Angelo took her on a two-week tour around Europe, and in Paris, still numb by the pain and grieving for her mother, Alana saw fangs growing out of Mona Lisa's face.
CHAPTER 11
"Alana?"
She looked up at Sadash, snapping back to the present like a spaceship crashing back to earth. Her temples still throbbed from concentration.
"Are you all right?” he asked.
She rose from the sofa, badly shaken, but doing her best to conceal it. “Just hungry,” she muttered, shrugging.
He regarded her for a moment, his brows furrowed.
"I'm just hungry, really. I hate being hungry like this. It turns me into someone I don't recognize."
He seemed to relax. “Let's go then, my angel. No need to prolong your suffering."
After feeding on a couple of drug dealers near the docks of Old San Juan, Sadash took her to La Cueva. They sat at a corner table far off from the dance floor. Their complexions were still somewhat flushed from the heat of the recent kill.
Sadash ordered a Coca-Cola—his perpetual habit—and Alana a Strawberry Daiquiri. Drinks she would have never ordered as a mortal she ordered now. She usually enjoyed playing with the straw and pretending to drink. Tonight, though, she didn't feel like playing nor pretending.
"Sadash,” she began. “We have to talk."
But at that moment the waiter came with their drinks.
"Why don't you take a sip?” Sadash said after the waiter had gone.
The other night in their study, in spite of Sadash's warning, she had drank a few sips of wine to see what would happen. After a few minutes she had bent over with agony—a splitting migraine, terrible chest and stomach spasms, blood vomit. The symptoms had gradually disappeared after the vomiting, but it had been a lesson she would never forget.
Alana stirred uncomfortably in her seat. Was he trying to avoid the conversation? Nevertheless, she grimaced, humoring him. “It'd sure make a hell of a spectacle, in front of all this people."
He shook his head. “Modern humans are so blind, so skeptical, they would think it a trick."
Alana quietly agreed, looking around for a moment.
This was her first appearance at the club as a real vampire. It felt so odd, meeting the young woman who had replaced her, saying hello to Victor and actually placing a kiss on his cheek and giving him a hug. Victor had been surprised at her sudden leaving. In fact, he had been worried. But Alana had only laughed and reassured him. Everything was fine. Just fine. The job of vampire hostess had not really been for her. She couldn't handle the night hours; she would go for her master's degree.
Victor hadn't even given her a strange look. To him she was as human as she had ever been. How easy to fool them! And even if they gave her strange looks—some people were somehow more psychically receptive than others—all it took was one piercing look and one magnetic smile to convince them that there was nothing what-so-ever unusual about her.
She could have done this with Valeria, for example. She could have put Valeria under her spell. Her sweet Valeria was too perceptive for her own good. Was, in fact, a little psychic, as Valeria had always claimed and as she herself had understood the night of their last argument, when she had pulled Valeria into her arms and gave her the mafia kiss. But for some reason she hadn't wanted to put Valeria under her spell. And she reluctantly knew why. With perverse longing she wanted Valeria to see through the facade and recognize the real horror.
"What are you brooding about?” Sadash said.
"Nothing,” she finally said. “You sound so sad. You miss scanning my thoughts, don't you?"
His answer was an indecipherable little smile.
"Sadash..."
"Yes?"
"Tell me the truth, Sadash. Is it true—what the gypsy woman said? Was my mother killed? I've been so overwhelmed by my new identity I haven't had time to deeply ponder about it. But it's been on my mind all along. I want to know what happened. Do you know what really happened that day? You know everything about me, about my family."
"What makes you suspect that what the gypsy woman said is true? All of a sudden, I mean. She told you this years ago, yet you never took it seriously before."
"That's true ... I don't know. I would
n't know how to answer you. She sounded so honest, so earnest about it, and all the other things she told me were true. That's the awful thing about it, that all the other things she told me were true. Maybe it has to do with my new identity, with my new vision. Maybe it's made me more receptive, more cunning. I don't know, it's just a strong feeling I have, call it vampiric ESP."
He regarded her for a moment, a bit hesitant, his fingers slowly sliding up and down his glass of Coke.
"No one killed your mother,” he finally said. “Not ... exactly."
"What do you mean ... not exactly? Sadash, please don't lie to me. You promised me we would talk about this."
"Why would I lie to you?"
"I don't know."
"I'm not going to lie to you. I only want to be exact. Killing. What does the word mean? Is killing necessarily murdering? The word killing merely states the fact. The word murdering shows motive and premeditation. To murder is to kill, but to kill is not necessarily to murder. Did the gypsy use the word kill or murder?"
"No, she never used the word murder. She said someone killed my mother,” Alana said after a thoughtful pause.
"If she had said murdered it would have been a lot more specific. Killing is too general a word. And too subjective. And then there's the question of having to take it literally. Maybe someone killed your mother, but not literally."
"What are you talking about? What does it matter? I don't care if it was literally or not. I only want to know if it's true. Just answer my question. Do you know what really happened?"
After a moment, he said, “Yes."
She stiffened. “Okay ... so you know what really happened. Now, was my mother killed? What the gypsy woman said, is it true?"
For a moment he was oddly silent. His deep-set eyes darted down to his Coke, then back to her. But his features were not solemn. He seemed much too relaxed, and something quite perverse and devilish hovered over his lips. What in hell was he thinking of? She would have given anything to scan his thoughts, to read what lay behind those beautiful eyes. The sheer perfection of him maddened her, made her want to smack him.
"Sadash..."
"Yes ... it's true. If the word killing merely states the fact, then I guess it's true."
"Then someone was involved?” she said, dismayed. “My God, who?"
"Remember that it could have been an accident. Remember that the gypsy may not have meant it literally."
"Why are you trying to confuse me? You know what happened, you just told me so. You know if it was an accident or not. You know if it was meant literally or not."
"Yes ... But I won't tell you. And I won't tell you who the person involved was, either."
She stared at him, momentarily stunned. “Why not?"
"Let me ask you something. What do you expect to gain by learning about all this? It belongs to the past. It can't affect you one way or the other now."
"I can't believe I'm hearing this. What kind of question is that? I expect to gain the knowledge. She was my mother. I want to know what happened to her. I have the right to know."
He was silent again.
"I don't understand you,” she said. “Why don't you want to tell me? Last night you promised me we would talk about it."
"I promised you we would talk about it. I never promised I would unravel the mystery."
She gave him a hurtful look. “So that's what it is for you—a mystery?"
"Well, in a way it is a mystery. Not for me. For you."
"I can't understand you. I can't understand why you don't want to tell me. Unless..."
"Unless I had something to do with it?” he drawled.
She froze. “Did you?"
"Let's pretend for a second I had something to do with it. What would you do?"
"My God.... Sometimes I hate you."
"Love and hate are practically the same thing."
Narrowing her eyes, she tried to pierce the thick fortress which guarded his thoughts, to the point where she began to feel a throbbing pain in her temples.
"Don't try that,” he said, evidently guessing what she was doing. “It's useless. You'll only get weak ... and hungry."
"Thanks for the advice."
He sighed. “I didn't kill Laura. How could I, in broad daylight?” he said. Had there been a wounded, reproachful spark in his voice or had she imagined it?
"I don't know,” she said, somewhat guiltily. “I'm sorry, but what do you expect me to think? Your attitude baffles me.” Then she added, “You once told me you would never hurt the people I love. I believed you then. And I believe you now."
"Don't involve me in this,” he said, almost pleadingly, suddenly reaching for her hand from across the table. His forefinger stroke her pulse, sending pleasant chills up her arm. “Unravel the mystery if you wish, but don't involve me in it. Use your new vision, use the powers I gave you. With a little luck, it shouldn't take you more than a few days to find out the truth."
"You want me to play detective to the murder of my own mother?” she said, appalled, jerking back her hand.
"Killing isn't necessarily murder. Remember."
"Thanks for the clue. So it wasn't a murder, I already can tell that from your hints. At least tell me if it was a literal kill."
"What do you think?"
"I think it was a literal kill."
"It was. I'll tell you that much. It was."
"Was it an accident?"
"Maybe."
"You're not going to tell me."
"Maybe it was an accident, and maybe it was not. That's why I told you last night it isn't so simple. Deep human emotions are involved. I myself can't be sure a hundred percent. I'm assuming I know the whole truth, but I may be wrong. My telepathic powers aren't perfect, not when deeply hidden human emotions are concerned."
"But you know who killed my mother."
"I already told you I know. But don't ask me again who this person is. I won't tell you anything about this person. Use the powers I gave you,” he sternly said. But all of a sudden, quite earnestly, he added, “Why don't you forget the whole thing? What could it matter now—what happened so many years ago? You'll only get hurt, you'll only suffer utter disappointment. We need a change. I think it's time we move from here. I was thinking Paris."
"You baffle me, baffle me,” she said, softly shaking her head. “The more you talk, the more you baffle me. I won't go anywhere till I find out who killed my mother. I'm going to ask you one last time. Can you tell me what really happened that day? Can you tell me who killed my mother?"
"No."
"Why?"
"You don't need my help. Use your own powers."
"But I don't understand you! One moment you tell me to forget about it, the next you urge me to use my powers!” she said, suddenly angry. “Why don't you tell me? If you aren't guilty of anything, if you don't have anything to hide, then why don't you tell me?"
He made an impatient gesture with his hands. “What do you want me to say? My advice to you is to forget it. But since you won't forget it, then at least handle it yourself and don't mix me up in it . I won't be the one to hurt you."
"Hurt me? You're not telling me because you don't want to hurt me? Come on, don't give me that! I'm not that naive."
"Think whatever you wish,” he said, shrugging lightly. Then he leaned forward over the table, his gaze piercing hers like an arrow, and said, “Remember that night at El Patio de Sam, when you told me you never had really known your mother? Well, you were right. You were more than right. There are many things you don't know about your mother. And I'm partly if not totally responsible for it. After I drank from you and we established a psychic connection, you changed. You became distant with those around you and more engulfed in yourself. God, there were times when you were hardly aware of what was going on around you. Which was good, because I didn't want you to suffer more than you needed to."
"What are you saying? I knew all about my mother's drinking, about her taste for sleeping pills. I knew
all about that,” she said. She suddenly realized Sadash was looking at something past her, over her shoulder. She glanced behind her and saw Valeria and Humberto walking into the club and following the waiter to one of the tables on the opposite side of the room.
Her pulse raced.
She watched them.
Valeria and Humberto sat down at the table. Valeria asked for red wine, and Humberto ordered an expensive bottle of French Bordeaux. Her beautiful Humberto, always so generous. Alana could hear their voices, their laughs with almost painful resonance. Valeria was clad in a red silk dress, very elegant and sexy, and her sleek blond hair fell carelessly on her shoulders, almost too carelessly, as if she had been necking with Humberto in the car before entering into the club, which she had, Alana now clearly perceived! Valeria was laughing softly, somewhat breathlessly, but Alana could sense—hell, she could almost smell Valeria's sadness. And then Valeria told Humberto, “I miss her."
Alana looked back at Sadash. She realized all this time he had been watching her.
"You want her ... don't you?” he said. His voice was like the silky voice of the Devil, but she caught a twinge of resentment in it.
Alana shut her lips tightly, feeling guilty.
"You're insatiable and greedy. Am I not enough for you, at least for now?” he said, angry yet darkly ecstatic. “I warned you before and I'm warning you now."
"Don't worry. I don't intend to do anything I'll later regret. I mean it,” she honestly said.
He gave her a look that told her he didn't exactly believe her.
"I mean it!” she insisted.
"I hope so."
"I just want—I don't know. I don't know how to explain it. I just want to look at them,” she said, glancing at them, then back at Sadash.
"I know,” he said, his tone softening a bit. “You love them deeply and you can't keep your eyes off them. It's perfectly natural. But torturous and dangerous. That's why the best thing you can do is keep away from them. I meant what I said about Paris."
Embraced by the Shadows Page 19