Blood Red Dawn (6 page)

T
he bar was dark, and the scotch came in the form of a twenty-year-old single malt. I charged it to my room, hoping Vivienne had enough credit to cover it. After that it was a simple matter, all I had to do was keep the ice from melting.

Three glasses in, the hunger hit.
Should have gone to London with Claude,
I thought, eyeing the emptiness of the bar,
it would have been quicker and easier.
As I got up to leave, though, a woman walked in. She was about the same height as Deirdre and the same weight, but the similarity ended there. Her straight dark hair shone in the light from the doorway, giving her the appearance of purple streaks throughout the black. She walked slowly, almost a saunter, and she had a lovely smile.

“Drinking alone,” she said, as she slid onto the barstool next to me, “is no good. Didn't your momma teach you better than that?”

Her drawl oozed with pure southern charm and I smiled in spite of myself, extending my hand. “The name's Mitch,” I said. “New York.”

Her eyes laughed at me as she returned the handshake. “Diane,” she said. “North Carolina. Leave it to me to find the only Yankee in the bar.”

I looked around us at the empty seats. “Yankee or not, I'm practically the only other person in here.”

“True.” She picked up the bottle and examined it. “Nice,” she said, “but a little too much for me after a flight.”

“May I get you something?” I asked, motioning to the bartender.

“White zinfandel, thank you.” She sipped the wine he brought. “Not bad,” she said, “better than the swill they were serving on the plane.”

“Here on vacation?”

“No, business. I write for travel magazines, freelance. But it gets old real fast, you know? The planes, the cabs, the empty hotel rooms. How about you? You here for business or pleasure?”

“It's sort of hard to say. I'm heading ultimately for New Orleans by way of New York. And from there? I have no idea.”

“And what do you do for a living?”

“I'm a retired policeman. Most recently I was a bartender.”

“Two very useful occupations.”

“Damn straight they are.”

We clinked our glasses together. Diane had a effortless laugh and her skin smelled fresh and clean. When she inched a little closer to me, I didn't move away. Instead I motioned the bartender to bring her another glass of wine and watched her unwind before me.

After three glasses she was telling me her life's history, her words only slightly slurred. “You know, Mitch,” she giggled, holding her glass up to what little light gleamed in the bar, “I only drink pink drinks.”

“Pink drinks?”

“Yes, pink drinks. That same momma who told me it wasn't good to drink alone taught me that a lady is always a lady provided she only drinks pink drinks.”

I laughed. “It's important to have a smart mother.”

She nodded and hiccuped. “Excuse me,” she said, “she also taught me to not overstay my welcome. I've enjoyed your company, Mitch, but I think I need to call it a night. I'm still on eastern time.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

As Diane got up from the barstool, the straps of her purse tangled around her ankles and she pitched forward, landing practically in my lap. “Oh, God, I'm sorry, I'm so clumsy.”

“Not at all,” I said. My hunger raged from the close contact and although I felt guilty taking from her, I knew that I would. I stood up and gently took her arm. “My momma taught me to never allow ladies who've been drinking pink drinks to walk home unescorted. May I walk you to your room?”

“I thought you'd never ask,” she said, gripping my arm. The heat of her skin was more intoxicating than the scotch had ever been. I felt uneasy, though, unsure of how far to take this seduction. I liked her and didn't want to frighten or hurt her.

She solved the problem for me on the elevator by passing out, leaning up against my side. I felt the slackness of her body as all of the tension dropped out of her and I caught her before she could fall. From there, I carried her to her room and opened the door. She didn't move as I unfastened the buckles on her shoes and she didn't make a sound when I laid her in the bed, pulling the covers up over her.

When my mouth came down on her neck, she reached a hand up and stroked the back of my head, making a low moaning sound. Her blood tasted as pure and clean as she smelled and I drank her in. When I felt as if I'd taken enough to sustain me, I forced myself to withdraw my fangs.

“Don't go,” she murmured as I pulled away.

“I have to, Diane. You're a lady and I'm a gentleman and what would Momma say?”

She laughed softly. “Momma would say ‘thank you.' ”

“No, thank
you,”
I said. “Now you go to sleep and forget I was ever here.”

She gave a contented sigh and dropped back into sleep.

 

It was good that I'd been able to feed before we hit Heathrow. Otherwise, I'd have been totally overwhelmed by the mass of humanity there. People were everywhere, pushing and jostling, different ages, different races and nationalities, single businessmen and women alongside large families with crying babies. The noise level was almost deafening, a cacophony of languages so disorienting it made my head ache.

Vivienne clung to Sam as if he were a life raft and Lily, I noticed, did the same with Claude. The line to check luggage seemed endless but was a necessity, if only so that Sam could have his medicinal bag when we arrived in New York. With heightened airline security there was no sense in trying to take his kit as a carry-on. Even at that, his papers were scrutinized closely and as his companions, the rest of us were singled out for more thorough searching. At one point, I feared that Vivienne's shameless flirting with the guard would create a problem, until I noticed that the man was having a hard time keeping a straight face. With all the delays, we managed to get to our gate with only a little time to spare before the flight. I held my breath when the steward at check-in had to reissue our boarding passes, complaining all the time of the inefficiency of the person who'd issued them. Viv drew herself up to her full height and leaned over the counter, looking the attendant dead in the eye and convincing her finally that all was the way it should be.

Still, in spite of all the hassles we had boarding the plane, once we took off I relaxed and the flight started out rather enjoyably. Vivienne had booked herself, Sam, and me into first class; Lily and Claude were sitting in the first row of seats in coach. She'd thought of everything from food preferences for Sam to reserving two seats for Claude.

“You know, Viv, you should probably think of opening a travel agency.”

She laughed. “That would be something, wouldn't it, Mitch?
‘Bon soir, mesdames et messieurs,
I'm Vivienne, come fly with me.' No, I think I'd rather keep going as I have been, carefree and independent. And gainfully unemployed. I'm so very good at it, don't you think?”

Sam didn't join in our banter. He'd turned back into the sullen man he'd seemed on the drive to London. Something was still eating at him, that much was easy to see. I wondered why Viv hadn't picked up on it, but she seemed oblivious, chattering excitedly to one of the flight stewards, laying a soft hand on his arm and asking to see the wine list. And when she walked down the aisle with him to inspect the bottle she'd chosen and didn't return in a respectable amount of time, I braced myself for Sam's anger.

Instead, he smiled fondly in the direction she'd gone. “If I know my girl, she'll be gone for a while. ‘Never miss an opportunity to savor the wine' should be her motto. Although,” and he gave a hoarse chuckle, “I doubt it's wine she's partaking of.”

“And this doesn't bother you?”

He shook his head. “I don't know why it would; we both know it's nothing more than a desire to feed. But that's not what I want to talk about. I'm glad she'll be gone for a while. I need to tell you something and I'm coward enough to want to do it in a semipublic place, to avoid risking your temper. I've not been able to tell anybody, not even Viv. But it's tearing me up inside. I have to tell someone and that someone should be you. You, of everyone, have the right to know what I've done.”

“Well then, talk away. Confession is good for the soul, or so you used to tell me when I was your patient.”

He grimaced. “We're more than doctor and patient now, Mitch. We share a bond. And we're friends, or at least I hope so. Maybe you'll feel differently after I've had my say, but I won't.”

“Yeah, we're friends and we'll stay friends. Come on, I know you well enough to know you're softening me up for something. What is it, Sam?”

“I hardly know where to start. So let's go back a few years, after the Others started their feud. Viv and I found a nice little place in Paris and played house for a while, it was like a vacation. But as the weeks stretched into months and years, I grew bored and I missed my work. There was no way I could do psychiatric work in France without all sorts of hassles and licenses. Then one day, I received a letter, addressed to me and forwarded from the old hospital.”

“You told someone where you were?” I'd been in charge of the Cadre at the time and the rule was that we would not contact anyone we'd known before with our current whereabouts. True, Sam wasn't one of the Cadre, but I'd have expected him to obey the order better than that.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know. But it was just one of the nurses. She never gave the address to a soul, I'm sure of it. No one ever came knocking on our door, at least, so I assume she was trustworthy. I couldn't just disappear off the face of the earth. A life of nothing but drinking and dancing is fine for a while, but I've always needed more. Needed to feel useful.”

I nodded. “And as you've said, you were relatively safe. Most of the attacks seemed to be on me and Deirdre. And now,” the bitterness dripped from my voice, “we know why she was the primary target.”

He continued without comment on my remark. “Anyway, when I opened the letter I found that it was an offer of work from a private clinic that wished me to do some blood research for them. They were looking for the key to triggering and intensifying the body's natural immune systems to fight fatal diseases. Cancer, AIDS, that sort of stuff. It seemed like interesting research and certainly worthwhile, to say nothing of the impeccable reputation of the clinic. So I agreed to their offer and they set me up in a little lab and provided all that I needed. Including the blood to test and experiment with.”

“I knew all this, Sam. I certainly can't blame you for wanting to work, there's no need to feel guilty about it. The idle life is not for everyone; I'd not mind getting back into police work myself.” I tried to lighten the conversation to put him at ease. “But the day shifts would be murder.”

He gave a half-smile. “I don't feel guilty about wanting to work. But I should have been more cautious, asked more questions. I, more than any other doctor in the world, should have seen where this research was leading. Should have seen the purpose for the drug I was developing for them.”

He looked out the window for a minute, sighed, and turned back to me, a bleak expression on his face. “I didn't know, Mitch, but damn it, I should have. I realize that now.”

“What didn't you know, Sam?” I thought I could see where he was going with this, but I wanted to hear him say it. Hell, he needed to say it; this had been his problem since the beginning of our trip. Before that even. When he'd appeared at The Black Rose that night, I knew that he wasn't telling me the whole truth.

“I didn't know that the drug I developed would be used against vampires. Used against Deirdre. I never meant to harm her, never meant for any of this to happen. But it has. And it's my fault. If you want a scapegoat for the whole affair, you needn't look any further than me.”

“I'm not looking for a scapegoat, Sam. And if I were, I've got Max Hunter who'll fit the bill perfectly. The blame belongs on his doorstep, not yours.”

“Even so,” he said, looking near tears. “I poisoned Deirdre, just as surely as if I'd fired that crossbow.”

 

“H
uman? What the hell are you talking about?”

Max smiled again. “It's quite simple, Deirdre, you're becoming human.”

“Human?” I said again almost as if I didn't know the meaning of the word. Then I threw my head back and laughed. “Max, that has got to be the most ridiculous thing you've ever told me to date. It's just not possible.”

“As you say, Deirdre.” He dropped his head, but not before I caught the angry gleam in his eyes. “You accuse me of not telling you what you need to know, of not telling you what is happening. And when I do tell you, you won't believe me. How am I supposed to win at this?”

“Tell me the truth. That's all I ask.”

“And I have. You are, to the best of my knowledge, becoming human. Whether you want it now or not. If you could remember the symptoms of your sickness, you'd know I was right. Tell me if any of the following seem familiar: dizziness, wounds healing more slowly than normal, instability of body temperature with chills and fevers, extreme hunger, and vomiting after the taking of blood?”

I thought for a moment. “It's possible, I suppose, that I have had some of those symptoms in the past. But that doesn't prove anything except that I've been sick. And you admit that I was poisoned. Where's the proof it's more than that?”

“You will be the proof, Deirdre. Until we know about you for sure, this is all just conjecture.”

“And exactly how will we test this theory? Sit around and wait for my hair to go gray? Wait to see if I grow old and die?”

“I think we'll know sooner than that, my dear.” He refilled my glass. “A nightcap?”

I took the glass from him without answering. He continued his explanation of the process I was supposedly going through. “Here is how the poison works, Deirdre. It gets into your blood stream and converts that which made you a vampire into something else.”

I shook my head. “That's not possible,” I insisted for a second time. “Vampires are immune to everything.”

“Apparently not.”

“I am sorry, but I don't believe you, Max. I can't believe you.”

“And what do you believe?”

Looking down at the glass I held, I noticed my hand shaking and willed it to be still. “I believe that this vile drink you've been pushing on me ever since I woke”—I tossed the glass across the room—“is the very thing that keeps me sick. I believe that if I hadn't drunk it, my memories would be returning. And my body would return to normal.”

“You may choose to believe what you believe, Deirdre. It doesn't change a thing.”

“Even so. I won't drink it.”

Max looked angry, then shrugged and gave a short laugh. “Suit yourself.”

“Damn straight, I will. I'm going to my room now, I want to be alone.”

 

I spent most of the next day watching some of the collection of movies displayed on the bookshelves. They were all vampire movies, and, with the exception of one comedy, none of them seemed even vaguely familiar. And there was really only one particular scene in that movie that caught my attention. When the count (why did it always have to be a count?) gave his lady love the necklace, I remembered the line before he said it. “It's a creature of the night,” I said with him, including the little flip of my hand. “It flies.” Smiling, I saw the face of that blond woman again. We were laughing together over this very film. Tonight, I decided, I will ask Max who she is. He always said he was dedicated to the recovery of my memory, but never really seemed to want me to remember anything except what he told me.

And I would get him to take me out. I needed to see the night sky, needed to walk the streets. I'd always been slightly claustrophobic and the days and nights spent caged up in this tiny room hadn't helped one bit.

The sound of the key in the lock interrupted my planning. Max stood there, a glass of that infernal liquid in his hand. I'd made up my mind the previous night to not ingest Max's tonic, but stretched out my hand out to take it from him anyway. He seemed surprised but delighted when I seemed to take a sip without his encouragement. “That's better, Deirdre, you're not going to fight me anymore on this, are you?”

I smiled up at him over the glass. “No, Max, I'll be good. But,” and I pulled at the skirt of my silk nightgown, “I'd like to get dressed tonight. And go out.” He began to say something, a protest no doubt, but I interrupted him. “Not just to the club, but out. On the streets. I need to see the night. And I won't take no for an answer; you may consider it positive reinforcement for my actions.” I punctuated the words by putting the glass to my lips again.

“Of course, my dear. But please allow me to accompany you.”

Barely letting the liquid touch my tongue, I tilted the glass and took another “sip.” Nodding, I then set the glass down on the nightstand. “Fine,” I said, “but go away for a bit and let me get dressed.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You aren't fooling me, Deirdre. Drink it, now, or you won't get out of this room. Look around you, there's no place in here to dump it anyway.”

I didn't say a word. There was no need to; he was right. Max came over and sat next to me on the narrow bed. “Why do you fight me, little one? I'm only doing this for you, for your health and your full recovery. The changes you are undergoing are difficult, but you'll come through them just fine, provided you do what I tell you to. You'll see.”

“And then?”

“And then you can begin living the life you were meant to live—the one I took away from you over a century ago. Isn't that what you always wanted?”

I put my head into my hands for a minute then looked up at him and sighed. Maybe everything he said was true. “Hell, Max, how would I know?” Picking up the glass again, I choked down the bitter stuff, thinking all the while that I would find a way to vomit it up before we left the club.

He stood up, gave my shoulders a quick rub, and took the empty glass from my hand. “Get dressed,” he said, “I'll wait in my office for you.”

I slipped into the clothes I had worn last night, since they were all I had, and opened the door. “I need to go shopping, Max, I can't continue to wear the same outfit night after night.”

He smiled. “See, you are feeling better already. Shopping it is.”

As we passed the ladies' room, I touched his arm. “I'd like to put on a little makeup, if you don't mind. And, while we're at it, we need to add that to the list.”

“Deirdre, you're beautiful to me, just the way you are.”

“Thank you, Max. What a sweet thought. But this isn't for you, it's for me.”

I walked into the restroom right behind a few early bird club goers. At least they would forestall Max's following me. Entering one of the stalls, I quickly knelt on the floor. Try as I might, though, I couldn't get rid of the offending liquid. I only had a small amount of time, I knew, before Max would come looking for me. There was only way sure way I knew to make myself vomit, I rolled up my sleeve and bit down hard on my own wrist, causing a quick splash of blood to enter my mouth. I swallowed quickly and no sooner did it hit my system than it came right back, bringing with it the drink Max had forced on me. Standing up, I felt dizzy, but that passed and I went to the sink and splashed water on my face. My wrist was still bleeding slightly, but I held it under the cold water for a minute. Then I quickly applied the makeup, just a little rouge and some mascara for my eyelashes.

Max looked impatient when I came out. “I was just about to come in after you,” he said. “What took you so long?”

I laughed, relieved that the offending liquid was out of my stomach. “That's a question one should never ask a lady, Max. It takes as long as it takes. But I feel better now, let's go.”

 

I discovered that I knew more about clothing and the construction of clothing than I'd have thought. The act of turning a piece inside out to inspect the stitching seemed to be second nature. And there was something so terribly familiar about the rows of garments and the smell of new cloth. I found myself rejecting items as having shoddy workmanship simply by a glance at the label, almost as if I'd known the designer, as if I'd known what they were capable of. Fortunately, this shop was a high-end boutique and the selection was good, so I didn't reject many things.

Max proved more patient than I would have expected possible. And more generous. I knew he was wealthy, but I expected protests on some of the more expensive items I purchased. Instead, he smiled indulgently, complimented me continuously, and carried the bags—the very picture of a devoted husband. And somehow all of that just made me angrier; he couldn't be my husband. It made no sense that I'd feel the way I did if he were. Finally, when it looked like he could carry no more, I stopped. “Done?” he questioned, checking his watch.

“Yes, I suppose so. But I don't want to go back yet. Could we stop somewhere for a drink or coffee or something?”

He nodded. “Not a problem, little one.” He took out his cell phone from his coat pocket and began to dial. “Let me give Derek a call and he can come over and take the packages back for us. Then we can do whatever else you'd like, if you're not too tired.”

The truth was I was tired and feeling weak and more than a bit queasy, but I'd have rather died than admit that to him. The only way to get him off guard and relaxed enough so that I could get away was to pretend to be better. And so I laughed. “Actually, Max, I could shop all night. It's been so long since I've had pretty clothes.”

“Has it?” He shrugged. “You're always pretty to me. And besides, you were the one who ran off, taking practically everything you owned with you. Ah, yes,” he said speaking into the phone now, “Derek, we're over at Slivers of Life, grab a taxi and come get our packages, will you? Mrs. Hunter and I will be going out for a while.”

He folded up the phone and tucked it back into his pocket. “Shouldn't take him too long to get here, I'd think. Is there anything else you'd like while we're waiting?”

While he'd been talking I'd been examining a display of vinyl totes. “One of these, maybe.” They were cheap little bags, at an outrageous boutique price, but they seemed to be well constructed, with a strong seam at the base and a zipper with which to close it. More important, they were the perfect size for holding a glassful of liquid one might not want to drink. I smiled. “Yes, these are nice, I'd like one of these. The red vinyl one, I think.”

Max shrugged again. “I'm not sure why you'd want it, but if you do, it's yours.” He took the bag from me with a smile and handed it and my other purchases to the salesclerk, who'd been hovering over us. “Anything else?”

“No, I think that'll do me. For now.”

He laughed and turned to the clerk. “Ring all of this up.”

“Cash or charge?”

He raised an eyebrow at the total on the register and reached into his pocket for his wallet. “Charge. Definitely. Even I'm not foolhardy enough to carry that much cash with me.”

The salesclerk gave a simpering giggle as she accepted the card he handed her. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”

As he signed the bill, he turned to me and smiled. “I hadn't expected that we'd buy quite this much.”

I bit back an apology. If he was my husband, he was used to my extravagances. This shopping spree seemed too natural for it not to have occurred, with or without him, many times in my past.

The door opened, and Derek walked in, looked at the packages and whistled appreciatively. “A little shopping, eh?” he said, giving me a wink. “Nice to see you're feeling more like yourself, Mrs. Hunter. Is this all of it then?”

“Yes, thank you, Derek. We'll be back at some point in the evening. You have my number if there's an emergency. Other than that”—Max put an arm around my shoulders and hugged me to him briefly, guiding me to the door—“I don't want to be disturbed. Deirdre and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

We walked aimlessly for a while, my arm tucked into his elbow. The air had an autumnal chill and when the wind blew it was downright cold. I shivered and my teeth chattered.

“Cold?” Max asked. “We can go back, if you want.”

“No, not at all.” Cold or not, I was enjoying being out in the open air, surrounded by the bustle of the city. I'd missed this place, I realized then, even without remembering it. And, I glanced up at Max and smiled, I'd missed him. Maybe he was telling me the truth. Now that I didn't feel like I was being held his prisoner, I could acknowledge that I almost loved this man. Something in me responded to him, I certainly felt completely comfortable in his presence. “But if you want to get a cup of something hot, I won't argue.”

We crossed the street and arrived at a small diner, nothing upscale, I noted, but clean and presentable. “Here?”

“This is fine, Max.”

The hostess sat us in a corner booth. “Coffee?” she asked, setting two mugs in front of us.

Max looked over at me.

“Coffee would be great,” I said as she handed each of us a menu.

“Your waitress should be over in just a minute. Enjoy.”

Opening the menu, I glanced over their offerings. I couldn't eat any of it, but there was something comforting about the thought of a slice of warm apple pie. “Are you getting anything?”

Max shook his head. “I'm not particularly hungry, my love, but you get something if you want.”