Chapter 12
Ardeth woke to the faint whisper of her name.
She was still for a few moments, letting the sound echo through her mind. She did not think about where she was, or how she had gotten there, only listened to the cadence of her name; the sensuous growl of the first syllable, the abrupt termination of the second.
Gradually, as the call died, she regained awareness of her body. She was lying down, a light blanket of . . . something . . . covering her. For some reason she could not define, she did not want to open her eyes. She tried, hesitantly, to remember falling asleep, but could not.
After a moment, she moved her hand a little and felt the cool blanket covering her crumple and slide across her skin. Fascinated by the sensation, she moved her hand again. She pierced the covering suddenly and her hand tingled as the warmth of the air surrounded it.
I’m underground, Ardeth thought with dim surprise. She flexed her fingers experimentally and felt the faint caress of the breeze. I suppose I should sit up. When she did, the earth and mouldering detritus of the previous autumn slid away from her with a sound like the patter of rain.
The air was warm on her skin, and unconsciously she tilted her head back, as if lifting her face to the sun. She heard the rustling of leaves, the distant chirp of crickets. Somewhere, an owl cried mournfully.
Ardeth opened her eyes and stared upward, into the overhanging trees and the silver glow of the moon. It did not seem at all strange that she had been lying under a blanket of earth, in the depths of the forest. The dappled light was cool and comforting. I could stay here, she thought. I could curl back into my little hollow and sleep forever.
But she didn’t feel like sleeping. Something nagged at her, the vague memory of something she should be doing. There was also a hollowness in her gut, like hunger. She was not entirely sure what she was hungering for.
Ardeth lifted her hand and absently brushed away the dirt clinging to her cheeks and eyelashes. She shifted and felt something hard and uncomfortable beneath her. When she moved unsteadily to her knees and turned to look, she saw it was a hand.
The hand had lain beneath her in the hollow, the arm disappearing beneath the earth. It was a woman’s, for the nails were red and had once been long. Now they were ragged and short, as if someone had bitten them, or worried them away on a wall. The flesh was swollen and glowed a ghastly, ghostly green in the moonlight.
Ardeth stared at the hand for a moment. She was not afraid. The hand was dead, and what had death to do with her? Whose was it, she wondered, with the shallow, conscious part of her mind. One of the others, came the answer from deep inside her. What others? she wondered uneasily. Why had they put her here, with a dead hand?
She frowned, watching the hand uneasily, as if it would signal an answer. The others, the “they” her unconscious mind had thought of had something to do with the whispered call that was once more sighing through her mind. She lifted her head slowly, listening to the far-off voice.
He wanted her, he was calling her. She wasn’t sure who he was yet, but there was a tantalizing familiarity about the whisper. She could almost see eyes upon her and her skin shivered with the memory of a caress. Wait for me, she thought back to the darkness around her, I’m coming.
The woods were bright with the moon and with her growing excitement. Only the crackle of dry twigs reminded her that her feet touched the ground as she moved. Ardeth looked down, watched her feet, her legs moving. She was wearing only a shirt and her briefs. The shirt was stained with dirt and seemed dull against the almost phosphorescent glow of her skin. Suddenly curious, she stopped and reached up to touch her face. It felt the same—lips, nose, eyes, brows. Her hair was tangled and she felt the brittle crunch of leaves as she ran her hand over it. She had started to tug at the worst of the knots when the call came in her mind, more insistent this time. At the sound of her name, her hands dropped and she began to move again, her body automatically adopting a steady, loping run.
The building came upon her suddenly, sending her to a staggering stop at the edge of the forest. In the moonlight it seemed huge, the two long wings on either side like arms reaching for her. Rows of blind windows watched her. She had been there, Ardeth knew, but she could not recall seeing it like this. If I was there, why don’t I remember this, she wondered. Because you were blindfolded when they brought you in.
She remembered suddenly, remembered struggling up the line of stairs, remembered cruel hands on her bound arms. At the memory, rage swept her, washing the scene with red. They were in there, the ones with the hard hands, the taunting words. The ones who had hurt her. And him.
Ardeth stood there a moment, her breath coming hard and shallow, lips curled back in a snarl. He was still in there, trapped, calling to her. It was coming back to her, slowly. She remembered a face, angularly elegant, and hungry eyes, and a warm, sweet mouth. Remembered the sharp kisses and the enveloping darkness. “I’m coming,” she whispered, her voice a harsh croak.
She was running across the yard towards the building when she saw the nose of the van jutting out of the shed to one side of the lawn. Memory thrust in again, memory of the smell of beer and gasoline and a long, dark, terrifying journey. Ardeth changed direction suddenly, dashing across the driveway. Her feet were bare but the sharp gravel left no mark on them. She felt no pain.
In the dark shed, she stared at the van. It was important that none of them get away. Not Roias, or Wilkens, or Peterson. The names rang in her mind, tangled suddenly in a rush of memories. She saw Wilkens coming up the long stairway, saw Roias bent over her bleeding hand. No, especially not Roias, Ardeth thought, then put her hands under the edge of the van’s hood and forced it up to reveal the engine. She tore at it, tugging out wires and parts with dizzy abandon. When she was done, she wiped her greasy hands on her shirt and stood back to look at the mutilated engine. It had been so simple that it was hard to imagine that she had not always been able to bend and twist metal with such ease.
Heady with the feeling of strength, she walked to the stairs that led up into the building. The asylum, she remembered. With the memory came caution and she moved quietly up the steps to the door. The door was not locked but it creaked as she opened it. Ardeth ducked inside and ran, barefoot and silent, to crouch beneath the shadow of the stairs. In the empty silence, she could feel distant heartbeats, combining into a steady drone. The sound settled beneath her own ribs and reawakened the hollow hunger there.
No one seemed to have heard her entrance, so she moved from her hiding place to stand in the darkened foyer. Down the long corridor she could see a rusty metal doorway, heavily locked. They had taken her down there, she remembered now. Taken her down into the darkness where he was waiting. He was waiting still, and she ran, catfooted, down the hall. She tugged at the metal bolts, fumbled with the heavy locks, but even her newfound strength could not open the door.
Roias had the keys, Ardeth remembered. And Wilkens, and Peterson. One of them would come by soon, to laugh, or torment, or use their captive in their obscene games. She bit her lip against the surge of rage she felt. She must stay calm, must plan carefully and rationally. They had weapons they could use on her—guns, knives. They even had weapons with which to hurt him. They must have no chance to reach those weapons.
Far away, beyond the range of the hallway lights, Ardeth heard a footstep. She froze, her head lifting to scent the darkness as the steady, double-thump of a heartbeat asserted itself in the silence. It was one of them come to check on their captive. She darted into one of the doorways that lined the corridor, flattening herself into the shadows cast by the dim and uneven light.
He was humming to himself, the nervous uneasy sound of man’s ancient denial of the darkness and its terrors. When he passed Ardeth’s hiding place, she saw that it was Peterson. He was dipping in his pocket for the keys to the basement.
For a moment, Ardeth was frozen in confusion. What am I doing? she wondere
d dazedly. What has happened to me? She put her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out and closed her eyes in despair. What happened to me? her mind wailed again.
There was a sudden musical jingle and she opened her eyes again. Peterson had dropped the keys and was crouching, his back to her, to pick them up. Now, a voice, hers or the other’s, she was not sure, cried in her mind and she moved without thinking. Her body had an instinct of its own and it did what was necessary. One arm went around Peterson’s shoulders and hauled him back, the other lifted to clamp her hand over his mouth.
He struggled, hands coming up to seize her forearm and try to free himself, but she was stronger than either of them knew. Fighting him, Ardeth felt the red rage surging inside her again. This man had held her captive, had tried to rape her, deriving his sick erotic pleasure from the scent of death on her. She hated him as she had never hated anything in her life and she wanted to hurt him, to make him know one fraction of the pain she had felt.
She had no weapons, and both her hands were occupied in holding his thrashing body. So, in her bitter fury, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to sink her teeth into the throat curved next to her face.
The blood caught her by surprise, welling in a sudden gush into her mouth. She almost gagged, then its intoxicating sweetness hit her, jolting along her nerves. Dizzily, she swallowed and the warmth filled her. She barely heard Peterson’s muffled scream or felt his frantic struggles. She was drowning in the blood as it washed over her rage, feeding it even as it satiated the emptiness she felt.
Slowly Peterson’s spasms stopped, his feet twitching to a stop. Ardeth lifted her head and drew in long, shuddering breaths. The taste of the blood lingered sweetly in her mouth. What have I done? she asked herself, but knew the answer. She ought to be horrified. The person she had been would be. But she felt no horror, no regret. She felt only satisfaction and the warmth of the banked fires of rage within her.
She had to move the body. She found the keys beneath his body and unlocked the metal door to the basement. With her newfound strength, it was easy to lift his body through the doorway. She tossed it over the edge of the stairway and waited for the heavy, satisfying thump as it hit the floor. She paused to pull the door shut behind her, then looked down into the basement.
He was there, standing in his cell, waiting for her. He had a name in her mind now, and she remembered what he was. What she was. Ardeth walked down the stairs slowly, aware of Rozokov’s wary gaze. She crossed to the cell where he waited, then bent her head to fumble with the lock. When the door swung open, she looked up at him.
“Ardeth.” her name was no more than a whisper, but it felt like a shout of affirmation.
“I came back,” she said slowly. He nodded and stepped towards her. She could still feel him in her mind, like the memory of a fragrance that hung in the air.
When he kissed her, she felt none of the soul-shattering desire that had rocked her the night before but a deeper, sweeter satisfaction. She clung to the kiss. When he drew back, she saw a smear of Peterson’s blood on his lips. The memory of it filling her mouth pulled her lips into a cold, tigerish smile. Rozokov’s grin followed hers, but slowly, as if the savage expression were the symptom of a disease passed by Peterson’s blood, and he was only beginning to feel the effect of the fever burning in her veins.
“The others,” he said.
“The others . . .” she echoed, and smiled again, revelling in the sensation of her lips sliding up from her sharp teeth.
Chapter 13
Roias was in the booth, his private sanctuary. Outside, in the studio, two women writhed on the red-sheeted bed, while cameramen circled like greedy sharks. Roias barely noticed the scene. The regular fare of the company had lost its allure for him since he had discovered his “specialties.”
But that was coming to an end. Rooke’s call that night had been definite. They were coming to “collect the merchandise” in two days. That meant he’d better feed the Count. He glanced out at the woman. He’d have to put out another couple of grand to buy one of the girls from Greg, but it would be a small price to pay to prevent Rooke’s anger. Hell, it was Rooke’s money.
At least the Alexander bitch was dead. If Rooke had arrived while she was still alive . . . Roias pushed aside that thought. His instructions had been explicit; kill the girl immediately. But it had seemed a shame to waste the opportunity. It had been easier to use her than shell out to Greg or grab some whore off the streets. Rooke was a mean bastard—and the old bitch he worked for was rumoured to be even worse—but what he didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt him. She was safely dead and he’d been spared the trouble of putting a bullet in her head.
Still, there had been something disturbing about her death. The image of the pale, nearly nude body sprawled across the dark floor seemed to flicker across his reflection in the window. The vampire had killed her, there was no doubt about that. There had been a massive bruise across her breasts and hip. The monster himself had been sitting on his bed, the icy eyes as blank and unconcerned as ever. But Roias had sensed something behind the glacial surface of that gaze, some edge of anticipation that disturbed him.
Why had Alexander let the vampire take her? he wondered. Had she finally realized that they were going to kill her no matter what and taken the quickest way out? Had she just wandered too close to the bars when His Highness was in a particularly savage mood? Whatever the reason, the Count hadn’t made death easy for her. He thought of the marks on the white skin and felt a throb of desire. Too bad he hadn’t installed those cameras down there. He might have had one final “specialty” film to sell. Not that he hadn’t cleaned up on the three he’d made. Of course, the market for that stuff was limited, but at what he could get for a single tape, that wasn’t a problem. And it was pure profit; he paid the cameraman and Leseur out of the company’s money and pocketed all the carefully collected revenue from the films himself.
He lit another cigarette and let the smoke curl sweetly down his throat. Rooke would terminate this project soon, he could tell. None of these jobs ever lasted long. In a few weeks, he’d be scouting out new locations, new channels for obtaining the raw material (he glanced again at the flesh intertwining on the bed) he needed. This place had served its purpose, but he was damned tired of it. The long drive in from the city, then the days as a virtual prisoner in the empty corridors, all had taken their toll on him. The next site would be in the city, where he could hear the world again. He missed the smoky nights in the bars, missed the freedom to come and go as he pleased, missed the chance to see faces other than the increasingly annoying ones of Peterson, Leseur, and the rest.
Roias leaned back in his chair and tried to watch Leseur’s latest masterpiece. It still failed to stir him and after a moment he rose restlessly and went to the door, wondering if there was any beer left in the kitchen. He was already tasting the smooth coolness of the alcohol when he realized that, though the door knob had turned beneath his hand, the door had not opened. He pulled on it again but it didn’t move. There was no exterior lock, so what was holding the door closed? And more importantly, who had done this? Not Wilkens. Maybe Peterson. The kid had been acting odd all day, come to think of it. Trying to cover up the bruises on his face, coming back from the burial detail all pale and shaky. Maybe this was the little nutcase’s idea of a joke. Some fucking funny joke. The little shit wouldn’t think it was so funny when he got out.
After a few moments of rattling the door, he decided he would have to call down to Leseur and have him send someone up. He returned to the console and switched on the intercom. “Leseur,” he called, then switched the set to receive. And heard the screaming.
For a moment, he thought it was the movie they were making, that Leseur had decided to add a little S & M at the last minute. Then Roias realized that there was more than one voice crying out, and some of them were male.
He was at the window in one long step, in time t
o see Leseur’s body, spraying blood, tumbling down the steps that led to the raised bed. On the top stood the vampire. “Holy fucking Christ,” Roias whispered as the gaunt figure spun to catch the blonde as she tried to scramble off the bed. She was dragged back onto the red silk sheets, screaming until the vampire’s blow turned off the sound.
A movement in the other corner of the room caught Roias’s eye. Fernandez was running for the door. He was almost there when a figure emerged from the corner and tackled him. Roias had a brief impression of a patterned shirt and a banner of fair hair before attacker and attacked tumbled into a heap on the floor. For a moment, Roias thought Fernandez might make it, as he rolled on top of the other man. Then the cameraman threw back his head and howled, a wail that ended in a bubbling groan. His body was tossed aside and the attacker rose from beneath it.
The shirt wasn’t patterned, it was white. The red blotches were blood. The figure inside this gruesome covering was undeniably female; he could see the curve of her breast where the shirt had torn, and her legs were long and lovely. He dragged his gaze up to the face. Beneath the heavy make-up of blood and dirt, there was no doubt about her identity.
“Oh God,” he groaned and ran back for the door. Alexander. It was that damned Alexander bitch. Peterson hadn’t staked her. “Wilkens!” He hit the metal door with both hands. “Peterson! Somebody let me the fuck outta here!” He was still banging on the door when the screams from the intercom died. Helpless, Roias went back to the window.
They were all dead—Leseur, the two actresses, the two cameramen. Their bodies were flung carelessly about the studio like cast-off mannequins. Blood pooled around Fernandez, Leseur and the brunette. The blonde’s head lolled across the silk at an impossible angle. The two vampires were nowhere in sight.
Maybe they don’t know I’m here, Roias thought desperately, but the jammed door made a lie of that hope. Had they killed Wilkens and Peterson already? He had to assume so. He had to assume he was here alone with those two monsters. He went back to the door and snapped back the bolt on the interior lock; he could keep them out as surely as they could keep him in.
The Night Inside Page 12