Hunger (48 page)
Authors: Karen E. Taylor
I could only stand and look at him, no more than three feet away from me, and more than a century out of reach. And when I felt my eyes began to tear, I turned my back on him.
“Good night,” I whispered softly, and walked out into the wet darkness of the night.
Chapter 19
B
y the time I got to the Ballroom I was completely soaked. But the walk in the rain had cleared my mind, if not my sadness, and I felt prepared to face the evening. I walked through the crowd, ignoring the curious stares of the people that I passed, and stood at the bar.
y the time I got to the Ballroom I was completely soaked. But the walk in the rain had cleared my mind, if not my sadness, and I felt prepared to face the evening. I walked through the crowd, ignoring the curious stares of the people that I passed, and stood at the bar.
“Fred.”
He looked over at me and stifled a small laugh. “I guess it's still raining out, huh?”
“Yes.” I smiled back at him. “I'll be back in the office. Bring me a towel or two, will you? And get someone to relieve you here. We need to talk.”
“Sure thing.” He took off his apron and headed out the other side of the bar.
“Oh, and Fred?”
“Yeah?”
“If someone by the name of Mitchell Greer shows up or calls, I'm not here. You haven't seen me and don't know when I'll be in next. Make sure the doorman gets the message also.”
“You bet. I'll be right there.”
Fred came to the office equipped with several large towels and a clean waitress's uniform. “I thought you might want to dry out completely,” he said with a shrug, “so I brought you something to change into. Next time it rains, though, I recommend an umbrella.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Now give me a few minutes and come on back in.” Fred closed the door behind him and I pulled off my dripping clothes, dried myself, and slipped into the uniform. It was made of lightweight black nylon, and I smiled in remembrance as I fingered the flimsy material. The last time I wore a uniform similar to this was in the early sixties at a Midwest truck stop. It was there that I had met Max, for what I'd supposed to be the first time, never knowing that he had been the one responsible for my transformation almost a hundred years before.
“Dammit, Max, you should have told me who you were. I would have gone with you anywhere and stayed with you forever. But no, you had to wait until I met Mitch before letting me know what really lay between you and me. And then it was too late.”
I looked around the office uneasily, halfway expecting Max to make an appearance. Instead, there was a knock on the door and I jumped and called, “Come in.”
Fred entered, followed by a waitress I did not know, who collected my wet clothes and promised to have them dried right away. Then Fred and I sat down to discuss the business of the Ballroom. When we concluded our talk, it was only a little after eight. He had agreed to take the manager's job, as I thought he might, and I was happy to leave the club in his hands. I made it absolutely clear to him that I did not want to be involved in the day-to-day routine.
“I will, of course,” I said as we ended the interview, “be stopping by from time to time. And it is absolutely essential that you keep my favorite wine in stock. Other than that, you're on your own.”
“Great.” He beamed his delight at the situation. “This is a good opportunity for me, and I really appreciate you giving me the chance. Max never trusted anyone and”âFred shruggedâ“since he was always here, it didn't really matter anyhow.”
“Fred,” I said, thinking of the ring of Max's keys still in my purse, “he couldn't have been here all the time. He must have lived somewhere else. I have one of his keys that doesn't seem to fit any lock around here; I assume it's from his apartment.”
“Could be,” he said skeptically, “but any time of the day or night, he was here. Keeping a separate apartment would have been next to impossible. He would never've used it.”
“But he had to sleep somewhere, didn't he?”
Fred gave a wry laugh. “Max never slept. Anything else?”
“No, thank you, Fred. I'll see you later.”
Just before he closed the door, I called to him. “Oh, by the way, Ron will be coming in to see me around nine or so. Please buzz me when he gets in. Other than that, I would like not to be disturbed.”
“Gotcha,” he said with a wink, and left.
I pulled the ring of keys out of my purse. All but one was neatly labeled. There was a key for the office, the front door, the back entrance, the desk, the cellar, and a few smaller keys that were labeled “supplies.” I removed the one unlabeled key and held it in the palm of my hand, putting the rest of the ring back in my purse.
“All right, Max,” I said with a trace of humor, “you and I both know that you had to sleep sometime. And you had to have a secure place to do it.” I stared at the key as if it somehow held the answers to his past. Then I suddenly laughed. “Dammit, Deirdre,” I scolded myself, “it is absolutely amazing that you've survived for so long with so inadequate a brain.”
I got up from the desk and looked around the room. There were no heavy draperies here to conceal a hidden door such as the one that existed in my office at Griffin Designs. But it had to be here. During his life, Max had as great a need for secrecy as I still did; if he secured a safe place for himself, it would be here.
I closed my eyes and thought back to the time when Max had ruled me and this place. We were always quarreling, but he always called me back. And angry or not, I would return to him. I remembered the night I had attacked him, thinking that he had betrayed me to the police as having committed the murder of his first victim. I could feel the texture of his shirt and skin shredded beneath my nails, could still taste the blood that I licked from my fingers. He had thrown the shirt away and gotten another from the closet.
“The closet. Dammit,” I said, flinging the closet door open and inserting the key into the lock mounted on the back paneling. It fit and turned with an almost inaudible click. Cautiously, I pushed the door and peered into the room. The light from the office only dimly lit the area, and I looked around for a switch.
“Come now, Max,” I whispered into the still air, “even I appreciate the convenience of electricity.” But there were no lights here, only darkness and dust and cobwebs. I entered the room anyway and saw a small table to the right of the door equipped with a filled candelabrum and matches. I lit them and looked around.
The room was unfurnished, totally unlike the secret apartment I had maintained for years. There was a large wooden chest up against one of the walls, but the focal point was the large stand occupied by two coffins, laid out side by side. One was larger than the other and more elaborate, but there was no mistaking either's purpose.
“Oh, Max.” My laughter sounded mocking in this emptiness, and the dust, stirred by my entrance, swirled and glinted eerily in the candlelight. “How very gothic of you. But why two?”
I approached the larger one. The wooden top was thick with two years of accumulated dust, but I could make out the ornate antique carving. I brushed my hand over the gold plate and leaned down to read its inscriptionâ“Maximiliano Esteban Alverosâ1596.”
“Jesus,” I breathed softly, almost reverently. “So old.” As if of their own volition, my hands reached down and opened the casket. It was empty.
“Of course, you fool,” I sighed in relief, “did you really expect him to be here? He's dead, dead by your own hand, and buried these two years.” Even so, I studied the coffin's emptiness as if it contained the answers I sought. There was a faint aroma of Max in the roomâthe wood that had absorbed his scent for four centuries exhaled it now. Gently, I let the lid down and walked around the stand to the other coffin.
This one was newer, streamlined and modern. With shaking hands I flung the lid open. It was also empty and its aroma was one of newness. No one had ever used it. I dropped the lid, and when the dust flew from it I could make out an engraving of a single rose in the dark woodâa black rose.
“But this can't be mine.” I denied the obvious. “I never slept in one of these.” I shuddered at the thought of being enclosed here during the long summer days. But as I looked closer, there was no mistaking the name on the golden plateâ“Dorothy Greyâ1832âBeloved Wife.”
My knees weakened and I collapsed on the floor, leaning up against my own coffin, not knowing whether to cry or laugh. I did a little of both. “Jesus, Max, if it weren't so damn perverse, the gesture might be touching.” Whatever would have given him the idea that I would share his tomb with him? But as I considered the facts, I realized that there was a time when I would have done so, and willingly. Only Mitch's presence in my life had prevented that event from occurring. And Max had been responsible for our meeting.
I shook my head and pulled myself up from the floor. Everything in my life was becoming so convoluted, so bewildering, I hardly had any idea what to do. It had been a difficult situation when Max was alive, but now it was almost totally impossible.
“Quite a triangle, is it not, Max?” With one finger I idly traced the rose carving on my coffin lid. “The living, the dead, and the undeadâjust one big, happy family.”
I moved to the large chest, found it unlocked, and was assailed by a musty odor when I opened it. Within were about a dozen large leather-bound books. I picked one from the top and glanced at the front page. It was written in Max's hand, in Spanish, and was dated from the early 1600s. Rummaging deeper into the chest, I found a fairly large gold locket. The light was too dim even for me to examine it; I slipped it into the uniform's pocket to view later.
“Deirdre?” A deep, soft voice in the doorway addressed me hesitantly, expectantly.
I dropped the journal on the floor, spun around, and peered through the semi-darkness. Victor Lange stood there, the light from the office outlining his body.
“I'm sorry to disturb you, Deirdre, but Fred said you were in.”
“And so I am.”
His voice was smooth and confident, showing no surprise at the room he was entering. “I wondered how long it would take you to discover this place.”
“You knew this was here?” The voice in my head still urged me to trust him, but as he moved toward me, I backed away. “You've been here before?”
Victor respected my hesitancy and stood still. “Of course.” He smiled reassuringly. “Max invited me in, oh, around twelve years ago, to show me his new acquisition.” He gestured at the coffin with my name. “But it was his private spot; it's not as if he entertained here.”
I ignored his last comment. “Twelve years ago? That was about the time I moved here.”
“Yes.” He walked over and rubbed his hand delicately over Max's nameplate. “This is a beautiful piece of sixteenth-century workmanship, don't you think?”
“But that means you know what Max was.”
He laughed in amazement. “Of course I knew what Max was. He was a vampire. As you are also.”
“And still you were his friend?”
I stood too far away to discern the expression in his eyes. “To a man who has lived centuries, friendship is invaluable. Don't you have friends who know you for what you are and care about you regardless?”
Slowly I walked toward him, keeping the two coffins between us. “Well, yes, but we were talking about Max.”
“Was Max's loneliness, his separateness from mankind, any less acute than yours?”
“No, I suppose not.” I paused and thought. “Although Max never actually gave me any opportunity to find out. The night that I realized what he was was also the night he died.”
“Murdered,” Victor said abruptly.
“What?”
“You said the night he died; it was murder, Deirdre. You keep referring to his demise as if it were a natural occurrence, a heart attack or an accident of some sort.” He spit his vehemence at me, his anger tangible in the dust-filled air. “Never forget that Max was murdered in cold blood by some bastard cop who wasn't fit to shine his shoes. The same bastard that I understand is now out, free and easy.” Victor reached across and grabbed my wrist. “Here, Deirdre,” he whispered, “here is your chance to avenge Max. Find him and kill him before he catches up with you.”
“Kill who?” I twisted away from his grasp.
“Mitchell Greer, of course, the bastard who pinned him up against the wall, like some insect specimen.”
In the candlelight I detected a manic gleam in Victor's eyes. He frightened me, but I stood my ground. His attitude angered me; his attack on Mitch, his worship of Max, made me want to slam him up against the wall. I felt myself tense; a snarl rose up in my throat and my canines grew sharp.
“Why would I want to kill Mitch?” The words came out through my clenched teeth. “I'm afraid you don't understand the situation, Victor. And you shouldn't meddle with what you don't understand.”
“I understand that Max is dead. I understand that Greer is responsible for the snuffing out of the life of a superior being, a man with the wisdom of the centuries behind him, with the prospect of centuries of life before him.”
“But Max murdered four people, four innocent lives that he had no right to touch.”
“The right doesn't matter.” Victor's voice rose in hatred again. “He was like a god among men. Justice for him should not have been given by a human. He answered to a higher call.”
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