Hunger (25 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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“Why would you help? Isn't that against your code or laws or something?”
“I have no code or laws for dealing with others. I've never met anyone like me. But I want this one.”
“Why?”
“Because, if he is the one who changed me, I want him dead. If not, I would like to ask him some questions. You see, I was changed into what I am by accident, I believe. I had no one to guide me, no one to teach me what I needed to know to survive. Somehow, I blundered through and lived.”
“How long?” He looked at me sadly for a minute. “How old are you?”
“I was born in 1832, changed in 1860. I've stayed the same since.”
He laughed. “You're over a hundred years old? I can believe a lot of things, but not that.”
“Truly, Mitch.” I walked into the bedroom, and retrieved Larry's scrapbook from the closet where it had been hidden. I came back and handed the book to Mitch. “My life story, or almost, as compiled by Larry Martin.”
His hands shook as he took it from me. I poured myself another cup of coffee and watched him read. There were no sounds in the room but the rustle of slowly turned pages.
When he had finished, he looked over at me with regret in his eyes. “You haven't had it easy, have you? All that moving about, for fear of discovery. All the things you've seen, war, poverty, the deaths of people you've known.”
“Living forever is not exactly what it is cracked up to be. But short of taking a long walk in the sunlight, there's not much I can do about it.”
He rifled through the pages again, pausing with the book open to the photograph on page one. “Where did you get this?”
“The night that Gwen died, I left your place and broke into Larry's apartment.”
“But it was under surveillance. No one saw you go in.”
“Of course they didn't. I climbed up the back wall and went in a window.” I smiled at his expression.
“But there's no way in, in the back. The fire escapes are on the sides of that building.”
“I know. I climbed the back wall.”
“Oh, I didn't think you could do that.”
I laughed. “Actually, it was the very first time I had ever tried. It was amazingly simple. Larry wasn't there, but you know that. I found the book, borrowed some of his private stock, and left.”
He nodded, putting the missing pieces in place. “We found the other blood and your note. But we didn't know who it was from. We couldn't figure that one out, or how the lock on his door got broken. I guess you did that, too.”
I nodded.
“But there were no prints.”
“I have been dating a detective, remember? I wore gloves.”
“Oh, of course, you'd been printed that night.” He stared at me for a second. “And you knew he had killed Gwen, but still you went to meet him. Obviously, he knew what you were and he came prepared to kill you. I still don't understand why you didn't let me help you.”
“Be reasonable, Mitch. I didn't want you to find out about me; he would have told you then and there and been happy to do it. And I really thought I could handle him. But he surprised me; he was much stronger than I would have thought.”
“And the marks on his neck?”
“The bite marks are mine.” I said it softly, but he shuddered anyway. “Larry wanted me to transform him. I finally managed to convince him to let me close enough to him so that I could take his blood.” Mitch's face paled and I continued quickly. “You see, when I take blood, I'm able to plant suggestions. I hoped to take enough to weaken him, and then wipe away any remembrance of me and what I am. After that was accomplished I planned to let him go; you would have caught him eventually and my secrets would have been safe.”
“What went wrong?”
“Everything went wrong that night.” My voice lowered. “I discovered that I was not as invincible as I thought. It was a sobering experience.”
He sat and thought for a while. Then he got up and poured himself another cup of coffee and took a danish. “Want one?” he said, holding out the plate.
“Not really, Mitch. You forget that I don't need to take food. In most cases, I can't even swallow it.”
“Oh, yeah. It's easy to forget.” He looked at me sheepishly. “I just can't think of you as what you are; I guess I should be frightened or horrified. And I am, a bit. But mostly, I feel sorry for you. Does that make any sense at all?”
“Perfect sense, to me. I'm still the same person I was yesterday and you and I are bonded together, to some degree.”
A sudden flare of anger entered his eyes. “You mean you can control me, control my feelings?”
“No, Mitch.” I walked over and took his hand in mine. “I don't control you, nor would I want to. I'm not sure that I could; you're very strong in your own right. And I haven't taken your blood.”
His free hand went to his neck in a protective, involuntary gesture. He dropped it with an embarrassed look when he realized what he had done. Averting his eyes, as if in the presence of some perversion, he asked softly, “Why didn't you take any blood? Don't you have to?”
“Not always.” I smiled reassuringly at him. “And I wouldn't take yours. But that first time we made love, well, do you remember the bruise on my shoulder?”
“Yeah,” the realization of the situation dawned in his eyes, “at first it wasn't there. I knew it wasn't. And then it went away much too fast.”
“Exactly, and now you know why. I did that to myself. For so long, the taking of blood has been the only intimacy I've had, the only one I thought I needed. I can't fully explain the feelings I get when I'm feeding; there's the survival factor, the needs satisfied, but there is also a union with my victims, however unwilling they may be. There is a sexuality apart from sex, a power and a fulfillment . . .” I broke off as he dropped my hand and gave a shudder of distaste. “But you're different.” A note of pleading entered my voice. “You touch a part of me that has been repressed for over twenty years. I couldn't sully that experience by taking your blood. So I turned my head, and drew my own.”
“And the other times?”
“I fought the urge. I don't want to hurt you, Mitch. For what it's worth, I love you. So you're in no danger from me in that respect.”
He left my side, went over to the window and peeled back the drapes slightly to look outside. Although I was out of reach of the sunlight, I instinctively jumped back. Lost in his own thoughts, Mitch took no notice and went on, quietly as if to himself. “Shit, I really can pick them, can't I? The first woman I've allowed myself to love for years and she turns out to be a . . .” His voice broke and he turned back to me with an odd pleading look in his eyes.
“You can say it, Mitch. I don't care much for the word myself, but in this case it is appropriate. And you have used it before.”
“But not about you. And not for real. I don't want to say it. Jesus, I don't even want to believe it. Right now I need to get out of here, away from you. I've got a lot of thinking to do.” He walked to the door.
I found I could not move toward him. “Mitch,” I said in a soft, choked voice.
His name stopped him and he turned to me. Quickly he gathered me in his arms and held me.
“I'm so sorry,” I whispered.
“So am I, Deirdre.” He kissed me gently and held my face between his hands. “I'll be back,” he promised and walked out into the hall.
I stood against the door after he left, until I heard the elevator close and start its journey downward. Then, bearing the weight of many years, I locked the door and went into the bedroom.
Chapter 20
I
slept fitfully that day, and when the phone finally woke me at three, I got up to answer it, expecting that it would be Mitch. I was disappointed to hear my attorney's voice, but he had good news for me.
“I've got a buyer.”
“So soon? You sure didn't waste any time, Fred.”
There was a pause on the end of the line. “But you said you wanted it over quickly.”
“I did. I just didn't think it would happen so soon. That's great.” I tried to put enthusiasm into my voice and failed.
“The deal isn't final yet, of course, so you could still change your mind.”
“No, I won't change my mind. Tell me about it.”
He talked for some time, going into details that were not terribly important to me; I only half-listened to him, thinking instead of the conversation Mitch and I'd had that morning. He had taken it better than I thought he would, and that confused me somewhat. Maybe I had underestimated his grasp of the situation or the depth of his feeling for me. Could it be possible that he would still wish to continue our relationship, knowing what he did about me? And even at that, how long could either one of us expect it to last? I sighed and Fred was startled.
“Deirdre?”
“Hmmm?”
“You aren't even listening, are you? If you're so uninterested, why did you ask me to call you?”
“I am sorry, Fred, please continue.”
“They'd like to meet over lunch, tomorrow. Can you fit that into your schedule?”
“No, lunch is out of the question. What about dinner, tonight?”
“Tonight? Jesus, Deirdre, you don't know what you're asking. It'll take us at least another four hours to get the contracts reviewed and typed. I work fast, but not that fast.”
“Did they meet my two conditions?”
“You weren't listening—I knew it! Yes, they met your conditions and upped them a bit. They're very interested.”
“Then get it ready for tonight. We can eat late, say around nine or nine-thirty. The office is still closed today; tomorrow when I go in I want to inform the staff of what's been done. After everything else, I don't want an office full of hysterical women, worried over the rumors of a sale. You know how fast this kind of situation gets broadcast on the gossip mill. Can you handle it?”
“Well,” he thought for a moment, “if I take everyone off what they're doing now, yes, we can probably make it.”
“Great, arrange for whatever bonuses you think are necessary. And make reservations for us at The Imperial. I'll cover the bill.”
“Fine with me,” he said. There was a trace of a smile in his voice now.
“And bring your wife. That should make up for all the long hours I force you to work.”
“I should hope so. Well, I'd better go. Are you sure you don't want to go over the details again?”
“No, I trust you. If you say it is a good deal, I can believe it. Oh and Fred?”
“Yeah?”
“Reserve an extra seat for dinner. I might want to bring a guest.”
“You, a guest? I can't wait. You really are full of surprises these days, Deirdre. See you tonight.”
I laughed to myself when I hung up the phone. Poor Fred. I guess I had given him a harder job than I should have, but I wanted that portion of my life ended as quickly as possible. There was really no sense in continuing; I didn't need the money or the hassle at this point. I felt a sudden lightening of my mood. The worst was over, things could only improve. Mitch had been told the truth, I could look him in the eyes with no dishonesty or lies. I had faced off someone who wanted me dead, and had lived through the attempt. My time would be my own again, to use any way I wished. When the other was found and dealt with, I was free to begin an entirely new life, or stay in the old for a while. That decision would depend on Mitch.
I rang the police station and found him at his desk.
“Greer speaking.” His voice sounded hurried and distracted.
“Mitch, I'm sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you would be free tonight for dinner. The Imperial at nine?”
“Whew,” he said, surprised at my request. “I'd better check my bank book first.”
“Don't be silly; I'm paying. It's actually a business dinner but I would like you to be there, if you can make it.” I suddenly realized that I was making a big assumption. Just because he didn't rant or rave this morning or attempt to kill me straight out didn't mean that he would want to see me again, ever. “I mean,” and my voice was soft, less confident now, “that is, if you can stand to be with me after today.”
“Hell, Deirdre, for dinner at The Imperial I'd go out with Jack the Ripper.”
“That is not very funny, Mitch. If you don't want to go just say so.”
He gave a small chuckle. “My, aren't we touchy today? Of course, I'll be there. Should I rent another tux?”
“That's up to you. And thank you.”
“No, thank you. How could I turn down an offer like this?”
“No, you know what I mean. You've taken everything well.”
His voice changed, soured slightly. “What choice do I have? And when do you want me to pick you up?”
“Why don't you just meet me there? I'll take a cab.”
“Fine, see you at nine.”
 
After a leisurely shower, I stood in front of my closet and tried to decide what to wear. Had my choices been limited, the choosing would have been easier. As it was, the rod was crowded with clothes for all occasions. Some were dismissed as too casual, others were too formal, or had been worn before at some other fashion industry function. Finally, I was down to ten dresses that would be appropriate. Of these, eight were black. “Deirdre,” I said to myself, “you have allowed yourself to get into a rut,” and eliminated all but the remaining two. One was red; too blatant, I decided. But I hesitated over the last one. It was velvet in the same deep forest green color I had chosen to wear for Mitch the night he had shown up three hours too late. Maybe it was a bad omen. Then again, it was a color I had always loved—it had been the color that my husband had always wanted me to wear.
I pulled it from the closet, removing its protective bag and laying it on the bed. It had been packed away with a sachet and the scent had remained fresh. Holding the fabric to my face, I sniffed deeply.
Lily of the valley—it had been my mother's favorite flower. And although she had died while I was very young, I still associated it with her. My father had tended her garden beds religiously until the day he died, keeping the roses, azaleas and lilac bushes pruned and proper, but this flower he allowed a free growth and it flourished. On a warm day in May its odor would permeate the yard and the house. Somehow it seemed appropriate to meet Mitch this evening wrapped in the fragrance that was, to me, the scent of love and a symbol of loyalty and faithfulness.
When my makeup and hair were complete, I slipped the dress over my head and struggled with the zipper. Then I smoothed the skirt over my legs and stood in front of the mirror. With a shock, I realized that this dress was similar to the one I had designed for Gwen's wedding—it fell off the shoulders, had a rounded bodice and pulled to the back in a small bustle. But unlike Gwen's, this dress was unadorned, with no pearls or lace, allowing the elegance of the fabric to speak for itself. I wore no jewelry, except for a small pair of emerald stud earrings and had inserted the contact lenses that matched the color of the dress.
After one final check on my appearance, I worried for a second about the ironies of fate that had caused me to clothe myself in remembered deaths, but shrugged it off and collected my cloak.
I was early in arriving at the restaurant, two hours early the maitre'd informed me with an apologetic smile.
“I am very sorry, Miss Griffin, but Mr. Carlson made the reservation for ten. I hope you will not be too inconvenienced.”
“Not at all. May I wait in the bar?”
“Certainly.”
I removed my cloak and gloves; he took them from me.
“I will check these for you if I may.”
“Thank you.” I reached in my purse and gave him a tip. “I'm expecting a Mr. Greer around nine; please see that he finds his way to me.”
He nodded and I crossed the hall and entered the bar. It was brightly lit and elegantly decorated as one would expect from a restaurant of its class. But for all of that, I felt out of place and disoriented. I had spent too many nights at the Ballroom, in its comfortable darkness and ambience, to view this place as anything more than an overpriced waiting room. Still, I thought to myself with a smile, as I claimed a table from a couple leaving for their dinner, at least here I did not have to contend with sneering bartenders and overbearing owners.
The service was good, the wine list better, and soon I was securely ensconced with a bottle of burgundy of excellent vintage. After admiring the color and taking my first sip, I began to reevaluate my opinion of The Imperial. Perhaps I should begin to branch out and bring some of my business here. Of course, I wouldn't receive quite the same personal service that the Ballroom offered and would have to make contact with victims on my own. That would not be a bad thing, I thought, looking around curiously at some of the men lounging at the tables and bar. They were young and healthy and could provide amply for my needs. As I continued to glance at the prospects for future reference, I felt my mouth curve in what must have seemed a devilish smile.
Quite accidentally, my eyes made contact with an older-seeming man standing at the edge of the bar. He intercepted my smile with one of his own, and I looked down at my wine in embarrassment. You'll have to be more subtle than that, I chided myself, if you want to succeed at this game. I was severely out of practice. To further my disadvantaged feeling, when I looked back up again, he was standing at my table, smiling down at me.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice betraying a slight Germanic accent, “you are Deirdre Griffin, are you not?”
“Yes.” I did not return his smile, but gave him an assessing stare. I couldn't remember ever having met him before, although it was possible that he was a former victim. I'd had many. That thought was distressing; if I had fed off this man and could not recognize him now, I had stayed in this city too long. “Do I know you?”
“No, may I join you?” Despite the coldness of my greeting, his smile did not subside.
“Actually, someone is meeting me.”
“But in the meantime, a lovely lady like you should not be drinking alone.” He reached over and lifted the bottle of wine, reading the label. “An excellent choice, and one of my favorites. Perhaps I should have the waiter bring another glass.”
I gave him my sternest look. “Look, I hate to be rude, but I don't know you. And I am not generally in the habit of . . .”
“But of course you are not,” he smoothly interrupted me. “And I am afraid that I have been having a little joke on you. You see, we have a mutual friend. He has had the bad manners of never introducing us, so I thought that I might rectify his mistake. I am Victor Lange.”
“And our mutual friend?”
“Max Hunter.”
At the mention of the name, I relaxed but smiled in resignation. And I thought I would be avoiding his manipulation tonight. I gestured to the chair. “Please sit down, Mr. Lange.”
“Victor, please.”
As he sat the waiter came over with an empty wine glass. I was surprised at the fast service and said so.
“You must come here often. I think that waiter just read your mind.”
Victor threw his head back and laughed. “Miss Griffin, you really should step out of that dive that Max runs and take in the rest of the world. Yes, I do come here often, as you say. I own the place.”
“Oh.” I took a drink of wine to cover my chagrin.
“But you mustn't be embarrassed. I am afraid that I did rather mislead you. Did you think I was trying to pick you up?”
“No.” I looked at him again and smiled. “Well, yes, I did. I am sorry to have misunderstood.”
He nodded sympathetically. “It is quite understandable. It must happen to you often.”
I shrugged and finished my wine. He filled the glass for me, drained his and then stood up abruptly. “I believe this must be the gentleman you are waiting for. What will he want to drink?”
I looked up and saw the scowl on Mitch's face as he came toward us. “Scotch, on the rocks, I'm afraid.”
Victor said a polite good evening to me, nodded to Mitch as he arrived at the table and left. I stood up and gave Mitch a small kiss on the cheek.
We both sat down again, and the waiter brought the scotch. “How did you know I would want this?” he asked, taking a sip.

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