"It isn’t. I live atWestchester."
"Youlive here?" Once again his voice and expression gave no hint of levity. "Where? Why?"
He pointed up at the ceiling. Through the skylights she saw night sky and a full moon. "It’s always night somewhere inWestchester."
She made a moue. If he wanted to talk in riddles, so be it, she decided. "But if you live here, what do you do? For a living I mean?"
"I’m...independently wealthy. Investments. What about you?"
I’m a con artist. "I’m a fortune teller. Read cards. Palms."
"Really?" He held out his hand. "Would you read mine?"
She hesitated. "I’m not very good at this. Séances are my specialty," she said but took his hand. His fingers were long, his nails unnaturally sharp and pointed. And his skin was cold, as if he had just walked in from outdoors. She turned his hand over and ran her fingers lightly across his palm. And gasped in surprise. "I’ve never seen anything like this." She looked him in the eyes. "You don’t have a lifeline!"
He smiled, one that held no mirth. "Just another aspect of my condition, I suspect."
"Your condition?" She frowned. "What is that?"
"I am a vampire."
She dropped his hand and found herself sliding away from him. "You’re a what?" This man is crazy!
"A vampire. At least that’s what some would call us. Or katakhane, obayifo, upir, vikodlak, brucolaca, tii. Depending on what part of the world you call home."
She studied him closely, but save for his ashen skin and sunken features, there appeared nothing threatening or supernatural about him. All right, I’ll play along. Until you begin to bore me. "You kill people? Suck their blood?"
He laughed then, an honest laugh filled with irony. "Not all the tales are true. Especially the more...unpleasant. No, actually I prefer soups and salads, to tell the truth."
She frowned as she tried to understand. Being a professional liar herself, she could usually tell when someone else was fabricating. But she was certain he wasn’t. "Then if you aren’t really a vampire, what are you?"
"Oh, I would be considered a vampire. But the condition is not what the legends portray. It’s really a result of an accident of birth. Are you familiar with Down Syndrome? Mongoloidism?"
Magdya nodded. "It causes mental retardation."
"Exactly. And, depending upon the severity of the condition, scaly skin, folds above the eyes, thick, awkward tongues, sterility, a shortened lifespan. All of this damning destruction is caused by one extra chromosome.
"Vampirism is similar, except we havetwo extra chromosomes. The changes that they create within us are just as dramatic. Extreme sensitivity to light, for one. Which is the reason we are known as the children of the night. The total inability to digest solid foods. The protruding front teeth," he smiled widely to show her, "which become, to the unknowing, fangs. Extreme longevity. That, at least, is a boon. Sterility." He smiled sadly. "The last we share with our chromosome-rich kin.
"Imagine, if you will, a child born to some superstitious family in an underdeveloped east European country, mid-seventeenth century. As he ages, exposure to direct sunlight slowly turns from unpleasantness to near unendurable pain. The meals he is fed make him weak, ill. He cannot understand why, but he knows he is different from everyone else.
"He soon begins to fear the day and longs for the sanctuary of evening. He discovers by trial and error what nourishment his delicate stomach can tolerate. The fact that some must be drawn from still-living creatures disgusts him, but there seems little alternative.
"He gradually withdraws from regular human contact. He discovers the night increasingly energizing, the day enervating. As he ages he becomes even more susceptible to the damage of sunlight and now must sleep through the day, in places so dark and solitary that not a single ray of light can enter. A coffin, he reasons, is a wonderful solution for this problem. In the night hours he is totally alone and totally alive and totally in command of his domain...as long as he avoids others. Because he knows the superstitious of these middle centuries could never understand the ‘curse’ that has forced him to become what he is."
"Then where did all the other legends come from?" she asked after she considered his story. "The dread of the cross? The shape-changing? The lack of reflection in a mirror? The ill-won immortality?"
He wasn’t upset at her skepticism. "The breadth of our legend merely proves how common our genetic condition actually is. But to answer your other questions: yes, we enjoy extraordinary longevity, but hardly immortality." He laughed bitterly. "Maybe a result of our low-cholesterol, no meat diet. As for the others, folk tales all. Although in truth I suspect some may have been perpetuated by my own kind to afford us some protection. The more you fear something, after all, the less likely you are to attack it."
An interesting tale. An interesting delusion. "You must be a big fan of Anne Rice."
"I suspect the truth would not sell as many books."
"So there’s nothing that can be done about your...condition?"
"A bit, but it is genetic after all. Fortunately we live in more enlightened times. The medical community recognizes disabilities in some degree similar to ours. Our sensitivity to sunlight, our unique dietary requirements. We can now receive help and attention at an early age, even if the actual cause of our difficulties remains undiagnosed. I can live quite comfortably on diet supplements, for example. I could hold down employment in selected occupations if I so desired. The only curse we cannot avoid is that of the sun. Which is one reason why I live here at Westchester Station. It is always night somewhere."
She followed his gaze to the skylights once again. Is that a comet? she wondered. Then she gasped when she recognized a constellation. She had first seen it while on a brief vacation inRio. "That’s the Southern Cross!"
"So it is."
"But that’s impossible!"
"Not inWestchester."
The fear she had been fighting began to rise again. "Where is this place? What is this place?"
She didn’t realize she was squeezing his hand until he jerked it away. "Westchester Station. Didn’t the station master tell you?"
"I haven’t seen the station master."
"You haven’t?" He frowned. "You really should speak to him. It is his responsibility to meet with everyone who comes here. I’ll take you to him if you wish."
"No!" She jumped up and knocked over the pop can she had set on the floor and forgotten. "Later," she said after catching her breath. "I’ll talk to him later."
He frowned, but then forced a smile. "As you wish. Butdo talk to him. Travel well."
She nodded and hurried away. His fanciful tale was not nearly as troubling as what she had just seen in the skylights. Wherewas she? The "vampire" was right, she realized reluctantly; she would have to meet the station master. But on her own terms.
***
The ringing of the phone startled him. Winstead looked at it in surprise; he couldn’t recall it ever ringing before.
Seated nearby, Joe Green noticed his concern as the station master reached for the strange machine. Winstead didn’t consider himself Green’s master and had told him that frequently. But if he wasn’t a slave, why wasn’t he allowed to leave? That was the question Green wanted to ask but didn’t dare. Still, as far as he was concerned, being a house servant—or "valet" as his master called him—was far superior to working in the fields. For now. So he listened, curious, as Winstead spoke into it.
"What happened?" The shock in Winstead’s voice couldn’t be hidden. "Where? How?" There was a long pause. "Try to find out and keep me informed. Warn the others." When he returned the handle to the base, Winstead’s face was ashen.
What was that about? Green wanted to ask, couldn’t ask, shouldn’t ask, finally could not resist and asked. Winstead turned to him but it took a long pause before he recognized him. "One of the guards," he said in an unsteady voice, "has been killed." Then he stopped and wiped sweat from his forehead
.
One of the boss men in the fields?Green wondered. Was there an uprising? Or just an accident? Then he reconsidered. In the few hours he had been here, he had seen many things, miracles and machines he did not understand. But nothing to suggest there were other slaves on this plantation. If that indeed was what he had stumbled into. "How?"
"I don’t know," and Winstead slammed his fist on his desk, making Green nearly jump from his seat in surprise. "This can’thappen . It hasnever happened in Westchester Station! What did he find?" With that Winstead walked over to the model of the station and studied it.
Curious, Green joined him. Winstead pointed to the west end of the model. "The shadow has grown larger."
Green studied the model. He had no idea what it was, but there was no arguing the unnatural darkness shrouding one section. He held his hand above it but there was no heat. "Not a fire."
"No. Something worse. And we have to find out what." Winstead then let out a long sigh. "I can’t send any more guards." How many more do I have? "We may have to do this ourselves."
Ourselves? He wants me to accompany him? He would have no choice if that were what his master wanted. But, and he shivered at the thought, it might give him the opportunity to escape. "When do we start?"
"Not yet," Winstead said, returning to his desk. "There is a departure scheduled in another hour. That must be dealt with first." He held up the manifest. "I would like to put you on that train, but I cannot. You are not scheduled to leave as yet."
Green suppressed a grimace as he sat back down. The station master was now involved with his own work and ignoring him, so Green was left in silence and his own thoughts. Maybe I can get on that train, he thought. If nothing else, he might find a way to escape when he accompanied Winstead...wherever.
***
There must be some kind of map or something, Magdya told herself as she hurried away from the so-called "vampire." She ignored the scattering of passengers waiting for their train; after her last few conversations she didn’t want any more distractions. She passed by the ticket booth but it was still closed. She grimaced. No wonder this station isn’t busy . Farther on, she saw a large sign hanging from the ceiling. About time, she thought as she looked at it. It was a schedule of arrivals and departures. There were few of the former and even less of the latter, but she caught her breath as she noticed the next departure. St. Louis and points west,1:45 a.m. I’ll be on that train, she promised herself. Ticket or no ticket .
But that meant she still had time to kill. She sat at an empty bench and closed her eyes. A short nap, she decided and tried to relax and not think about what had happened to her.
But that was not to be. The chatter of the playing children across from her was enough to prevent that. A girlish shriek was the last straw. She opened her eyes reluctantly and noticed a young girl running toward her. Then she looked down and realized why: the ball they had been playing with was rolling resolutely at her.
She reached down and caught it, then looked at it. The size of a baseball, but plastic, clear plastic. She held it out and smiled when the girl finally arrived. "I believe this is yours?"
"Yes." The girl blushed. Magdya guessed her to be seven or so, thin, dark hair, deep, curious blue eyes. "I’m sorry."
"No problem. Here you go."
She ignored the ball. "Are you taking the train, too?"
I hope so. "Yes. Are you going to St. Louis?"
"No," and her pigtails waved as she shook her head. "We live inSingapore. We used to live in Portland but my dad got transferred."
"Really? That must be exciting! So are you going home by boat or plane?"
She giggled again. "By train, silly! This is a train station!"
Magdya blushed. "I meant, after you get toSt. Louis or whatever."
The girl frowned in frustration. "We’re not going toSt. Louis. I told you, we now live in Singapore."
"I know. But..."
The rest of her question was cut off by her mother’s angry voice coming from across the room. "Clarissa, get back here. We’re ready to leave!"
The girl gave Magdya an apologetic smile. "My parents are calling me. Gotta go!"
"Wait! Clarissa. Your ball," Magdya called out and held up the toy. But the girl merely gave her a quick wave and continued back to her family.
Should she go over there? Magdya wondered. But she saw that the family was already hastily picking up their bags and leaving. I’ll give it to her on the train, she decided, and put the ball in her purse. Then she started after them.
***
The gong startled Gannon. It echoed off the walls, floor and ceiling, and she was certain it reached every corner and crevice of Westchester Station. What does this mean? Her curiosity was immediately replaced by alarm as she looked around. The small groups scattered around the station were hurrying toward one section of the station. A fire? Then she noticed they were all carrying their luggage and she understood—a train was departing. Maybe this is my train, she thought and headed after them.
As she neared the departure gate, she was startled at the uproar the gong had caused. It wasn’t just the passengers; it appeared everyone in the station was involved. She noticed the lady who ran the newsstand helping passengers with their luggage, as was the hairdresser and the man who ran the second-hand store. Even the guards were assisting. Only the woman who ran the small coffee shop stayed at her business. I’ll be able to get on this train, she decided. In all this confusion, no one can possibly notice .
The scene on the boarding platform was even more chaotic. She had never ridden a train before, but she couldn’t imagine that boarding would be like this. Personnel were hurriedly—almost desperately—directing passengers into the various cars. There were no romantic leave-takings like in the movies atWestchester, she thought as she watched. But, she also realized, this would allow an even greater opportunity for her to make her escape. She joined a small queue entering one car and found herself just several steps away when someone grabbed her elbow.
She turned to find the station master holding her. "This is not your train, Mrs. Gannon," he said.
"Why not?" she asked, and she stamped her foot. "Idemand to be allowed on this train!"
"I’m sorry," he said with a shake of his head. "Your train isn’t due for several hours yet. This train is full."
She turned and glanced in the car, then pointed. "There are empty seats everywhere!"
"I’m sorry. We have rules and procedures we must follow. Your train will be coming soon enough."
Knowing there was no arguing with him, she allowed herself to be led back to the platform. "This is ridiculous!" she began once they were away from the racket caused by the boarding passengers and the workers. "First you kidnap me, then you deny it, then you won’t let me leave! Iwill be talking to the police, I promise you that."
"That is your right."
She crossed her arms and snorted. "I’m going to sue you for everything you have."
"Of course." He stopped and tried to change the subject. "Is that a new vest?"
She frowned. "Yes. I bought it from that Oscar fellow, runs the antique store. Nowlet me get on that train ."
He sighed. "I can’t, as I’ve said before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do. Please stay here and out of the way." He offered a weak smile. "Departures fromWestchester can occasionally be hazardous."
"Stay here? Out of the way? Right." Then she heard approaching footsteps and turned to see a guard coming toward her. She gave Winstead a withering glare. "I don’t need a chaperone. Or him. Fine, I’ll stay here."
But the station master was ignoring her. Instead he and the guard were having a whispered conversation. When he started to follow the guard, she moved to stop him. "Wait, you can’t..."
"I have togo, " he said, stepping around her. "Wait here. I’ll explain later."
She felt herself blush like a naughty schoolgirl as he hurried away. "Bastard," she whispered. But it was the first time she had heard a
nger in his voice. Whatever was going on was serious. She debated on following, then decided she had risked enough. Instead she focused her attention on the debarkation.
The engine surprised her. Massive black metal gleamed in the glow of the outside lights. Smoke poured from its stack and she realized it was steam-driven, not a modern engine. It reminded her of a racehorse straining at the gate, eager to run free and fast. A man hastened from one giant wheel to the next and she realized he was oiling the great machine. Another moved from car to car, checking what, she had no idea. Meanwhile the passengers continued boarding and she briefly considered making a dash to one of the cars. But there was a guard standing at every one, so she finally sighed in frustration and began digging in her purse. She needed a cigarette.
Meanwhile Winstead followed the guard to the back of the train. Waiting for them was another guard, his arms wrapped around a young woman. She was short, clad in a colorful silk dress and wearing a bright red scarf. Winstead had never seen her before and that was a matter of great concern. "Who are you?" he asked, stopping in front of them.
"None of your business," she said, still struggling. "Tell this oaf to let go of me. And who the hell are you to ask anyway?"
"I’m the station master. It is one of my duties to greet everyone who visits Westchester Station. Now I ask you again. Who are you?"
"Ouch. Damn it!" Magdya reached down and tried to wrest herself free from the hands encircling her waist, then gave up. "My name is Magdya. Now tell this asshole to let go of me so I can get on my train."
Winstead pretended to look at his manifest but there was no real need. He knew she wasn’t on the list. Worse, he hadn’t been informed of her arrival. "I’m sorry. Do you have a ticket?"
"No, I don’t have a damn ticket. The ticket counter isn’t open! Let me go, damn you!"
Winstead nodded and the guard released her. "You can’t board the train without a ticket."
Westchester Station - the assault Page 6