The Night Inside

by The Night Inside (epub)

  There was a faint sound from the next cell and she turned to see the vampire still huddled on the floor. After a moment, she crawled unsteadily along the side of the bars to crouch across from him. “Rozokov,” she whispered his name like a talisman, the only tie she had to the brief moments when she had seen sanity in his eyes. “Rozokov. They’re gone. It’s all right, they’re gone.”

  Slowly he moved, arms shifting to bare the grey head. She saw his shoulders shudder, heard the aching rasp of his breath. “Kill him . . . I will kill him,” he muttered at last, his voice as molten as the hunger-light in his eyes.

  The ferocity of his voice frightened her, but Ardeth stayed where she was, waiting out the horrifying litany of the vampire’s sworn vengeance. At last, Rozokov lifted his head. There was a raw scrape from the stone floor on the arch of one cheekbone. His face looked old and gaunt, skin stretched taut over the skull. Ardeth shivered, the icy touch of fear feathering down her backbone.

  “What,” he began, then coughed as if the words were caught in his throat. “What is your name?”

  “Ardeth.”

  “Ardeth . . . I thought so.” The red-reflecting eyes met hers. The fire in them had faded, leaving only dead, grey marble. He tried to pull himself to his knees but failed, balance shattered by the ultrasound. Ardeth watched him, torn between her memory of Suzy’s savaged throat and the echo of his pain in her ears. They keep him mad with torture and hunger, she thought slowly. Mad, he would certainly kill her. But sane . . . could he be persuaded not to? There was nothing she could do about the torture, but the hunger . . .

  Ardeth realized that she was holding her wounded hand protectively against her stomach. The cut throbbed, but the blood had dried to a thin line. She should wash it now, in case it became infected. But . . . she looked at Rozokov again. His eyes were on her, watching her with dull curiosity. He’s weak, she thought suddenly. I could make him stop.

  Hesitantly, she reached out her hand. It stopped, almost of its own accord, at the line of the bars, then she forced it through. The vampire’s gaze settled on her stained fingers and she heard his breath catch. “It’s all right. They’d make me do it eventually,” she said slowly, the reassurance more for herself than for him.

  He crawled across the floor to the edge of the cell, the chain clanking behind him. Ardeth forced herself to keep still, but her hand was shaking and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out when he began to lick her fingers.

  There was not much blood left and after a moment he lifted his head. The pale face was strained and tight, the hunger shining like a light in his eyes. But he did not move to take more than she had offered, simply watched her face with desperate eyes.

  When she turned her arm to bare her wrist to him, he let out a long, shuddering breath and bent back over her arm. He was restraining himself, she knew, pausing to draw her veins to the surface. The pain was a swift stab that stiffened her, then there was only the steady pressure of his feeding.

  It feels so strange, Ardeth thought. I’m giving him life. Is this what mothers feel when their babies feed, this odd combination of maternal compassion and sexual desire? The realization that his hunger aroused her was suddenly terrifying and she started to pull back. Long fingers closed on her arm and held her still.

  Shaking, already feeling the dizzy lassitude of blood loss, Ardeth leaned against the bars and watched him. It was easier this way, giving him her blood freely. She was not even frightened any more, drowning in the swells of pleasure and emotion that seemed to flow through her to the rhythm of his sucking. Even Roias couldn’t touch them now.

  The thought of Roias jerked her from her hazy stupor, her heart racing with the enormity of what she had nearly allowed to happen. “Rozokov, stop,” she hissed, starting to pull her arm out of his grasp, thrusting against the bars to brace herself against the iron grip of his fingers. “Stop!” He lifted his head with a snarl, his fingers clenching cruelly around her wrist. The grey eyes glowed with blood-hunger, the upper lip curled back from eyeteeth as sharp as needles. There was blood on his mouth. “Rozokov,” Ardeth whispered in sudden terror.

  After a moment, the madness began to drain away and she saw that the sharp angles of his face had softened a little. He looked closer to thirty now than sixty. “Ardeth.” Her name was the barest breath of sound. His grip on her arm loosened, though he did not let her go. His eyes searched her face for another moment, as if memorizing it, then he bent his head again. She caught her breath in fear but it was only his tongue that touched her, gently stroking the wounds on her wrist. His tongue slid across her cut fingers and she felt a distant throb of reluctant desire deep inside her.

  Rozokov raised his head and curled her fingers within his own for a moment. “It will heal more quickly,” he said slowly and then pushed her limp arm back through the bars to her.

  “Thank you,” she said automatically. “Are you . . . are you all right now?” She blinked as the world whirled before her eyes.

  “You must eat. I was,” he paused, suddenly awkward, “careless.” His withdrawal was abrupt, just the ghost of a shadow across his face, then he was moving back towards the cot.

  Ardeth watched him for a moment, then tried to stand. She barely managed to get up on her knees. Rozokov was right, she had to eat. She crawled leadenly to the tray and devoured the cold steak, washing it down with orange juice. She ate the chocolate bar slowly, with the thin blanket around her shoulders, waiting to stop shivering.

  Chapter 8

  She must have gone to sleep. When she woke up, she was still sitting up, her neck stiff from the odd angle at which she had tilted it against the wall. The empty tray was beside her on the cot; she leaned over to put it on the floor and immediately regretted it when it made her head spin. “Damn,” she muttered and stretched out on the cot, trying to will away the throb behind her temples.

  But sleep refused to come and join her in the relative comfort of her prone position. Fuelled by the steak and juice, her body had recovered the strength it had lost with her blood. That realization led inevitably to the memory of what she had done earlier. In the dim light, Ardeth peered at her hand with uneasy curiosity. The lines on her fingers had already begun to heal and the marks on her wrist were no more than pinpricks.

  It had been sheer madness to put her hand into that cell. Even injured, the vampire had been quite capable of holding her there until he had drained every drop of her blood. But he hadn’t. Rozokov had waited until she offered, then been careful not to hurt her. She remembered Suzy’s savaged throat and fingered the marks on her wrist again. No, it didn’t hurt, she thought unwillingly. There were a few moments when she had even enjoyed it. Maybe she was suffering from a variation of Stockholm Syndrome, with her loyalty being transferred to her . . . your what? your killer? rather than her captors.

  Whatever the reasons, there was no denying that she had moved beyond her initial blind fear of the vampire. Knowing his name, knowing that he must once have passed as a successful businessman meant that his savage, withdrawn state could not be normal, that his madness could be only temporary. Of course, sane, he could turn out to live up to the evil reputation of his fictional counterparts. But perhaps if she could further penetrate his shell, she could persuade him that they were both captives and that she could help him.

  Help him what? Escape? Why not? Ardeth thought, staring at the ceiling. She’d come up with a hundred desperate and totally impossible plans during the endless hours of the previous days. All of them were so improbable that she had unconsciously abandoned them to the fruitless, but much easier, longing for rescue, for the deus ex machina that would somehow get her out of this tragedy. But with the vampire’s help, were her plans still so impossible? She added Rozokov to the scenarios and ran a couple through her mind. It did not help much. None of her captors were careless around her, let alone around Rozokov. They did not venture within range of the vampire without being well arm
ed with the cattle prod or ultrasound. But he’d been passive and withdrawn for so long, perhaps that was all they expected of him. Perhaps if he were sane, and Wilkens dropped his guard for just a moment.

  Ardeth sighed and closed her eyes, daunted by the sheer impossibility of it. Even if Rozokov were sane, even if he could be persuaded to attack them and not her, even if one of the guards were careless, would she know the opportunity when it presented itself and would she be able to take advantage of it? Would she have the nerve to risk what little safety she had left? The paralysis that seemed to grip her returned. She felt herself teetering on the edge of despair, felt the heat of tears behind her eyes. She dragged herself back to her original line of thought. Escape or no, she had to try to convince the vampire that she had value beyond nourishment.

  Ardeth rolled onto her stomach and looked at Rozokov. He had resumed his customary position, sitting on the cot, arms on knees, staring at the floor. His face was so still it looked like the carven image of some alien deity, unknowing, merciless. Her fear of him came nosing back into her mind, to feather a chill down her spine.

  What the hell, she thought at last. What else did she have to lose? At least talking to him would give her something to do.

  She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and stood up, teetering there uncertainly for a moment, doubts flaring, then she moved over to the bars before she lost her nerve. She sat on the floor a foot or two from the edge of the cell, within Rozokov’s line of sight if he lifted his head.

  “Rozokov.” There was no reaction. “I know you can hear me. You can hide from them . . . I know that’s what you’re doing. But you don’t have to hide from me.” She paused, waiting, but he didn’t move. “All right, you don’t have to talk. I suppose it’s been a while since you have. All you have to do is listen. My name, in case you’ve forgotten again, is Ardeth Alexander. . . .” So she talked. She told him about herself, her thesis, Sara, Tony’s death, her suspicions about Armitage, Con’s murder, her kidnapping. “So here we are. How many were there before me, I wonder?” The question was rhetorical only; she no longer expected a reaction from him.

  “I do not know.” His voice was quiet and calm. He did not look up.

  “How many movies did they make you do?”

  After a moment, “Two.”

  “They made me watch.” He nodded slowly.

  “It was quick this time.”

  “They made you do it. I know that.”

  “No choice. Her heartbeat . . . the blood . . .” His head went back, eyes closed, and she saw his fingers clench into fists. Ardeth tensed, ready to scramble back from the bars. He drew a deep shuddering breath and opened his eyes. “I had to.” She knew that he was not thinking of the cattle prods and the ultrasound. He’ll “have to” do it to you too, she thought in despair, but dared not to lose the tentative hold she had on his awareness.

  “Why do they want you? What are they planning to do?” she asked. Surely no one who had a vampire would simply make snuff movies with him. The grey hair stirred and settled as he shook his head. “Have they ever said who pays them? Who wanted you?” The line of inquiry held no interest for him, and she sensed his waning attention. “Are you better now, after what Roias did?”

  For the first time in the conversation, he looked at her. “Yes.”

  “Does he do that often?”

  “Enough.” She thought he heard an edge of bitter humour in his voice.

  “Rozokov, what’s my name?” His head turned and the cool, grey eyes met her squarely.

  “Your name is Ardeth Alexander.” She felt like laughing. He had heard, really heard, the long monologue of her life. “Why did you do it?” he asked suddenly.

  “Do what?”

  “Give me your blood.”

  “Oh,” she paused, debating what to say. “You’re as much a captive here as I am. And, they’d have made me do it sooner or later. At least this way, I had some control over it.” She shrugged and met his gaze. “I felt sorry for you.”

  He regarded her for a moment with a faint air of bewilderment. “Felt sorry for me,” he murmured at last and closed his eyes. A sudden weight dragged lines of pain and weariness into his face.

  “Rozokov,” she began.

  “Let me be!” he snarled suddenly, rising to turn on her with eyes bright with anguish and anger. The ferocity in his voice was like a blow, tumbling her back to sprawl in awkward fear well away from the bars. Rozokov stepped forward to grip the bars, knuckles whiter than the ashen strands of hair shadowing the feverish gaze. He can’t be that strong, she thought in sudden terror. Not enough to bend the bars, to tear down the walls of iron that suddenly seemed more like protection than prison. “Let me be,” he repeated, the words ground out between clenched teeth, then he spun away from the edge of the cell and began to pace.

  You see, you can’t trust him, you can’t ever stop being afraid of him, the voice inside her warned and her pounding heart and shaking limbs offered no argument. Ardeth slid carefully back to her cot, to curl up in a fetal ball beneath the blanket. At last, she fell asleep to the harsh lullaby sound of the clattering chain.

  It was getting easier to sleep most of the day, Ardeth discovered. She spent the third day of her captivity in a restless doze, waking only to eat and, dreading that she would have to do it while Rozokov was awake, relieving herself.

  She tried to tell time by her meals, though she suspected they were brought whenever it was convenient, and not because the hour bore any resemblance to conventional mealtime. Sometimes the vampire was awake when it arrived; tonight, he was still stretched in a thin, tense line along his cot.

  After eating, Ardeth rinsed her mouth out with water and spat into the unoccupied cell beside her. Her mouth tasted sour and when she ran her hands over her hair, it felt lank and dirty. What I wouldn’t give for a nice long hot shower, she thought, and eyed the jug of water. If she was willing to spend a thirsty night, there might be enough water to wash the worst of the dirt away.

  It was worth it, she decided, and tipped some water into her hands, scrubbing at her face and throat. Then she crouched and bent her head, pouring as much water as she dared over her hair. Without soap, she could do no more than squeeze the cold water through the tangled strands, but her spirit rose just from the illusion of cleanliness.

  That done, she contemplated the water’s lowered level, then shot one quick glance over her shoulder at the sleeping vampire. What the hell, Ardeth thought, and unbuttoned her shirt. With the rest of the water, she washed her arms, torso and shoulders, wishing she had the nerve to shed her bra as well.

  Shivering in the chill air, but reluctant to cover her freshly clean skin with the dirty fabric of her shirt, she sat combing out her hair with her fingers. She was engrossed in untangling one stubborn knot when she heard a faint sound behind her. She turned and found Rozokov propped on one elbow on his cot, watching her.

  Ardeth froze, hands still fanning her hair over her shoulders. His eyes were shadowed by the ragged fall of his fair, but she thought she saw a spark of red there. For a moment, she sat still, hands in her damp hair, the column from her chest to groin suddenly tight and aching. Then she dragged her gaze from his and reached for her shirt. Her fingers were shaking as the fastened the buttons and she took a deep breath to ease the acid residue of fear from her limbs.

  Some of her equilibrium restored, she smoother back her hair once more and stood up. “So you’re awake,” she said and turned to face him. “Are you talking to me again?” He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and sat up, eyes drifting away from her. “You may as well, you know. We’re stuck with each other down here and I, for one, would rather talk, even to an unresponsive lump, than sit here and watch the walls sweat.” She settled onto the floor in the place she had sat the previous night. “If you don’t talk to me, I might be forced to give you my dissertation.” You’re babbling, she thought, but still the sound of he
r own voice gave her some comfort.

  “What year is it?” Rozokov asked suddenly, without looking at her.

  “Year? Oh, it’s 1991. What year was it . . . the last time that you remember?”

  “1898. It was 1898 . . . in the summer.”

  “It’s April now, the 8th, I guess. Then you were in that building for more than ninety years.”

  “Ninety years,” he repeated softly. “Longer than I thought.”

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “Someone suspected me. They were too close . . . there was no time to escape.” He paused, disbelief still lingering in his expression. “Ninety years. That does explain some things.” His voice seemed stronger now, she noticed, and his sentences more complete.

  “What things?”

  “The machines, the men, those ‘movies.’ You.”

  “Me?” Ardeth echoed in surprise, then laughed, envisioning the refined ladylike women he must remember, well-bred denizens of Toronto the Good. “There have been a lot of changes in the world.”

  “Tell me,” he urged suddenly, shifting to look at her.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Everything that has happened. Everything I have missed.” Ardeth thought of the long hours ahead, of the darkness waiting beyond the circle of light above her, waiting beyond the few days she could see into the future.

  All right. It’ll probably be more interesting for you than my dissertation anyway.”

  She was attempting to explain the sixties counterculture movement when there was a sound form behind the door at the top of the stairs. Before she realized it, she had scrambled back to her cot. A glance at Rozokov revealed that he had dropped into his customary position.

  Ardeth tucked her legs up under her on the cot and leaned back against the wall, watching the door from beneath half-lowered lids. A sudden shaft of brightness heralded the descent of Roias and Peterson.