I’m not sure, but it seems as though the corridor curves, once again. But maybe I’m just disoriented from being unable to see. Finally, as my eyes begin to adjust, I can detect that we’re approaching a light. And it seems like it takes forever for us to walk toward it.
The light comes from a square panel on the wall, a window looking into a much larger room. When we get to it, I can see that there are tubes inside, seemingly hundreds of them that stretch off into the distance. They look like giant aquariums. At first, I think that it’s some kind of hydroponic garden, but that doesn’t make sense. The vampires don’t eat fruits and vegetables, and I doubt they have enough human guests to warrant such an expansive endeavor.
And then I realize that there are humans floating in the tanks.
I gasp, and back away, bumping into Adam. He puts his hands on my shoulders, holding me in place. And suddenly, the world shifts once more. For the first time, his touch feels cold, like it’s something I should fear.
“Oh God, these are the tanks,” I say.
Inside the room, there are two technicians dressed in surgical scrubs, monitoring their harvest with what look like tablet computers. And they turn at the sound of my voice, even though I can’t hear a thing from inside the room.
They smile at me with hungry grins. And for a moment, I swear I can see them bare their fangs.
“Why … why did you bring me here?”
“Because you need to see this.”
“Why?” I ask, incredulously.
“You need to see everything. You need to know everything about me, so there are no surprises later. It’s for your own safety.”
I take a closer look, and I can see tubes running from the bodies in the tanks, like the ones the vampires had sucked from during their meal. It’s sickening, their prisoners are being drained of their blood, as they float helplessly. There are young men, old men, women … thankfully, no children. And they have some sort of breathing apparatus over their mouths. I can’t tell if it’s actually water they’re suspended in, but that doesn’t make sense, because it would be too harmful to their skin, wrinkling them like prunes. Unless maybe the vampires don’t intend for them to live very long.
And I wonder if he’s been lying to me. I wonder if the vampires have lobotomized them, and they’re just breathing corpses with no mental abilities who are there to produce blood. I wonder if they’re going to do the same to the beautiful Luminos spy I ratted out?
“Those are … who are they? People who give up a month of their lives?”
“It varies … some of them are people we’ve acquired. Coma patients from Third World countries whose families made deals. Made funeral arrangements, while we spirited away the bodies in the middle of the night. Others are the ones who’ve signed contracts with us to give up a bit of their lives.”
It all sounds too simple, somehow.
“And what else?”
“The Luminos. This is what we do with our enemies, when we track them down.”
It’s too much, my head starts to spin. The horrors of this night just won’t end. I turn away from Adam, unable to take it all in. But he won’t stop. He won’t stop filling my mind with vampire secrets.
“It’s an ideal solution. Blood is difficult to store, to keep for more than a few months, even when it’s frozen. But we can keep a human alive in the tanks for 10 years, maybe more, so that we have a constant, fresh supply. And it’s the best way to deal with our enemies. The Luminos come back endlessly. And if we kill them, they’ll only return all the faster. But this way we can hold them and keep them from gaining information to use against us, from developing their little plots.”
“And instead of killing you, they sustain your lives …”
“Trying to kill us,” he says. And in the semi-darkness, I think I can see him smile. “It’s the most ironic fate we can plan for our enemies. Saga came up with this scheme, actually.”
“What?”
“Well, not the tanks. The technology wasn’t there at the time. But she came up with the idea of holding our foes, instead of killing them. Using them as a source for fresh blood. And it was a brilliant idea, something I’m surprised the vampire nation hadn’t come up with sooner. And as you can see, we’ve improved upon the concept in the modern era.”
His words horrify me, and I hate him for telling me this, for showing me this place. Or at least, this is the closest I’ve come to feeling hatred for him. And as I look at the tanks, I begin to get nauseous.
My eyes are becoming more and more adjusted to the semi-darkness, and I can see the faces more clearly, an African-American man who’s eyelids seem to hang in their sockets, whose mouth is sucking on the breathing apparatus the way a baby sucks on a pacifier. And an older woman, with blonde and grey hair. I hate to think I had a hand in damning these people to their sad fate.
This is it. This is a glimpse into the horrors of my vampire life that I don’t want to look back on, the wall of emotion that blocks me from peering into the past. And though I don’t think of myself as selfish or diabolical, I realize now that part of me exists. Because I don’t really care about the people floating in the torture chamber, so much as I fear for my own safety.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t ever let this happen to me. Promise me you’ll never allow me to end up in one of those tanks.”
“Of course, I won’t.”
“Say it. Promise me.” And I practically bark the words. I’m surprised by the force in my own voice.
“I promise. I swear I will never allow this to be your fate.”
“Thank you,” I say.
And it helps to comfort me, a bit. Because I trust Adam. Even now, I know he’s showing me this for a reason, because he wants me to know the truth and what we’re up against. But being here gives me a sense of impending doom. I feel claustrophobic. I feel like the building is about to cave in on me, and all I want is to be somewhere above ground.
Adam’s eyes are on me, watching my reactions. I can see the strong angles of his cheekbones against the light of the chamber, which glints against the waves of his hair. I can smell the heady mixture of the scent of his body, combined with a light cologne which is both masculine and enticing.
And I’m not sure if it’s the thrill of danger, or his simple animal magnetism, but I feel the sudden urge to pull him close. I slide my hands under his jacket, and Adam wraps his arms around my shoulders.
“You hate me now, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. Nothing could make me hate you.”
“Nothing?”
“No. I came back for you. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.”
He kisses me, as hungrily as you would think a vampire would bite into someone’s neck. And I can’t help but to react to him just as strongly. Within seconds, my hands are under his shirt, caressing his back muscles, as they begin to strain. And his are wandering. One fingers the waist of my slacks, and unbuttons them. And his palm finds its way beneath my panties.
And it’s wrong, so wrong, but I’m soon unbuttoning his jeans. Adam peels off the rest of my clothing, which falls to the ground. And before I know it, he lifts me, and pins me against the wall.
I see them, inside the chamber. The two vampire attendants. And I hope they’re not watching us. I close my eyes, not wanting to look at them, and bury my face in Adam’s neck.
And I drink in the sweet sensation of feeling him take me once more.
We’re upstairs in his bed. Somehow, we’ve made it here, and shared in the bliss of making love once again, after debasing ourselves in the vampire basement. Adam helped me find my clothes and slid them on in the darkness, only to rip them off again the second we got to his room.
And it’s even better than on the Astral Plane, making love with him here. Because I know that he’s real, and that I’m not imagining the chemical combustion of our touch. But it’s something more than that, at least for me. Lying in bed with Adam is almost better than making love, because our bodies fit t
ogether so perfectly. His arm feels like it was meant to be wrapped around my naked form, I seem to fit, nestled against his chest. And despite the dangers around me, I never want to leave this place.
And it kills me, but I shift a bit, pulling away. And I lean up against the headboard of his scary bed. I try not to look at the creatures, writhing in their attempt to escape his bedposts. Adam looks at me with a questioning expression on his face.
“What’s the matter? Was it that bad?”
“I think you know it wasn’t bad for me,” I say. “I feel like I know what happiness is now.”
“I know what you mean.”
I turn away from him, staring off, contemplating.
“Adam, I need to remember. It’s time. I need to delve into whatever strange memories are locked away in my brain. I can feel them there, at the edge of my consciousness, like they’re waiting to break free. And I can’t avoid it anymore. It’s too dangerous to keep ignoring what’s in there.”
“Then let’s do it. I told you I would help you.”
“Really? How?”
Adam gets up from the bed, and walks over to the desk in his room. And I get the same thrill I always do, seeing him naked. He rummages around for a moment, and comes back with a piece of paper and a pen. He sits by me and starts to draw. I’m confused, thinking at first that he’s going to make me a picture of Saga. But instead, it’s a quick sketch that only takes seconds to create.
Adam hands me the paper, and on it is a simple figure made up of a circle with six triangles around it that look like flames or rays of light emitting from the sphere. It’s a child-like symbol of the sun, and it instantly feels familiar.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s a tool the Luminos use. To trigger their memories. We’re not sure how it works, even after all this time. But it’s almost genetically tied in to their race, and helps them to tap into their past.”
“I know this thing, somehow. I’d swear I used to draw it as a child. But then, all kids draw the sun.”
“Of course you know it. Saga was forced to stare at it her whole life. Sometimes, they put it on their stores or buildings, to signal one another to their presence. But now it’s a more covert thing, hidden in their designs. They’ve realized we’ve caught on to them and have to be more discreet. But I know for a fact that it’s still a part of their lives.”
And how does he know these facts? From torturing the Luminos he catches, before putting them in the tanks? But I can’t think about that now. And for all I know, it might be Saga who taught him his interrogation methods.
“So what do I do? Just stare at this?”
“Exactly. Just stare at it and open your mind, just like before, when we went to the Astral Plane. In fact, if you want to go to our special place first, we can try it from there.”
“This is strange enough as it is. Let me try it here first.”
But I’m nervous to do so. Yet, the only thing that makes me more nervous is ignoring Saga’s life. I close my eyes, and try to clear my mind. But I open them again, to stare at the little sun on the paper.
It’s hypnotic, somehow. Eternal, like the Luminos. And the little circle in the middle reminds me of the tunnel of light I went through to reach the Astral Plane. In fact, it’s almost odd, but I feel like I can see energy building around it, forming the tunnel.
And it happens again, before I can resist. Even though my eyes are open, I can see the circular gateway forming in my mind. And before I can fight the urge, it begins to tug at me, more strongly than ever before.
I want to resist it, but I can’t. I have to see the mystery of my past. I have to know what’s there. And I know exactly what I need to do. I let myself go, releasing myself into its grasp.
And I scream, as the energy yanks me away, hurtling me to God only knows where.
Chapter Six: Caroline
I long for something different from this routine. Anything that is a change, if only for one day.
We eat the same thing for breakfast every morning; a poached egg over toast with a bit of broiled mackerel or some sausage, scrambled eggs and the mush that our cook calls oatmeal. And the oatmeal must always be eaten first, even though it is my least favorite dish on the table, as it remains only vaguely palatable while warm. Heaven help the poor soul who might try to consume a bowl of the horrid mush when it becomes cold, which is a nearly insurmountable task.
But at least it’s lovely here in the small dining room, the setting for our morning meal. It feels less confined than the larger one, where we eat dinner and entertain guests, perhaps because there are no windows in that space. And here, the sun shines through the lace curtains in an appealing way as it peeks over the horizon.
Father insists that we eat breakfast at the brink of dawn. He says it builds character to start one’s day early, though none of us quite understand how this ritual can possibly affect our temperament. It is something we just accept, or pretend to accept, silently. Personally, I am of the opinion that Father simply uses it as an excuse to get to the office early, to begin his duties as a captain of industry, but I will never know for certain. It would be impolite for me to ask such a thing. Yet, even now, he pours over some ledger from his position at the end of the table.
And it occurs to me that he has been studying his books quite a bit, of late.
Looking at Father with his brow knitted in concern, I begin to worry. I wonder if perhaps the responsibilities of steering the company are weighing too heavily on him. His appearance has changed in a way that I have never seen before; he is not the same strong Father I have known all my life, but rather, seems tired and frail. His reddish-brown hair has grown especially white lately, most notably at the ends of his beard. And the skin of his cheeks and neck hangs just a bit sadly, in a way that seems more pressed by fatigue than old age. He has always been our pillar of strength, but I cannot help but to wonder if we have all leaned on him too heavily.
Or am I mistaken? Could this all be the overwrought worries of my vivid imagination? I look around the table to see if any of the others notice what I am seeing. But for the rest of them, it would seem that nothing has changed.
Mother sits at the end of the table, working on her needlepoint. The Twins, Hope and Charity, sit near her, playing some game with invisible pieces that only small children can understand. I call them my angels as they have an almost glow about them at times, especially Hope, yet it is ironic that I see them in this way, as they can be quite mischievous. And when they become too boisterous, as young children are wont to do, one of Mother’s stern glares quickly quiets them.
My other sisters, Marjorie and Madeline, sit across from me, and I can see them passing a note back and forth, hoping Mother won’t notice. They both have long brown hair, which is a signature trait of the women in our family. Madeline is younger than me, 14, and Marjorie is older, at an age where she is being presented to the world as a young woman ready for marriage. And my parents will have no problem finding a husband for her, as my sister is quite beautiful. Already the most handsome sons from the best families in London hover around her, hoping to curry her favor. And it is obvious that she lives for the attention.
“When I had tea with Emily at the Lawlor’s home this week, her brother Gregory stopped in for a moment, to say hello. Wasn’t that quite lovely of him, Madeline?”
“Mr. Lawlor seems like a most accommodating gentleman,” our younger sister Madeline says, failing to stifle a giggle.
“And isn’t the note Emily sent, thanking me for coming by, so absolutely charming?”
Marjorie passes the note back to Madeline, and the two giggle again, like the Twins. And it is obvious that the letter is from Gregory Lawlor, and not his sister Emily.
It saddens me just a bit, that I am not Marjorie’s confidant, even though I am closer to her in age than is our younger sister. And I wonder why it is that our bond is not as strong. But that is how it has always been, since a very early age. There seems to be an almost co
mpetition between us, though I am not quite certain what it is we are competing for, or why.
My sisters giggle once more, and finally Mother looks up at them with an icy gaze. And instantly, Marjorie puts her note away, without saying another word.
I look around at this pleasant room in our spacious London home, at the sisters who are obsessed with parties, and my father, who is so influential in the world of business, and I am struck by a strange thought. Strange, but not new, as I cannot pretend this idea has not circled my mind before, more than I would like to admit. Even though I have spent my whole life in this manor, I cannot help but to feel that these people are strangers to me. That I don’t belong here, that they are not my real family.
The idea feels wicked and wrong, and I usually push it out of my head, but on this day, for some reason, I let it linger. It seems evil almost, and I wonder how it is that I can think such things. Of course, they are my family. They have raised me and given me an existence filled with privilege, the kind that those starving on the streets of London would envy. And yet, this odd doubt still gnaws at the corner of my mind, and I can no longer pretend it doesn’t exist.
I never say it to my parents, they would become enraged if I did, but I secretly long for something more than to simply play the role of the dutiful daughter, waiting patiently with the hope that they will find me a husband I can tolerate, or perhaps even love. I look to poor Father, who seems so filled with burden, and wish I could help him at the family company, to work at his side as a son would be allowed to do. But I am no son, and this daydream will never happen. Even Mother, who rules our lives and our home, knows little of the inner workings of Father’s world.
And it is because they are not my real family, I think, that they do not know what I am capable of.
I secretly long for a life of adventure and excitement, one that I most certainly will never have. But to give my mind some escape, I write stories in a journal I keep hidden away. And my most gripping tale revolves around Saga, a young slave girl in ancient Egypt, who is sent as a spy to infiltrate the temple of Pharaoh, to assassinate him and bring about his downfall. Yet, once inside, she falls sway to the seductions of the royal family, and is caught between the two sides of the struggle.
The Meridian Gamble Page 16