Hunger (36 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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“Max.” I whispered the name at first, then said it louder. There was no response. I took a drink of my wine and walked across the room to sit on the couch. “Dammit, Max, just like always. When I don't want to see you, you come around, and when I would like to talk, you're unavailable. It seems to me you're even less reliable dead than alive.”
I set my glass on the table, kicked off my shoes, and lay down on the white leather sofa, staring at the ceiling. Unexpectedly, I began to cry, my sobs quiet, absorbed by the dark, lonely walls. I cried for myself, for Mitch, for all those I had loved now dead, and I cried for Max.
When I finished, I curled up into a ball and slept.
 
A soft moaning in the corner wakes me. Rising from the couch, I go to him, but it is too late. Mitch is dead, his face stretched in pain, gaunt and aged, his skin white and bloodless. The fang marks on his neck are mine.
“Deirdre.” Max's voice causes the fine hairs on the back of my neck and arms to rise. I make no movement, but stand with my back to him, trembling.
“Deirdre.” The name is a command; I am his, I always was. I turn around.
“You are dead, Max,” I say, and look upon him. The flesh on his bones is shredded, rotting and decayed. His finely sculptured face is now nothing more than a skull, but the mouth opens and talks.
“Deirdre, come to me. I am not dead.”
I move forward one timid step. “Not dead?” I see the stake piercing his rib cage, see the wood of the door behind him splintered with the impact of the killing blow. “No.” I cannot deny the evidence of my eyes. “You are dead.”
“Not dead, my love, for you still live and I am with you.” One skeletal hand grips the implement of his death, but the other beckons. “Come to me.”
My legs walk toward him, my body obeys him. But my mind is screaming, I am screaming.
His arm grips my shoulder and pulls me to him, the opposite end of the stake is positioned over my heart. The point penetrates my flesh, breaking the bones, the ribs, and finding its rest deep within my chest.
“Peace,” he whispers as he holds me close, lovingly. “Peace and death.”
There is not peace for me, no death; there is only the unavoidable pain and the sound of my voice, shrill and sharp, screaming.
“You are dead.”
Chapter 7
“D
eirdre?”
Disoriented, and feeling drugged, I sat up from the couch and saw the figure of a man outlined in the doorway.
“Max?” I whispered the name.
“I think you were having a bad dream.” The voice was reassuring and I relaxed. “Close your eyes and I'll turn the lights on.”
When I opened them again, Victor Lange stood there, smiling at me. “They told me out front that you were here. Did I disturb you?”
Standing, I smoothed my clothes. “No, actually I am very happy to see you. I was having a nightmare.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I met his eyes briefly, then turned away. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh,” he said casually, walking around to the desk and setting his briefcase down on the top of it. “I stop by from time to time to check over the accounts. I trust you have no objections.”
“Objections? Why would I object?”
Victor looked at me with amusement; he turned the latches on his case and the lid sprung open. “Because you own the Ballroom now. Or at least you will when the papers are signed.”
“I own the Ballroom.” It took a moment for the fact to sink in, then I laughed, a sharp, scornful laugh directed at no one but myself.
“Do you mind if I ask why you find it funny?” Victor's voice had lost its pleasant tone, acquiring instead an angry, resentful edge, as if I were laughing at him.
“Honestly, Victor”—I choked back the rest of my merriment—“it is nothing you said. It is just that, well”—I thought for a minute, then continued—“the entire situation seems ludicrous to me. That Max should leave me the club, and that this room, a room I never wished to see again, along with everything else he owned, belongs to me. That the employees here, most of whom treated me as if I were a leper, should now be employed by me. And that, somehow through his death, Max found a way to bind me to him forever.” That final word wavered in the air. Suddenly, I did not want to laugh.
Victor gave me an odd glance, then proceeded to shuffle through his briefcase. After he had gone through the entire stack of papers he shook his head and looked back at me. “I'm sorry,” he said with a gesture toward the desk, “but I don't seem to have the necessary papers here for you to read. Perhaps you would let me give you the gist of his will. There's no intent to bind you in any way; there are, in fact, certain provisions should you not wish to accept his possessions. But before we discuss that, I'd like to clear up one misunderstanding. Max left you everything for one simple reason: He wanted to take care of you.”
I made a small sound, a derisive chuckle.
He came out from around the desk and, standing in front of me, gently clasped my chin in his hand and moved my head up to meet his gaze. “Max loved you more than anything in the world.” Victor's eyes seemed for a second to glaze over with pain and sadness. Then they cleared and he smiled. “You should be flattered and comforted to know that he chose you. That above all others, he chose you to receive his legacy.”
I pulled away from him, uncomfortable with his direct stare. Walking over to the table, I picked up my half-filled glass and drained it. I did not like the thoughts of any of this. Max's legacy to me was nothing more than an infinity of loneliness and estrangement. It could not be sweetened by material things; love could ease it, but that seemed something I would never achieve. When I spoke again my voice was small and tight. “And if I do not want his legacy?”
“As I said, there are provisions. His estate was to be held for you for twenty-five years after his death. Had you not turned up by then, all of his assets would have been transferred to an organization know as The Cadre. The same is true if you refuse. But I urge you to consider this carefully; you'll be turning your back on an enormous fortune. Something that could support you quite luxuriously for centuries.”
“Centuries?” I gave a nervous laugh. “That would be fine, if I could only live that long.”
“Ah”—Victor smiled—“just a figure of speech, you understand. I merely wish to impress upon you the vastness of his wealth.”
“Oh.”
Victor walked over to the window and pulled the drapes aside, looking out. “We'll have snow later on tonight,” he remarked flatly, then turned back to me. “And although I know that you're a night owl, I'm afraid that it's getting a little late for me. Can we make arrangements to meet tomorrow, or the next day? I'll bring the papers and you can review them at your leisure.”
“That would be fine,” I said, cautiously studying his movements. It bothered me that he seemed to know more about me than he should, but it was obvious that he had been a close friend of Max's. And despite his many flaws, Max had never once risked the exposure of what I was. “Trust him,” the voice in my head whispered, and I complied. “When would you like to meet again?”
“Here, tomorrow night, say around eleven. I still have The Imperial to run, you know.”
He went to the desk and retrieved his briefcase. “May I escort you somewhere?”
I nodded and walked with him out of the office. When we reached the door to the bar, I turned to him and disengaged my arm from his. “Actually, Victor, I think I would like to stay here for a while, in the club. I could use another glass of wine and some company.”
“I'm sure you could.” We went into the bar, and he took my hand. “Good night, then, till tomorrow.”
 
Although I had told Victor I desired company, it was not really true. Being present in a crowd of humans was enough for me. But as I started my fourth glass of wine, a man stopped at my table. I looked up at him, taking in his expensive suit, manicured hands, his unnaturally even teeth exposed in a seductive smile.
“Hi.” For an opening statement, it was unimpressive.
“Hello.” I tried to be cordial, but resented his intrusion on my thoughts.
“Are you Deirdre?” At my nod, he pulled up a chair and sat down. “Fred sent me over, said you might like to meet me.”
“Fred?”
“You know, the bartender.”
I looked over to the bar and the man I had recognized waved at me with a knowing look. “Oh, Fred.” I gave a small, sardonic smile; he was trying to make up for his past rudeness now that I was his boss. So much for the lack of ulterior motives.
I shrugged and looked the man over again. Fred must have learned a lot from watching Max arrange my meetings; he certainly had a feel for the kind of man I preferred. And although I should not have been hungry, my appetite awakened instinctively. Maybe I should give Fred a raise, I thought, and smiled at the man again, this time warm and welcoming.
“Did he happen to say why I might want to meet you?” The question was abrupt, but my voice was low and husky and he took no offense.
“No, just that you're new in town and seemed lonely.”
“Make that newly back in town, and you would be right. And lonely? Well, you are here now, so how could I be lonely?” I wet my lips and crossed my legs under the table, lightly brushing his leg with my foot. “Would you like to dance?”
 
His name was Ron Wilkes, an attorney with an elegant condominium in the best part of town, a wonderful stock of wine, and an enormous round bed complete with red satin sheets. After we spent an hour consuming two bottles of his best Merlot, he seemed extremely drunk. I feared that he might pass out before he got around to seducing me, but he eventually led me to his bed.
When it was all over, I lay on my back, his head nestled on my shoulder and his arm heavy on my stomach. I wiped my mouth and stared at the mirrored ceiling, trying not to recall how long it had been since I had made love to a man who was not drunk, trying not to recall who that man was. It did no good. Mitch's face was etched on my memory, his body permanently bonded to mine. I sighed and Ron stirred briefly.
“Deirdre,” he murmured, and reached his hand up brushing against my nipple.
“Ron, I have to go now.” I shifted away from him, but he pulled me back.
“Don't go just yet.” He was still strong, still aware—I had taken only a small amount of blood, more a token than a meal—and he was not as drunk as I had thought. Pushing himself up on one elbow, Ron gave me a sleepy smile. “That was wonderful.”
Looking up at his face, I felt a strong surge of guilt. Coming here with Ron had been a purely instinctual reaction. I had not needed his blood, had not needed to feed. It had been unfair of me to use him this way; he had not deserved it. His only mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And my mistake was in not taking enough from him to leave him open to my suggestions. I decided that I would have to bluff my way out of this one.
“Yes,” I agreed languidly, stroking his hair, working my way down to the small mark at the base of his neck. He flinched slightly and I gave a nervous laugh. “But I am afraid you'll have to keep your shirts buttoned for the next week or two. I got a little carried away.”
He fingered his neck delicately and gave me a searching look. “You bit me?”
“Yes.” I could see the blush creep over me through the mirror.
“I thought so.” I tensed at his words, but there was no fear or alarm on his face, just a satisfied smile. He plumped one of the pillows, rolled over, and sat up, drawing the sheet over us both. “Actually, it was a unique feeling. Very erotic. And well worth it.”
I laughed, relieved. “I'm glad you think so.”
“Would you like to do it again?”
I found his blasé attitude rather shocking. “What, bite you?”
“Among other things, yeah.”
I sat up and threw back the sheet. “Some other night, Ron. I really do need to leave.”
“Okay. Can I call you?”
Gathering my clothes, I shook my head and began to get dressed. “I'm staying with a friend right now, and I forget the number. But I have your card; I'll call you.”
“That'd be great.” He got out of bed and went for his clothes. “Let me drive you home.”
I zipped my jeans and smoothed the sweater down over my hips. “No, it's late and you need your sleep. I'll take a cab.”
“If that's what you want.” He came over and gave me a small hug and a kiss on the forehead. Then, with his arm still around me, he walked me to the door. “See you soon, huh?”
 
Victor's weather prediction was correct. The streets were slick and the sidewalks lightly dusted with newly fallen snow. By the time I reached the brownstone in which Mitch lived, my cloak was almost completely white, and, since I had no body head to melt it off, practically frozen stiff. I hung it over the shower in the bathroom and pulled a chair up to the window, watching the snow until the sky began to lighten. Then I pulled the drapes closed and crawled into Mitch's bed.
My deep, dreamless sleep was interrupted shortly after three the next afternoon by the insistent ringing of the phone. I ignored it at first, but still it kept ringing. Finally I dragged myself from the bed and answered.
“Deirdre, did I wake you?”
My pulse jumped at the sound of his voice.
“Mitch.” I whispered the name, fearing that it might not be him.
“Hi.”
I smiled, thinking how he always paused in conversation, collecting his thoughts and choosing the words carefully. I waited and he continued. “Look, I'm, well, I'm really sorry about last night. I don't quite understand what happened, what could make me do that to you. I barely even remember it, except that they're all talking about it here.”
“I'm sure they are.” A trace of amusement crept into my voice and I laughed, rubbing my jaw in remembrance. “It was quite a greeting, Mitch.”
“Yeah.” He paused again and I closed my eyes, imagining him, not as I saw him last night, but as he was before. I could almost see him run his fingers through his hair in a tired gesture, almost see the glint in his blue eyes. “They said I knocked you flat. Are you okay?”
“I'm fine, Mitch, not that it much matters. But how are you?”
“I don't know. I feel normal, I guess. They tell me I've been here for over a year, and that seems right. I can remember most of what went on, but almost as if it were a dream, or something that happened to someone else. And when I woke up this morning I barely knew where I was. The whole thing is so strange.”
“We need to talk about this, Mitch. You must try to remember what happened to you so that we can fight it, so that it won't happen again. Can you arrange some privacy for us this evening? This isn't the sort of thing we want to discuss in the presence of your doctors.”
“Well . . .” His voice was evasive, uncertain. “I'm not sure that they'll leave us alone. I think they're afraid I might hit you again. But come anyway, come as soon as you can.” There was a pleading in his voice that twisted my heart.

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