Blood Crusade

by Billita Jacobsen

  “My friend said he found this in a museum gift shop. Perhaps yours did too?” I asked, wanting the charade to continue.

  “Of course, you’re probably right,” he said, looking relieved. “By the way, I have a surprise for you. I’d like to show you something after dinner that few Las Vegas visitors get to see.”

  Beethoven’s Fifth began to play again. “No more business calls,” he said. “I’m shutting this off.”

  “And what business are you in Mark?”

  “Entertainment. Casino gaming. My job is to make sure the slots have all the bells and whistles that entice people to play them.”

  Drawing people in for the kill--that figures. “And what do you do, Nola?” he asked.

  “I’m in sales, organic food sales. My company produces the best honey in the world, with the help of bees in clover fields right here in the U.S.A. Unfortunately, if the bees keep disappearing… so will my job.” He might discover later that selling was just a sideline second job and my main line of business was killing rogue vampires.

  Tony delivered our food and it was every bit as delicious as Mark promised it would be. The third glass of wine slowly went to my head as we discussed possible reasons for the decline of the honey bee. He thought it was the overuse of pesticides. I agreed but mentioned my new found belief that the ever present chemtrails in the skies were contributing to their reduction. “You know about chemtrails?” He asked in disbelief. “Most people don’t notice what’s going on.”

  “You believe we’re being poisoned from above?” It was my turn to be incredulous.

  “Oh, no, I don’t know about that. It’s probably just a chemical in the fuel that causes the trails to linger. But you’re the only person to tell me you’ve noticed it too. However, I don’t think it’s a conspiracy. You might be a tad bit paranoid, Nola.”

  “You’re not paranoid if they’re really out to get you. And there’s no doubt in my mind that the powers that be are no friend of humanity.”

  Silence again until he asked, “Would you like dessert?”

  “No thank you,” I replied when I really wanted to tell him to fuck off for calling me paranoid. He motioned for the check and tipped Tony a hundred. “Thank you, Mr. Anthony. Let me call your cab to the front.”

  “Let’s brighten your mood, Nola. One more stop before we end the evening. I’d like to see you smile. Okay?”

  It was more than okay. “What’s the surprise?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there.” He’d paid the cabbie to wait for us and also ordered a meal for her while we were dining. She thanked him profusely and asked where he wanted to go.

  “To the Bellagio, dear.”

  Not a destination that was likely to bring a smile to my face. That was where the professor informed me of the Illuminati’s plans to murder billions of people and finally lift the curtain off the false version of reality that civilization holds. A future of terror and unbelievable horror would follow.

  Thoughts of imminent dreadfulness still filled my mind as we arrived at our destination and walked through the casino. Perhaps a night of poker was my surprise--that would be delightful and fill my mind with the prospect of winning instead of apocalypse.

  “Here we are, Nola, I know you’ll enjoy the view from the patio,” Mark said.

  He steered me into the Fontana Lounge, past the bar, the candlelit tables, the semi-circle stage, and onto the patio where a cool mist welcomed us. He ordered a bottle of Cristal just as the Bellagio water show began. This could be better than a night of poker.

  The throngs of tourists on the street would love to see this very different view of the eight-acre manmade lake. High on our luxury patio perch, the lights of the Las Vegas Eiffel Tower made a romantic backdrop as the numerous fountains began to dance to the tune of “Singin’ in the Rain” sung by Gene Kelly in the 1952 movie musical.

  Dashing pulled his chair closer to mine. He slyly put his arm on the back of my chair and whispered in my ear, “Smile for me if you’re enjoying the view.”

  How could I possibly do otherwise? “I love this song,” I said, joyfully.

  “Kelly’s got a smooth voice,” he said, “and I’ve never seen anyone who could dance like he did.”

  He no doubt was referring to “never” being a very long time, possibly centuries. This man, who appeared to be in his thirties, was much too refined, educated, and smug to be so young.

  The towers of liquid continued to dance to the Gene Kelly tune. The lyrics spoke to me about being happy again, if only I could sing and dance in the rain. Waves of pleasure flowed through my body. Music is such a wonderful healer. Images of getting soaked with rain while gliding through puddles, laughing at clouds, replaced the views of horror in my imagination, just a few minutes prior. Dashing did generate a superb surprise, as promised.

  The fluid fireworks from the show dissipated and the applause from the street drifted to the patio. I’ve seen the water show from both sides now, like Joni Mitchell had sung about clouds, and this view was from the comfortable, stunning side. Perhaps Dashing deserved gratitude instead of death.

  The air smelled fresh and clean, like laundry hung outside to dry after a spring rain. The aroma after a cleansing rain is said to come from bacteria “spores” that rise up from the soil but it reminded me of the unsullied air of Mount Charleston that is created by many waterfalls generating negative ions--ions that produce a positive feeling in the soul.

  “There’s a table waiting for us inside,” Mark said smoothly, shaking my out of my memories, taking me by the hand and leading me to our table, where cushy, upholstered chairs comforted me so much I could have taken a nap right there.

  His efforts to please me were quite telling. Why he wanted to put a smile on my face was beyond me but it was nice to have someone willing to make me happy--if only for one night. Lately, all Lance seemed to do was send me away on missions. This was a welcome change, even if Dashing turns out to be a vampire out to score blood.

  The band was setting up and getting ready to play. The lead singer was gorgeous; hopefully her voice matched her good looks. She wore a long, white, low-cut sheer blouse over a shimmery short skirt. A silver, jewel-encrusted cross and chain dangled over her cleavage.

  The drummer also sported a silver cross. So did the guitarist. Same for the guy on the keyboard. Their hands all displayed four or five silver rings. The singer wore a butterfly wrap ring, an intertwined silver knot ring, saddle ring, and a turquoise attitude ring. As if this was not enough to make her shine, she also wore a silver belly chain belt and a sterling silver anklet with a dangling dragonfly charm. Her earrings were silver dangles. The men all wore belts with silver buckles; the drummer even had a silver dollar in the middle of his leather belt. This was silver overload and could not possibly be a coincidence. They must be aware that silver will chase away a vampire and they were taking no chances.

  Stepping up to the microphone she announced, “How you all doing tonight? We’re The Silver Cross and you’re all invited to get on the dance floor and rock to our music.” With that they began to play the only song of Lady GaGa’s that I enjoyed—“Poker Face.”

  “Nola, they’re playing our song!” Mark laughed and grabbed my hand, leading me to the dance floor before I could say no. People were tapping their toes to the enticing beat and the singer did a superb job of sounding just like GaGa. The lights of the lounge were pulsating to the beat while Mark showed me his moves.

  Simply shaking my hips and moving my arms to the music, I played it cool and comfortable. Mark, however, took a risk and did a Gene Kelley choreography, holding his head high but never getting too close to the stage and the band with all their silver. His eyes never swayed from mine, the smile never left his lips. He began to tap dance in his distinctive John Lobb handmade loafers.

  It was comical to watch him swing his arms and perform tap dancing twirls like he was dancing in the rain. He pretended to stomp in puddles. Playing along, I pretended to deal a
deck of cards, really enjoying the game. I slowly turned and gave him a playful look over my shoulder. He tapped the hot steps of a seasoned hoofer, brushing his foot forward and to the side and heel to toe. He surely was the only man, or vampire, in the world to tap dance to Poker Face.

  He shuffled along, brushing his foot forward, steadfastly moving away from the band and their silver cloud of protection. He had speed, flow, and rhythm and his hot steps brought him close to me. He suddenly grabbed me in a classic waltz style and spun me around with his muscular arms. Holding me close, he gave me a passionate kiss as the music ended.

  The rest of the evening became a blur. He poured a few more glasses of Cristal, completing my seduction with his sexy voice. “Let’s go to my place, Nola, no more surprises.”

  We made out like teenagers in the back seat of the cab. In between kisses, he held my hands and gazed fondly into my eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” his accent stroked my ego; those words hadn’t been whispered to me for a very long time.

  My champagne buzz began to lift as we entered his penthouse suite. It was ultra-modern, extravagantly furnished and exactly as expected--it suited him. “Would you like a nightcap?” he asked, in his James Bond accent.

  “No, thank you. Perhaps I should be going. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

  “No. You don’t escape that easily, young lady,” he said, embracing me. He didn’t simply kiss me; he stroked my hair, paused, looked into my eyes, and ran his hands down my back. Shivers of delight, similar to the feeling of turning werewolf, ran up my legs and to the pit of my stomach.

  I laughed out loud thinking of what would happen if he suddenly found himself kissing a werewolf. That thought came from the last of the champagne buzz. Okay, deal me in--I pressed myself against him and ran my hands down his back, returning the favor.

  The word at Camelot, with other women after a few glasses of wine, is that vampires are the best lovers. After all, they’ve had a long time to learn the best techniques. My imagination, on more than one occasion, always had me discovering, with Lance, whether that was true. The discovery would now be made with this alluring stranger. So far, it was an exquisite tutorial. Dashing knew how to take his time, and, as in music and comedy, timing is everything. His tongue played with mine as he walked me backwards towards the bed.

  Sex is like music and Dashing had the perfect harmony and rhythm. Tempo, the speed at which music is played, guides the song. He looked deep into my eyes as his expert hands flowed to an adagio pace--slow and stately, running over my skin. I rubbed my nose against his neck--the aroma of the Green Irish Tweed fueling my passion.

  His style was con bravura, with skill. I was on guard as his lips began kissing my neck. Up and down, like he was stopping ice cream from dripping out of a cone, he expertly ran his tongue along my neck. This would be a telling moment. If I felt fangs, he was going to get thrown out of his penthouse window. No, no sharp fangs, only a soft tongue.

  He continued his ballet of foreplay. The ecstasy continued for an hour. Then he began to up the tempo to moderato, not too slow and not too fast, and I began humming along. He responded with con brio now, with fire and spirit, a steady, constant beat. I was conducting with fire--con fuoco. He began an allegro pace--fast--and I knew why this word for tempo also connotes joy in Italian.

  I responded with a presto beat, faster and faster, until the music reached an epic conclusion for me. Was this why the word presto was used in magic? Presto chango, as magicians say. When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me with complete satisfaction, arching his back and finishing his symphony. We had made beautiful music together.

  He affectionately caressed my face and kissed me. Then he promptly fell asleep. I was thinking about getting up, dressing, and getting back to the professor and the babies when instead I found myself swimming with whales. They were making a mournful sound and the sea was dark and dirty.

  The polluted water was hurting them and my daughter was swimming nearby. “Don’t leave--I’ll be good,” she cried. I frantically swam towards her as the ocean began to turn into blood. The whales’ mouths were opened wide and they had horrible, huge fangs as they let out a god awful noise.

  I shot up in bed and realized it was my own snoring that had been the god awful noise and had roused me. Damn. I didn’t know the time or how long I’d been sleeping. The professor would likely be furious. Stumbling to the bathroom with my clothes, I hurriedly dressed and prepared to sneak out of the penthouse. That’s when I spotted it on the granite top of the sink. An expensive bottle of self-tanning, sunless lotion. That would explain Dashing’s Las Vegas bronze color.

  “Do you know what I am, Nola?” he asked from behind me, his reflection not showing in the bathroom mirror, “because I know what you are.”

  “Yes, I know what you are.” Turning to face him, quite sure that he could not possible know the real me, I said calmly, “I’m quite aware that you’re a vampire.” Still, up until that moment, I had hoped that it wasn’t true.

  “And you’re a hunter, here to kill me like you did Hypatia.”

  “I didn’t kill Hypatia, you idiot, Claudius did!”

  He looked surprised. “But you have her amulet and she was never without it. You could only have it if you killed her.”

  “Her husband gave it to me,” I said, putting on my clothes. I tried to walk past him. He grabbed me. Big mistake. I readied myself to turn into my stronger side and finish him off but he said, “I won’t hurt you Nola. You’ll be spared but I want you to give the hunters a message.”

  The fool didn’t realize that his words were saving his own life. “You remind me of her, you know, the only woman I ever truly loved. I want to tell you something no other woman has heard, so you know who you’re dealing with.”

  “I don’t want to hear it!”

  “Well, you’re going to,” he said, putting the toilet lid down and pushing on my shoulders so I’d sit on the improvised stool. Not wanting to provoke a fight, I complied. What difference could a few more minutes make?

  “You are just like her. So righteous, so beautiful, so sure that ridding the world of vampires can save humanity. You probably think you know her story but you know nothing. History is not what you’ve been taught. History is a fable written by vampires to suppress the populace.”

  Sitting quietly and uncomfortably on the toilet seat, I listened as he illustrated his journey to become a vampire. He described the beauty of ancient Egypt and the last days of a ruler who stood between the world and vampire rule. Cleopatra, he said, was not treated well by the history books, which are, after all, written by the victorious. The vampires.

  So a night of passion had just been shared with THE Mark Antony, I’d only had the spelling of his last name incorrect, never imagining that he was such an ancient vampire. He’d had the adoration of Cleopatra, a woman history remembered for her love conquests of great men. To say I felt inadequate would be an understatement. Still, he’d said I reminded him of her. Reason enough to hear the story.

  “It’s ironic that her name and legacy live on--the vampires did everything they could to wipe her reputation from history and still the name lives on. What epic tales would be told about her if people only knew how she fought for humanity and made a brave, last stand against the creatures of the night--creatures like me? I was human when I loved her…my love has not faded through all this time of being a vampire.”

  He rolled his eyes to the side and it was clear he was looking inward, remembering a different time--a different life. He smiled, thinking of her, and then a profound sadness filled his eyes, quite shocking really, considering what I now knew of his character.

  Vampires fed openly during those ancient nights, he said, caring little about human interference. They used slaves as cattle and preyed on those foolish enough to travel when it was dark. They paid off the rulers in charge and were given free rein. But they couldn’t pay off Cleopatra--she despised them.

  The plot against Cleopatra began when
her plans to banish all vampires from Egypt became known. With her as Pharaoh, instead of her brother, Egypt became the first vampire-free zone in the ancient world.

  Emboldened vampires were slowly taking over Rome’s senate as one by one they converted the ruling class with promises of immortality. Cleopatra, as Caesar’s lover, worked to convince Caesar to banish vampires as she had done in Egypt. Their fates were sealed when they underestimated the power of the vampires.

  I reluctantly sat there, undignified on a toilet seat, listening to his story. “It’s funny what you remember,” Mark said, still looking upward, “I recall how fresh and clean the air was then, even in the crowded streets of Rome…”

  Chapter 9:

  Beware the Idle Vampires of March

  He loved riding his horse past the square that held the forum shops, capturing the adoring looks of the most beautiful Roman women. Even the men in the market place admired this most famous Centurion, Marc Antony, resplendent in his silver-plated helmet with black and white plumes. His breastplate bore the many medals he’d earned in battle, his ornate sword hung on his left, dagger on the right, with a fine red cloak fixed to his right shoulder.

  “Antony! You’re heading for Caesar’s palace. Are you not aware that he now resides in his villa with the whore and bastard?” asked and commanded Marcus Junius Brutus.

  “Mind your tongue, Brutus!” Antony shot back.

  “Must we really attend this banquet to meet the whore Queen?” Gaius Cassius Longinus inquired, riding his horse to the left of Antony. Longinus and Brutus wore linen togas over their tunics, with broad purple strips designating their status as senators.

  “It’s to pay the proper respect to Caesar. Besides, think of all the gossip you can engage in at the public baths after meeting the woman, the so-called Queen of the Nile, who has captivated Caesar,” Antony replied.

  “Half of the senate won’t be at the feast, and the people are really pissed off about this affair…see?” Brutus said, pointing at graffiti on the local bathhouse wall. THE BASTARD CHILD IS NOT CAESARS, the hastily drawn writing declared alongside a crude depiction of Cleopatra’s head, mouth open, accepting a penis. They walked the horses down a quiet street, the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the pavement the only sound carried by a wind that held the warm aromas drifting from a nearby bakery.