by Raven Hart
“It’s great to see you again, Jack. We came out early to get started on my next film. I want you to meet my friend and associate, Sullivan Hayes. He’s going to be doing some preproduction while I’m meeting with you and William and the others at the conclave.”
Sullivan and I shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Jack,” Sullivan said. “Iban’s told me a lot about you.”
I guess Iban saw the question in my eyes. “Do not worry,” he said. “You may trust Sullivan. He knows.”
Now that was a shocker. The only humans besides the caretaker Chandler and my trusty partner Rennie that I knew who were hip to vampires were Melaphia and Renee and their foremothers, but that was their birthright. The only reason the irregulars knew I was a monster was because they were not 100 percent human themselves. I guess the surprise showed on my face, because Iban set about explaining things.
“Sullivan is my compadre,” Iban said, emphasizing the foreign word.
“Uh, okay. Hey, I’m as open-minded as hell,” I said. “It’s a free country, right? I’m all for gay rights.”
Iban and Sullivan busted out laughing. “I assure you it’s not like that, Jack,” Iban said. “Sullivan is my ‘trusted one.’ You know, the same as Melaphia is for William. In Spain, we call them compadres.”
I scratched my head, considering this. I had no idea that what Melaphia was had a name, that her relationship with William was some formal institution in the vampire world. I’d always been a lone wolf, so to speak. I wondered what I’d do with a compadre. And I also wondered how you managed to talk someone into becoming one. I mean, are you fishing with a guy one day or watching the game and drinking brewskies and all of a sudden say, Hey, buddy. Have I ever mentioned I’m an evil bloodsucker? How’d you like to maybe stand in line for me at the DMV? I’ve got a little problem with sunlight. It would turn me as crispy as fried pork rinds. There had to be a catch.
“Are you…enthralled?” I asked, feeling awkward.
Sullivan laughed again. “Just with the movie business. I’m not like Renfield in Dracula. No fly-eating for me. I help Iban in small ways because I choose to.”
“And besides being a great compadre, he’s a top-notch screenwriter. He wrote the screenplay for the movie we’re working on now,” Iban said.
“What’s it about?” I asked.
Sullivan grinned and said, “The title is Mask of the Vampire.”
I looked from one of them to the other. “You’re kiddin’, right?”
“Not at all,” Iban said. “It’s a story about a whole subculture of vampires who hide in plain sight. Ironic, no?”
Too close to home, is what I called it. It never ceased to amaze me how loosey-goosey some other vampires were with the thin veil between us and the human world. Still, the idea was intriguing: making a movie about our lives and calling it fiction. It had a delicious quality, like pulling the wool over people’s eyes and getting away with something secret and satisfying. The part of me that loves mischief—and it’s a big part—warmed to the idea.
“I like it,” I told them.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Iban said. “Because we want to hire you to help us scout locations for exterior shots.”
“Me?”
“Sure. Who knows Savannah better than you, having lived here for more than two human lifetimes,” Sullivan said.
“Me and my partner Rennie aren’t all that busy right now, so why not? Sure. Count me in.”
Iban beamed. “That’s great. It’ll be fun.”
“What kind of locations are you looking for?” I asked them.
Sullivan said, “We’re looking for atmosphere, atmosphere, and more atmosphere. Spooky cemeteries with lots of Spanish moss, foreboding old mansions, that sort of thing. I mean, it is a vampire picture, right?”
“You’ve come to the right place for that,” I assured him.
“But unfortunately you haven’t parked in the right place,” a female voice said from near the entrance.
Sullivan and Iban had blocked my view of the door so I hadn’t seen Connie approach, and I was so engrossed in the movie talk that I hadn’t felt her presence. We all turned to face her.
I couldn’t keep from staring. It’s not like she was naked or anything, but I had seen her in the magnificent altogether just this morning. That’s something else that had troubled my sleep. But what kept me staring at my coffin lid even more was that birthmark and the scar—and what they meant.
So many questions had gone through my mind. If Connie had a child, where was it? Maybe the baby hadn’t survived, but if it had, was it with an ex-husband somewhere? The Connie I knew was too fierce to have given up her child without a fight. As I’d lain sleepless, a feeling had begun in my chest—in my heart—as cold and dead as that was. The more I thought and wondered, the stronger the feeling had grown.
Connie had been in trouble at some point in her life. Perhaps she still was. And the fate of the child was at the center of the crisis. I longed to ask her, to sit her down and make her tell me. Maybe I could help. Why the hell did this vamp conclave have to be now? Everything was hitting the fan at once. I wanted to monitor the situation with Connie. If what Melaphia discovered about her was too disturbing, Connie might need me. I just knew I could comfort her. If there was anyone on God’s green earth who knew what a curse it was to be nonhuman in a human world, it was me.
Melaphia seemed to think that Connie and I were destined to be some kind of natural enemies. But my heart, whatever was left of it, wouldn’t let me believe that.
Right now that little bit of heart was aching just looking at her. Her skin glowed with the radiance of life that another human being would take for granted. Not poor little undead me. Her hair shone like onyx in the garage’s fluorescent light. Her glance passed over me as if I wasn’t there, lit briefly on Iban, and then settled on Sullivan.
“Who does that rented Suburban belong to?” She jerked her thumb toward the outside. “It’s parked against a yellow curb.”
“That would be mine,” Sullivan admitted. He turned a dazzling smile on Connie, probably hoping to charm his way out of a ticket. I hoped that was all it was. I felt a prickle of annoyance at the guy I’d started to like.
“Sullivan, Iban, this is Officer Consuela Jones. She likes to make sure folks around here keep to the straight and narrow,” I said.
Connie’s lip curled slightly and she glanced at my midsection as if she couldn’t bring herself to look a miserable wretch like me directly in the eye. My breath went out of me a little at that, especially when her gaze returned to Sullivan.
“Pleased to meet you,” she drawled, and offered her hand.
Iban shook hands, but Sullivan caught her hand and brought it briefly to his lips. I bit my lip and felt the sting of my own fangs. Iban noticed, giving me a sideways glance. Sullivan didn’t. I don’t know how long he’d been a compadre, but he couldn’t read vampires for shit. Or maybe he just didn’t care. He was under Iban’s protection, after all, and he knew that I wouldn’t be much of a host if I ate my friend’s trusted human.
Sullivan had dark brown hair, kind of shaggy in the back, and was very tanned and fit. He was too lean to be called buff, but was more athletic-looking. He wore faded jeans, a dark T-shirt, and a trendy sport coat. And he was looking at Connie with way too much interest.
“The pleasure’s mine,” he said. “Please forgive me for breaking one of the laws of your fair city.”
“Are you from out of town, then?” Connie asked.
“They’re from California,” I said, hoping she would look at me again if I spoke up. I wasn’t looking for a confrontation with her, but right then I’d do just about anything to get her away from Sullivan. I remembered her trying to get information about me out of Mel, and I got the feeling she wasn’t here on police business. “I’m sure you’re not here to catch traffic violators,” I said. “Is there something you’d like to talk to me about?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. I hate to t
ake you away from your guests, but is there a place we can talk privately for a minute?”
“Excuse us, guys,” I said, and gestured toward the kitchen area.
When we’d cleared the card players and reached the kitchen, Connie came right out with it. “I’ve got to know what happened in my apartment the other night, Jack.”
“I thought you said you were through with me,” I said, trying not to sound peevish.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you have to say for yourself. And what you are.”
A tiny spark of hope flared in my chest. Could she ever understand? “Listen, I want to confide in you, I really do.”
“Then do it.” Her eyes searched mine intensely. If I had a soul her gaze would be boring through it.
“I can’t. It’s not the right time.” I needed time to prepare, to plan how to tell her, to think of what to say. Hey, babe, I know you’re a cop and I’m a killer, but can’t we work something out?
“It’s now or never, Jack.”
I sighed. “Connie, please—”
With a flash of her coal black eyes, she whirled around and stalked back to where Iban and Sullivan stood. I followed her, feeling helpless.
“You know,” she said to Iban, “you look awfully familiar.”
“They’re in the movie business. This is Iban Cruz.”
Connie still didn’t look at me, but her eyes grew round. “The Iban Cruz?” She practically squealed. “I’m a huge fan of your movies! I thought you looked familiar.” She tucked her ticket pad into her back pocket. Somebody was about to get off without so much as a warning. Or maybe just get off. I was thinking about issuing a warning of my own, but that was not an option. I had no claim on her. Not now.
Iban gave her his “aw shucks, twern’t nothin’” routine. “We’re in town doing some exterior shots for my next picture. It’s set here in Savannah but most of the filming will be done on a Hollywood sound stage. Sullivan wrote the screenplay.”
“Mask of the Vampire.” Sullivan supplied the title with an arched eyebrow.
Connie did squeal then. She actually squealed. “Ooh, I just love vampires. They’re so sexy. So…brooding.”
What was this? She loved vampires? Now she told me. I glanced at Iban. He grinned and shrugged.
“The vampire is one of the most intriguing archetypes in literature and film,” Sullivan said. “They’re seductive, passionate, dangerous. What woman can resist them?”
“What woman could?” Connie agreed breathlessly.
I leaned toward Iban and whispered, “Stake me. Right now. I mean it.”
Iban’s shoulders shook with soundless laughter. Connie was so wrapped up in Sullivan that Iban and I had clearly faded into the background.
“Do I brood?” I asked him.
“Not so you’d notice,” he whispered. “Isn’t she your girlfriend? I think I met her at the party. She’s exquisite.”
“She was my girlfriend,” I muttered.
“Ah. Sorry I asked.”
Connie was busy asking Sullivan question after question about film production and he seemed only too happy to answer them. As I watched I thought about what Melaphia had said: Connie was a goddess. And she was a goddess all right. To me, anyway. And much to my annoyance, I could see that Sullivan found her just as divine. They scarcely took their eyes off each other. I was beginning to think I’d rather let her send me up in flames than stomach seeing her with another man.
“Hey, I’ve got a great idea,” Sullivan said, turning to Iban. “Why don’t we hire Ms. Jones to do some security work for the production?”
“Call me Connie,” she cooed.
“She works the night shift,” I blurted out. “Aren’t you going to do the shooting at night, for…atmosphere?” Because the director is a vampire.
“I’ve got vacation coming,” Connie stated, finally looking me in the eye.
“They could be here for weeks,” I said.
“Fine. I have weeks of vacation,” she shot back. She turned her attention back to Sullivan and flashed a flirty smile. “I’m all yours.”
If I’d had a wrench in my hand, I could’ve broken it in two.
“Splendid!” Iban announced. “When can you start?”
“Tomorrow and the next day are my nights off anyway. I’ll talk to my watch commander at the end of my shift. I might be able to get free as early as the night after that.”
“Fantastic,” Sullivan said. “Why don’t you meet me for lunch tomorrow and we’ll discuss terms. Say Il Pasticcio at one?”
“It’s a date,” Connie said, beaming. She favored me with one more glance, a decidedly narrow-eyed look, a look that said, Take that, sucker. She waved good-bye and walked away, treating us with the always luscious view of Consuela Jones walking away in her fitted uniform, her handcuffs gleaming on her belt. Oh, mama.
Talk about a revolting development. Who knew what kind of cozy daytime get-togethers this guy could cook up? He could propose anything on thinly disguised business reasons. I pictured security planning meetings that turned into romantic picnics by the shore with mint juleps and stolen kisses. I sneered at the guy as he watched her walk away, and my fists flexed at my sides. Iban caught my eye and shrugged apologetically.
I sighed. What the hell. At least they’d only be here for a few weeks. But what then? There would always be somebody in the wings. Somebody who could walk beside her in the sun. Somebody who wasn’t me.
Stake me.
Seven
William
Tilly’s house on Orleans Square smelled old. Not old as in decrepit or decaying, but old as in antique, timeless, well-used. Nothing here from the two Rs of the furniture bible of don’ts—reproduction and restoration. Everything—from the Aubusson and Savonnerie rugs to the Louis XV furniture to the Lafount chandeliers—was original and had been kept in pristine condition by a series of housekeepers. Not unlike Tilly herself, although recently the years had begun to weigh on my old friend.
She hated that designation and would remind me tartly that I carried some age as well—far more than she. Tilly warned that if I expected her to remain silent about our eighty-year association then I should refrain from bringing up age in any fashion. So according to her wishes, I just called her Tilly. “Mrs. Granger” was out of the question. She hadn’t used her husband’s name in forty years and I certainly had no good reason to bring it up.
She took to Iban right away.
During an evening of chitchat and libations, Tilly held court in her favorite wingback chair by the fireplace. It was a small gathering, including the manager of her holdings and his wife, two sets of neighbors, her lawyer, and her doctor. Dinner had been served by the time I arrived, since, in deference to me, she didn’t want to have to explain why I did not—could not—eat. And defying convention, the parlor was empty of mirrors. Her eccentric habits were well known by born and bred Savannahians, however, and no one would have questioned anything she did. As I regarded her, I recalled the promise she’d extracted from me twenty or so years earlier—that I would take her life at a time of her choosing.
Alas, Tilly was not a blood drinker. She was human through and through. A light in my darkness and, these days, a worrisome puzzle of responsibility.
Iban, ever the courtier, had laid a kiss on each of her cheeks in European fashion. But Eleanor had kept her distance, and as she clung to me I could see that Tilly disapproved. Oh, not of Eleanor’s questionable past occupation. No. A woman like Tilly could admire any woman who took control of her own destiny. After all, she’d managed to do the same after some dark deeds only I remembered now.
I believe Tilly’s reluctance to warm to Eleanor had more to do with me than Eleanor herself.
“You have such a lovely home,” Iban said, looking deeply into Tilly’s sharp blue eyes. “In California, where I am from, we are stranded in the idea that new is better. Even our classic designs are built over the originals.” He smiled.
“I firmly hold to the idea that many things grow better with age.”
From that moment, Tilly’s heart was won.
We spent the evening drinking, chatting about the upcoming spring social season and the current favorite chef at the Emerald Grill. It was nearly eleven before Iban’s plans for his next movie became the topic.
“Another movie in Savannah? We still haven’t lived down the last,” Tilly’s lawyer, Charles Yancy, said with a huff of exasperation.
“Oh now Charlie.” Tilly patted his arm. “You can’t keep all of our secrets from the rest of the world.”
“What is your movie about?” Charles asked.
Iban’s gaze shifted imperceptibly to me before he smiled at the lawyer.
“Why, vampires, of course,” he answered.
Beside me, Eleanor’s body tightened slightly. I dropped my hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. Stay calm. Iban knows what he’s about.
Tilly clapped her hands together with the delight of a child. “Vampires, how wonderful!”
“Yes, you could say that it is my speciality. My production company is called After Dark. We’ve made several films in the last few years.
“Savannah has the perfect atmosphere and ambiance for a grand tale of the toma sangre. Blood drinkers,” he translated.
“Well, I suppose it can’t hurt us more than murder and transvestites,” Charles allowed.
Since few of those present were horror aficionados, the discussion veered off into classic movies in general. When Casablanca’s elevation to favorite movie of all time was announced, Tilly beckoned for me to help her into the library on the pretense of looking at an antique table she’d recently acquired. As I stood to hand her the rosewood cane she used to make her current housekeeper happy, I felt Eleanor’s distress.
I nodded in her direction. There was no reason for her to worry. Although those at the gathering had been more polite than friendly, that wasn’t so unusual. Eleanor would have accomplished more by smiling and joining the conversation, rather than depending on me to deflect any attention from her.