The Vampire s Secret

by Raven Hart

  “That’s okay. I’ve got the prayer Melaphia wrote down for me right here.” I took the list out of my shirt pocket and turned it over to the back. Melaphia’s neat handwriting looked like gibberish. Some of the words were foreign, and even though she’d spelled them out phonetically, I still could only make sense of a few of them here and there. I was going to have to wing it. What could go wrong?

  “Okay, Gramps. This one’s from the heart,” I said. I handed the bottle to Werm, who took another drink, nodded approvingly, and handed it back. I raised the bottle and sprinkled a healthy shot or so over the altar.

  “Uh, I salute you. I honor you. And I ask you to—” I stared at the paper again. “Open the gateway. Yeah, that’s right, and I guess I’m supposed to ask you to make my natural vampire powers even stronger.”

  “I think that’s the key,” Werm said sagely. “That’s what Willyum and Mela—Melaph—Mel said.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I set the bottle down and made a sweeping gesture toward the other items on the grill. “All this stuff here is for you. The candles, the cedar, the incense, the chicken. So open that old gateway of yours and let the sun shine in.” I snickered. Maman Lalee help me, but I did.

  “We didn’t know if you liked Original Recipe or Extra Crispy,” Werm said, and busted into a giggling fit.

  I let the papers fall and grabbed onto Werm’s shoulder for support, but we both collapsed, braying with laughter like a couple of jackasses. “Hey,” Werm said. “Maybe you should see if you can fly now.”

  “Fly, hell, I can barely stand up.” I snorted with laughter again and Werm shrieked with it. “What’s in this stuff, anyway?”

  Werm gulped in some air and confessed, “I dis—distillated some of my best weed into it.” He extended his arms. “That’s me, keeper of the ga-ga-ganja.”

  “Remind me to kill you when I sooober up.”

  We were laughing so hard we didn’t feel the change in the atmosphere until the candles began to flicker. The wind had shifted but there was something more. Something unnatural was in the air. Something unwholesome and thick with decay. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: When a vampire gets creeped out, well, let’s just say it’s seriously messed up.

  Werm felt it, too. We stopped laughing at the same instant. We had both been doubled over, and at that level our vision had been clouded by the smoke from the burning incense and flickering candles. We straightened up slowly, and when we did, we had a clear view of the relatively fresh earth a few feet away from us, and it was shifting. My super-sensitive hearing picked up a scrabbling noise underground.

  We were both silent for a moment, and then Werm said, “Jack, what’s that? It’s coming from that bare patch of dirt over there.”

  My boozy/trippin’ brain was trying to clear itself. “You mean that patch of dirt about the size of a Chevy Corsica?”

  Werm just looked at me, not understanding. I didn’t want to understand either, but I was beginning to all the same.

  Oh no.

  “Werm, help me think. What did we just ask that voodoo spirit for? What did we ask him for exactly?”

  “We—we asked him to make your vampire powers even stronger. And to open the gateway to the spirit world. Why? What was wrong with that?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  Werm was still staring at me, so he didn’t see the mottled hand burst out of the ground, grasping at the chill night air in the Savannah moonlight.

  A little while back, my evil grandsire, Reedrek, made a big show of murdering my friend and employee Huey. The poor little simpleminded fellow had the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and, long story short, kind of got gutted like a trout. Since we didn’t want to get the police involved and since Huey didn’t have any family, we decided to bury him behind the wheel of his beloved Chevy with a beer in his hand.

  Now as I’ve explained before, I have what you’d call an affinity for the dead, even beyond the fact that I are one, as the old joke goes. In short, ghosts love me. In fact, Huey had visited me once after he died, here in the garage, just to let me know that he was doing well in the afterworld. Then he went about his business. That was fine and dandy.

  This wasn’t.

  What stood before Werm and me was not a ghost. It was a zombie. It was a full-bore Night of the Living Dead walking corpse. It was Huey in the flesh, you might say. The mottled, rotting, putrid flesh.

  Werm walked stiffly to a clump of bushes and retched quietly.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened. My powers where the dead were concerned—those that were previously limited mostly to communication—had blossomed into full-fledged corpse-raising reanimation. Yes, indeed. Thanks to a well-hung voodoo deity, I was now the proud owner of a bouncing baby zombie. Ask and ye shall receive.

  Huey raised his hand, the hand that had just clawed his way out of the earth. “Hey, Jack.”

  “Hey, Huey.”

  Werm appeared at my side. “That’s Huey?”

  “That’s him. Huey, this is Werm.”

  “Hey, Werm.”

  “Hey, Huey,” Werm said wanly. “Jack, I think I know what must’ve—”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Werm and I walked back into the garage, Huey shuffling along behind us. The irregulars were playing cards now, like they did most nights. Jerry, who’d brought the cigars for the ritual, had evidently come with enough for everybody, because there they sat, puffing away and sipping their beers as pretty as you please. Because Werm and I had come in ahead of him, they didn’t notice Huey until he sat down at his regular place at the table.

  What little action there was at the table froze solid, as if, ironically, the living men had gone into suspended animation and only the dead man showed any signs of life. The only movement the irregulars displayed was the downward trajectory of their cigars as they hung limply from the corners of their mouths.

  For a moment I was reminded of that famous old painting of the dogs playing poker. That’s how still they were, as still as the dogs in the painting, until Huey grinned, showing a mouthful of greenish teeth and rotting gums.

  “Deal me in, boys,” he said.

  Five

  William

  Eleanor and I took the new Mercedes for the drive to where her house on River Street used to stand. I’d retired the Jag. Too many smells and memories attached: Reedrek, Shari, even the hapless Huey. And then there was Olivia. I’d closed that chapter of my life in favor of this new one with she who must be obeyed.

  “Oh William, I can’t wait to have my wonderful house rebuilt. Just think of all the fun we’ll have.” Eleanor’s voice had lowered to almost a whisper. “I miss our games. Do you remember the dungeon?”

  Parts of me remembered very well and twitched in interest. “Yes, love, I do.” The memory of watching Olivia feed on, then fuck, her lovely swan blossomed into a full-color image in my mind. Then the memory of Eleanor’s mouth, Olivia’s mouth, both sucking…sucking. I could almost smell the blood, feel the tug of tongues on hot skin.

  Eleanor’s hand slid up my thigh. “The new dungeon will be bigger.” She rubbed her palm along my cock. “More dangerous.”

  I covered her hand with my own and pressed it tighter against my hardening flesh. I’d intended to answer her, but when she tightened her grip, sinking her fingernails into the fabric over my sensitive foreskin, I drew in a deep, whistling breath between my teeth. Eleanor was so attuned to my fantasies that, if I wasn’t very careful, she’d be leading me around by my cock.

  And I wouldn’t care.

  Reluctantly, I pushed her hand back down to my thigh and readjusted my trousers. “Let me drive or I’ll have to pull over and do several things that would utterly shock the neighbors.”

  Eleanor smiled her secretive, Mona Lisa smile. “I’ve been shocking them for years. Now I have eternity to live up to my reputation.”

  The house on River Street was progressing nicely. The foundation had
been poured. There was a basement larger than any others in the area, complete with a metal door that, at this point, opened to solid dirt. The builder had been puzzled by the plan, but I’d assured him that it was necessary and reminded him I was paying him an inordinate amount of money to do as I asked. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. The fewer humans who knew about the extent of the underground tunnels beneath their homes, churches, streets, and buildings, the better.

  Eleanor and I gathered the materials we’d collected for her altar and picked our way through the construction site. They’d be putting in the beams for the main floor within the week, so the altar would eventually have to be moved. But this was Eleanor’s place of power—she was in total control of anyone working in or patronizing her establishment. This is where her coffin would be moved…eventually.

  She chose the southeast corner of the basement, not far from the door. While I waited, she spread her silk Japanese-style robe on the new concrete floor. Then she placed three white floating candles in a large crystal bowl that she’d filled with ocean water.

  “Would you bring me the dirt?” she asked.

  I moved over to the metal door and pried it open. I dug out two double-handfuls of Savannah’s sandy soil. Soil that had been enriched with the blood and bones of its inhabitants for hundreds of years. Eleanor held out one of my silver serving trays to receive it. Then she placed the tray on the altar. I dusted off my hands and watched as she pricked her finger with a fang and dropped a few drops of her own blood on the soil.

  With the final additions of a dozen white camellias from Melaphia’s garden, two perfect cuts of raw filet mignon, and a magnum of Cristal champagne, she completed Melaphia’s list.

  With the grace of the snake tatooed on her skin, she rose and came to stand before me.

  “You have to leave me now.”

  Everything in me rebelled. We’d been together constantly since I’d gone to retrieve her from immortal hell. I wasn’t prepared to let her out of my sight just yet.

  “What could it matter if I stay—”

  She pressed her fingers to my lips. “Melaphia says you’ll distract me.”

  I felt as if I’d been reprimanded. Who was Melaphia to judge me? Taking Eleanor’s wrist, I lowered her hand. “I’m capable of being still and silent.”

  She shook her head. “She’s right. I feel you”—she rubbed her arm, then her chest from heart to neck—“everywhere inside. I’ll know you’re here. I’ll always know.”

  I had no argument for that. We were connected, not only by blood but by power. Each time we made love it knit the connection tighter and stronger.

  A rush of something like my old temper raced through me. I’d been the maker of my own rules for so long…and yet I knew Melaphia was teaching us as I’d asked her. I simply hadn’t anticipated that feeling like a schoolboy being sent away would be part of the bargain.

  “All right, I’ll go. But I’ll send Deylaud to watch over you.”

  Eleanor’s laugh was sweet and lighthearted. “You’ve made me strong enough to take care of myself. Why do I need protection?”

  I knew she was right, but I’d always taken care of my possessions and of the people around me. Eleanor was mine in so many ways. “Not protection,” I said. “Courtesy.”

  Her smile held. “Uh-huh. Well, okay, send Deylaud if it makes you happy.” She slipped her arms around my neck. “I want you to be happy.”

  “I am,” I said, lying only a little. “And Deylaud will be ecstatic.”

  “He does seem to like me.”

  “Like? ‘Mesmerized’ is more the word. He loves me, but for you I think he would even defy me.” I gave her a soft kiss. “Be careful what you ask of him.”

  Her smile disappeared as her mouth rose to meet mine in earnest, and I lost the thread of the conversation.

  My prediction was correct. Deylaud had barely heard my request for him to go to Eleanor before he was opening the front door. Reyha did not even offer to go along. They’d been bickering of late, but I didn’t have time to sort it out. They were brother and sister, after all. They’d have to kiss and make up at some point.

  Since Eleanor was out of my care, I thought to use the time to do some business. In a few days I would be hosting the largest group meeting of New World vampires that had ever been held. Hiding was no longer an option since Reedrek had surely communicated his destination to someone in Europe. Better to be prepared together than hidden and separate.

  Time was of the essence. Reedrek had been missing from Europe for nearly a month and a search party of old sires could be forming, or even already on its way by sea. From the time Jack and I entombed Reedrek, we had been working and organizing, making all the preparations necessary to play host to vampires representing every region of the country.

  It was unfortunate that Iban, Tobey, and Gerard would have to return to Savannah so soon. I had offered them the use of my plantation home and its staff so they could winter in Savannah, but each had had business interests to attend to and preparations of their own to make before the meeting.

  The logistics were now complete and the vampires would begin arriving in approximately forty-eight hours.

  I checked messages on Bloody Gentry.

  From RioRoho of the Texas contingent: There are those of us who remember the Alamo clearly. We are prepared for anything this time. Let ’em come. See you on the 28th. It was signed TRR.

  Travis had been at the Alamo, though not as a fighter. He’d taken his share of the thousands of surplus Mexican soldiers surrounding the upstart Americans. Afterward, he’d adopted a local human name to please all sides: Travis to honor the fabled colonel, and Rubio to placate the period’s Mexican majority. He refused to divulge what the middle R stood for. Perhaps he’d never decided—it had been less than two hundred years, after all. Vampires could, on the whole, take as long as they liked to make up their minds. I’d heard unconfirmed rumors that he’d moved to New Mexico, or was it Arizona?

  I composed an answer. Send a list of what you require. I am at your service. Thorne.

  From CENTRALPKVU, whom I knew to be Lucius’s assistant in New York: We require separate and private lodgings for three—will bring staff. Please—no bugs, bumpkins, or barbarians. Lucius remembers Savannah well and wonders how you’ve managed to survive there for all these decades without so many as two sophisticated humans to rub together. He says he would die of boredom within a week. I myself have had my curiosity piqued. We’ll need appropriate transport from the executive airport, fresh blood (Lucius is currently favoring equine, but he said a few willing, attractive swans would go a long way to improve his mood), and a view of the water.

  A view of the water, indeed. Lucius had always been a prig, and I knew very well he expected first-rate accommodations. But snobbery aside, it would be good to see him once more. I’d already given instructions to my staff to open the house on Isle of Hope.

  The next message came from my shipping manager in Ireland.

  Have a request for transport of certain goods from a local. Have not received the usual instructions. Are you expecting a shipment?

  I don’t like surprises, especially where my business is concerned. Few would have the nerve to bypass me and try to board one of my ships. My first thought was of Olivia—we all knew she had the nerve for most anything—but Olivia would have contacted me, or found transportation on her own. And when I’d last heard from her, she’d said she was traveling in the opposite direction. Curious.

  Give the customer my e-mail address. Offer nothing else. Let them contact me.

  Having done all I could do on that front, my thoughts naturally returned to Eleanor and what might be happening in her basement across town. Never having been a patient man—at least not since my “death” by Reedrek’s hand—I left my office and went to my own altar, which had been set up among Melaphia’s. I lit the candles and just stood there. I knew I should be following instructions and prostrating myself to the orishas, but the
itch to have Eleanor in my sight was too strong. Instead of falling to my knees, I picked up the braided lock of Eleanor’s hair and went to retrieve the bone box.

  The reflecting pond was dark and filled with stars as the shells tumbled from the box. In a blink I was flying among the live oaks, Spanish moss trailing like spidery fingers against my coat and hair. Then I was hovering over the vacant space where Eleanor’s house used to stand. I could see her face reflected in the candlelight, hear her voice as she chanted.

  “By the bones we walk on, the air we breathe. By the blood we share, the years we grieve.” As she spoke she drew a symbol on the ground with something white—sugar or flour. “I honor all those before me. Erzulie, come to me. This body is yours. I am yours.” With that promise, Eleanor bent and touched her forehead to the ground and began to hum. The chant may have had words but they were blended together to form a repetitive lament.

  The sadness in the chant entered my chest like the thrust of a knife. I wanted to charge forward and stop the ceremony, to keep this Erzulie away from my Eleanor; but I had no say in this. According to Melaphia, the Vodoun was our destiny now and we had to find our true path within it.

  A movement near a tree still blackened by the fire caught my attention. Deylaud—in human form—was kneeling with his hands clasped, as though in prayer. His shoulders were shaking. Floating closer, I could see tears running freely down his cheeks. So he had felt it, too.

  Eleanor’s sorrowful chant broke its rhythm briefly on a sob. I wanted to go to her, to soothe her. But as I moved to her, I saw that she was beyond my help. Tiny droplets were oozing from the concrete behind the altar like tears and falling like sad raindrops on the flowers.

  Erzulie was the orisha of love, but she was also the mistress of tragedy. I felt a stirring of true fear, along with a renewed spark of anger. Why would Maman Lalee cause the one I loved to be sacrificed on the altar of tragedy? Hadn’t we had enough pain?

  As though disturbed by my thoughts, Eleanor sat up. She stared at the concrete and slowly the tears falling from stone began to turn pink, then red. Tears of blood and vengeance, falling in fat juicy drops that sizzled as they struck the now ruined camellias.