Embraced by the Shadows

by Mayra Calvani

Sadash's only response was a smile, though what truly lay behind that smile she didn't know.

  She started toward the house. She knew Valeria was inside somewhere, but she couldn't picture where specifically. Before stepping inside, she looked back over her shoulder. Sadash was alone—Humberto had gone off to fetch his Coke—and he was watching her. Her Ottoman prince, her Turkish warrior. Impressively dark and tall in his dinner jacket, black locks flowing, and watching her. For a fraction of a second the saddest expression transformed his features, but then he appeared serious again, and cold.

  "I love you,” Alana whispered to him. He knew what she was up to. She knew he had caught Valeria's scent, too.

  Alana stepped inside the house. And as soon as she entered the living room, she saw her. Momentarily, Alana halted, holding her breath.

  Valeria was standing at the base of the stairway. Ominously enough, she was clad in red. Blood red. The short cocktail dress, the leather pumps, the matching little purse, all blood red. Only her transparent-sheer stockings were black. Her hair hung straight and silky down her shoulders, like a blond Indian, a perfect frame for her big brown eyes and blood red lips.

  From across the room, their eyes met.

  Valeria seemed anxious, afraid. Indeed, she was literally shaking. But when Alana tried to scan her thoughts all she saw was a brick wall.

  * * * *

  Seeing Alana, Valeria shuddered, willing herself to control her emotions, her raw fear. Slowly, her eyes never shifting from Alana, she began to climb the stairs. She had her mind made up. It had to be now, now, before it was too late. Dear God, there was no other way.

  With a force that literally made her temples throb, she tried to conceal her thoughts, her intentions.

  Picture a brick wall ... a brick wall ... a brick wall.... Nothing but a brick wall...

  She turned her face away from Alana and continued up the stairs. But she was keenly aware of Alana following her, keenly aware of her presence behind her back.

  A brick wall ... a brick wall ... a brick wall...

  Once on the second floor, she hastened down the dimly-lit hall and stopped in front of one of the bedrooms. Almost panting, she opened the door and went inside. Darkness. One of the many guest rooms. Empty. She knew the house well. She had played here many times. With Humberto. With Alana.

  ...brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall...

  The laughs and chatter and music downstairs were only resonant murmurs now, dark, portentous, like drumming in a voodoo ritual. But she was hardly aware of it, hardly aware of anything except for what she was about to do.

  The window curtains were drawn. It was better like this, in the dark. She made her way across the room and stood by the wall. With trembling hands she reached inside her purse.

  ...brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall ... brick wall...

  She stood in the darkness staring at the half open door, waiting.

  * * * *

  Alana went in long strides down the hall, deeply intrigued by Valeria's behavior. She had to talk to Humberto's father, that's why she had come here tonight.

  But what was Valeria up to? So boldly clever, her little Valeria, first summoning her to follow, then trying to shield her thoughts with the brick wall trick. Though, annoyingly enough, it had worked. What had Valeria been doing all morning? Cleaning up blood? Getting rid of evidence? Planning her strategy? Gathering holy water and garlic and stakes and matches?

  In spite of everything, Alana had to smile, though sadly. After last night's disaster, she had made her decision. She would never yield to Valeria's wishes, she would never bring her into this nightmare. Soon she would never see Valeria again.

  She halted at the guest room doorway.

  "Valeria.... “Alana said, stepping inside the room and closing the door behind her. Alana could see her perfectly well. Even in the dark, every detail of Valeria was perfectly defined.

  "I knew you would be here tonight,” Valeria whispered. “I knew you would come."

  "What's wrong with you?"

  "Forgive me..."

  Alana's gaze dropped to Valeria's little red purse, where Valeria had slipped her hand.

  Her black eyes widening with shock, Alana instantly knew what Valeria held in her hand, instantly pictured what would happen during the next few seconds. The brick wall was shattered, everything was shattered, except Valeria's chilling terror and undefeatable hope and love.

  "No!” Alana roared.

  But before Alana could get to her, Valeria pushed the gun into her abdomen and pulled the trigger.

  There was a quality of unreality to it all, as in a slow-moving surrealistic movie, not even a shot was heard. The gun must have been muffled when Valeria shoved it deep into her abdomen.

  The hell, Alana didn't know anything about guns! And neither did Valeria, for that matter! Where had she gotten the gun? Is that what she had been doing all morning, looking for a gun?

  But all these thoughts dashed through Alana's mind in a matter of a second. And even as Valeria was falling, Alana rushed to her side and gathered her into her arms, carefully laying her on the carpeted floor, which, with the white wall, was now splattered with blood.

  "Valeria,” Alana said. “Why?"

  Valeria's eyes were half shut, her breathing uneven, her face suddenly shockingly pale. “Do it...” she whispered.

  Alana was sobbing with both anger and something else she didn't understand. “You stupid fool, you stupid incredible fool ... You could have killed yourself! You could have died instantly!"

  Valeria tried to smile, but her face twisted into a grimace of pain. “No, no ... I'll not die ... not before ... not before you do it,” she stammered, pausing for breath.

  Alana pressed her hand to Valeria's abdomen, to the wound. The wound was pulsing and hot. She pressed harder, her fingers soaking in the blood. Valeria gasped, grimacing again as if she had been struck by a sharp stab of pain.

  "Damn you, I should let you die,” Alana said, her tongue instinctively flickering out to lick her own blood tears.

  "The pact ... remember ... the pact...."

  "Jesus, Valeria.... It was only a game, we were just children!"

  "No, no ... it was real ... very real...."

  "But why like this?"

  "Do it ... now..."

  "Why like this? Why the urgency? Why!"

  "Please..."

  "I should call an ambulance. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll call an ambulance,” Alana said, though she didn't make any attempt to move. Who was she trying to fool?

  Valeria closed her eyes. “Don't let me die..."

  "Damn you ... I damn you into hell,” Alana whispered harshly. And quite abruptly, on her hands and knees, like a magnet to the source, she brought her mouth to the wound, to the blood draught she could no longer resist, her fangs still lengthening and sinking deeper into the flesh even as the priceless lava flowed down her throat.

  As if from another world, she felt Valeria shuddering under her grasp, grabbing her red hair, convulsing with pain. But this was ... glorious. Shutting her eyes, Alana sank her fangs and stuck her tongue deeper into the wound, oblivious to the punctured organs, the womb ... punctured ... doesn't matter, drink, drink her up, feast on it, nothing like this will ever come again ... offered in love, the most precious gift.... Has anybody given himself or herself in love? Have you tasted that? Oh yes ... exactly like this ... in love.... If Miguel's blood had been the most exquisite bliss, this was exactly that ten times over. Blood that flowed right from the womb, right from the seed of life, right from her twin soul.

  Valeria was soon motionless, engulfed by the lavishness. Oh, yes, Alana knew. She herself had known the rapture, the ecstatic ripples of pleasure.

  Enjoy her, for you'll never possess her like this again...

  The effort she had to make to pull herself away from the wound was crushing, almost paralyzing. But Valeria was hardly breathing, her heart weakly, unevenly pulsing. The e
xchange had to be made now.

  For a vertiginous moment Alana didn't know what to do. Valeria appeared to be unconscious and she herself was sitting on the floor with her legs bent under her, still intoxicated by the blood. Was she supposed to cut off her chest, as Sadash had done? No, she couldn't cut off her chest, just like that, like an animal. She was afraid, she didn't dare do that.

  Instead she brought her wrist to her mouth and, grimacing, slid her pointed teeth into it, making two little puncture holes. Immediately blood flowed, ruby red, warm, thick. Mesmerized by what was about to happen, by what she was about to create, Alana lowered her wrist toward Valeria's mouth, stopping just above Valeria's half open lips.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  The blood dripped into her mouth, trickling down the corners of her lips. During the first minute nothing happened, and Alana suddenly panicked. Was Valeria dead? Had she died before tasting the blood? Had Alana done something wrong? Had she missed something?

  But then Alana detected movement. Inside Valeria's mouth. The tongue. Yes, the tongue. Slowly, almost shyly, the tongue slipped out of her mouth to lick at the blood. The tongue flickered weakly across her lips. Valeria swallowing. Too much blood. Valeria coughing. Valeria choking on it.

  Alana moved her dripping wrist from Valeria's mouth, watching intently for Valeria's next reaction. While watching her, she lapped at her own wrist. She didn't know for how long she lingered here, watching Valeria and lapping at her own wrist, waiting for Valeria's heart to stop. Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen?

  When she looked at her wrist she realized she had been lapping at nothing, the wound had healed some time ago, not even a little scar was visible. Lord, what kind of creature was she, that her cells could regenerate themselves like this? And what kind of creature was she about to create, by the mere exchange of their blood? That something like this could happen ... It was miraculous. It was science fiction turned reality.

  Valeria was dead. Her heart had stopped.

  Alana held her breath. Then she let it out slowly, heavily. So there it was finally.

  It was done. After so much mental debating, after so much agony. Done.

  There was no guilt in her, no remorse. But there was no happiness, no exhilaration either. In fact, she was suddenly overcome by a deep sense of dread. But then, she had been forced to do this, she hadn't had much choice in the matter.

  Sadash ... her beloved Sadash ... Why hadn't he intervened? Was he seeing what was happening, deep inside his mind? Why had not he burst into the room and propelled her against the wall as he had done last night? What was keeping him?

  She sighed, suddenly sickened by what had just happened. And how long would she have to wait now? A few minutes? A few hours? A few days? Sadash had told her the transformation time was highly unpredictable, it differed greatly from one being to another. She herself had been transformed in less than an hour, and Sadash had waited patiently by her side. He would have waited patiently by her side for as long as it took, he had told her.

  A sound in the corridor startled her. Steps along the corridor, past this bedroom, a door closing. Faint human smell, musky.

  She stood up suddenly, every muscle in her alert. She remained paralyzed for a moment, waiting for the next sound, for the next vibration of movement. Someone had walked into the next bedroom. That was all, no need for alarm.

  She relaxed a bit. The person who walked into this room would get the surprise of his life. Valeria was stretched out on the floor, her mouth trickling blood, her red dress soaked in blood, and though it was true the red dress made the blood less conspicuous, the white wall and plush silver gray carpet were splattered with blood. Blood, blood, so much blood. A painter would call it “A Study In Red.” And that's what her life was—A Study In Red.

  She herself was stained with blood, but her dress was black, thank God, the blood was hardly noticeable as such, the wet stains could have been wine just as well.

  She walked into the adjoining bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, the French twist ruined, and her face and neck and hands were caked with blood. The tiny crevices of her snake choker were caked with blood too.

  The elegant little bathroom made such a contrast with her appearance. Pink marble, golden fixtures, richly thick cotton towels, a set of silver brush and comb, pink and fragrant miniature soaps.

  She leaned over the sink and washed, splashing herself with cold water. She dried herself with a towel and brushed her long hair with the silver brush. The bristles were too soft, they could hardly get into her hair, but it was better than nothing. Why did silver brushes always have maddeningly soft bristles?

  A sound in the other bedroom startled her again. She looked to the wall.

  And then it dawned on her. The bedroom next door belongs to Antonio Curet, that was he who just passed through the corridor!

  Slowly, Alana put the brush down. Then she walked out of the bathroom and looked down at Valeria.

  Still dead.

  It was no use trying to clean up the blood, trying to clean up the mess. It was no use getting rid of the gun. Soon there wouldn't be any body, anyway. No body, no crime.

  Crouching, she bent over Valeria and kissed her tenderly on the cheek, careful not to get any blood on herself.

  "I hope I'll never regret this,” Alana whispered. “You finally won, didn't you? You finally got what you wanted ... I must leave you for a little while now, my darling, but don't be afraid, I'll be right back. I want to be here when you wake up."

  She stood up, turned on her heels, and walked out of the bedroom. Outside in the dimly-lit corridor the resonance of the music was a lot louder. How surrealistic life is, she thought. That an elegant party is taking place downstairs, and that at the same time a dead woman is coming back to life upstairs. Jesus, the thought of it was enough to make her swoon.

  After closing the door behind her, she turned right and walked to the next door.

  Closing her eyes, she fastened her hand on the doorknob. Yes, he was inside. She could almost smell him. A surge of silent rage went through her. She opened her eyes and, turning the doorknob, crept inside the bedroom.

  The night lamps were on, beautiful soft yellow light. The bedroom was huge, elegantly yet very manly decorated in black and steel. A king-size bed, black satin sheets. A state-of-the-art stereo system and one of those giant TV screens. The carpet was thick and silky, steel gray, and there were many paintings on the walls, including a large Paul Delvaux, featuring two nymphs playing with each other, though whether the painting was an original or a copy Alana couldn't tell.

  The sound of running water came from the bathroom. And even though the bathroom door was closed, Alana suddenly had a flash of him, leaning over the sink, washing his face and hands just as Alana had done a few minutes ago.

  Alana stared at the bed, at the shiny black satin sheets. Is there where her mother had given herself to him, drunk and high on God knows what? Lord, and all this time only Valeria had been the one to know, the one to see them. Alana hadn't had the slightest idea of what was going on ... no, no, she had been focusing her attention on raw liver, raw liver instead of her mother. The bathroom door opened and Antonio Curet came out. He halted at mid-step, however, when he saw her.

  "Alana...” he said at last, recognizing her. His voice was deep, surprised, puzzled. “What are you doing here?"

  For a moment Alana didn't know what to say. She seemed almost as surprised as he was. She had not seen him in four years, since that pool party he had given to celebrate Humberto's high school graduation.

  Now he looked so much like ... Humberto. Or rather, Humberto, in his developing maturity, was physically becoming more and more like his father. The same genes were there, undeniable. Dark and tall, with the same shiny brown hair—in Antonio's case, generously streaked with silver—and bushy dark eyebrows meeting above the nose. The only striking difference between them were the eyes. Humberto's eyes were kind, a warm softness always irradiated fro
m them, but this man's eyes, behind the gold-rimmed glasses, were cold. Not evil or mean, just cold and hard, embittered by the years.

  He was clad in a tuxedo, his silver-streaked hair neatly brushed back, his suntanned face still flushed from the coldness of the water. He wore a gold Rolex on his wrist and a thick gold ring with the carved letter A on the smallest finger of his hand. He had splashed cologne onto his face, strong, metallic, masculine, and for a moment the fragrance distracted her. And Alana was forced to admit that in spite of his age—sixty, maybe sixty-five—he still was a hell of an attractive man.

  "Alana Piovanetti.” he said. He smiled, but he was confused. What was she doing here, in his bedroom? And he asked again, “What are you doing here?"

  "I need to talk to you. I need to ask you something."

  Antonio Curet thought of Laura. In fact that was the first thing he thought of as soon as he'd seen Alana. Through his mind, Alana saw flashes of her mother's face. A mixture of feelings flooded through him. Love, regret ... remorse? Alana wasn't quite sure, she could hardly get any specific incriminatory images from him. His will was stubborn and hard, like Valeria's.

  He took a few steps closer, looking expectantly at her.

  "I have to talk to you about my mother, about the day she drowned."

  He frowned, even more perplexed now.

  "You were there, weren't you?” she went on. “You came to see her, the day she drowned."

  A subtle change came over his features. “I ... I didn't see her that day ... Why are you asking me this? Who told you this?” he said.

  But he was lying. He was lying! Alana instantly knew he was lying, as soon as that subtle change had come over his features. He was afraid!

  "There's no point denying it. I know you went to see her that day. I know everything. About your affair, about the way you treated her, about the way you played with her and then discarded her and fed her sleeping pills. I know everything. She wrote it all in her diary. It's all in there. Even your name is in there,” she said. She was partly bluffing, of course.

  He seemed paralyzed, looking at her, stunned by her words.