Seize the Night: New Tales of Vampiric Terror (38 page)

Mostly I sat in the plain wooden chair and read.

There was a stack of magazines on the equally utilitarian nearby table, all months-old issues of the
Harvard Business Review
,
Bloomberg
,
Fortune
,
Forbes
. They were the kinds of magazines Claudio would want a business manager to keep up with, so my inclination was to ignore them, but it was either read them, stare at the walls, or cry some more.

I was sick to death of crying. I read.

When I could stand the thirst no longer, I picked up the plump, silver pouch that held my meal. It looked like nothing so much as an oversized kids’ fruit-flavored drink, without the colorful label. There was even a straw taped to one side that I punched into it. I had no idea what the drink was. I’d spilled some on my finger once so I could look at it, but it was just red liquid, like fruit punch or something. But the taste . . . Ambrosia. Liquid crack. Pure, orgasmic pleasure. And apparently unexpectedly nutritious, because I never felt hungry afterward, though I wouldn’t have minded something to chew on.

I could have made a fortune in a matter of months if I’d been allowed to develop that drink as a product—with nothing better to do, I toyed with new business models, marketing plans, advertising ideas. Of course, it was addictive as hell, which would be a negative in the marketplace, but I thought we could get around that. Maybe that was why I was there—a lab rat to see how long I could survive on the stuff. It had occurred to me that the rape was only incidental to Claudio, which infuriated me. I should have poured my meal down the toilet, but I couldn’t force myself to do it. Drinking it was the only bright spot in my day.

If I ever got out, I’d see if there was an applicable twelve-step
program. In the meantime, I squeezed every last drop into my greedy mouth, and licked my lips afterward.

Some interval later, I realized that I’d read through most of the magazines, so a large part of the day must have gone. Yet I was just starting to feel the inevitable lethargy. It was definite. I was indeed becoming accustomed to the drug Claudio was using on me. I wasn’t sure what difference it made to my situation, but it still felt like a victory of sorts.

I left the magazines stacked on the table, then stretched out on the floor, knowing I would be asleep in seconds. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but I never went willingly to that bed.

When I awoke, for the first time in ages, I wasn’t alone. Somebody was beside me in bed.

No, he was on top of me.

In me.

I screamed, and to my shock, so did he. I jerked back, and once he was out of me, I shoved him away as hard as I could. He seemed to almost fly off the bed, and his head slammed against the wall. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor.

It wasn’t him.

It was a man, but it wasn’t Claudio.

I stared at him. I’d known other people came into the room while I slept because somebody had to clean, empty the hamper, restock the towels and toiletries, and of course dress me in those Halloween-party clothes. And I’d assumed it was someone other than Claudio because I couldn’t picture him mopping a floor, but it had never occurred to me that he wasn’t the one violating me.

When the man didn’t move, I cautiously scooted out of bed, finally noticing that my costume du jour was a cheerleader getup. The panties that went with my bright-red-and-white uniform were on the floor, and I stopped to pull them on. I craved that small measure of protection.

The rapist was naked. He was also out cold, and I saw a good-quality pinstripe suit, dress shirt, and boxers folded neatly on the chair. Still keeping one eye on the man, I rummaged through his belongings and could have cried when I found a cell phone. It had a password set, but of course every phone allows for emergency calls.

Only there was no reception, none at all. I carried it to every corner of the room, even into the bathroom, hoping for one lousy bar, but there was nothing.

I also had his wallet, and that gave me his name—Martin James—and a glimpse of some family photos. To my disgust, there was a picture of him and a teenage girl dressed much as I was at that moment. Of course I’d already known he was a sick bastard, so that wasn’t particularly useful information.

Since I was fairly sure that my actions would be deemed worthy of punishment, even if the instructions hadn’t specifically said not to coldcock a rapist, I decided there was no reason I couldn’t continue to break rules.

I ripped Martin’s powder-blue shirt into strips so I could tie him up. It tore easily—his clothes must have been cheaper than they looked. Even with him bound, I felt the need for a weapon, so I broke the leg off of the chair. It, too, was ridiculously easy to destroy. I was surprised it had held my weight as long as it had.

Martin started to come to just a few minutes later, and the pained groans he made would have made me feel sorry for him if he weren’t a rapist. As it was, I was tempted to beat on him with my chair leg. I would have, if I hadn’t wanted answers.

He finally managed to focus on me, and turned white. “You’re alive.”

“No thanks to you. Was killing me the next part of your plan?”

“What? No! You were already dead!”

“Obviously not.”

“Anemone & Lime guarantees dead women! What kind of rip-off is this?” He was actually indignant.

“I’m so sorry to disappoint you,” I said as insincerely as I could manage. “Where are we?”

“Are you kidding me? Look, I don’t know what you people are trying to pull, but you damned well better give me my money back.”

“You actually paid to rape me?”

“
No
, I paid to have sex with a dead woman. You’re not dead, so I want a goddamned refund.”

“Anemone & Lime is a whorehouse?” Suddenly I pictured a whole procession of men taking turns with me—that was even worse than Claudio using me repeatedly. My stomach roiled, and I was grateful I hadn’t eaten solid food for so long.

Martin continued to rant. “Just because I was late for my appointment doesn’t mean you can get away with cheating me. I paid big bucks—up front—for this service, and I want what I paid for.” He jerked at his tied hands. “I’m not some pathetic bottom paying for Mommy to spank me, so you’re going to untie me right now!”

“What I’m going to do,” I said calmly, “is ram this chair leg up your asshole unless you answer my questions. Is that perfectly clear?”

He swallowed visibly, twice. “Uh . . . yeah. I mean . . . yes, Mistress.”

Fine, let him think I was a dominatrix gone rogue, as long as I got the information I needed. “So, Martin James, you’re a necrophiliac?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And it was your understanding that I was dead, and available for your use. Correct?”

He nodded.

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you to ask how this facility had obtained such a fresh specimen?” As he struggled to come up with
an answer that wouldn’t result in immediate sodomy, I said, “No, strike that. It’s not important. The fact is that I was
drugged
, not dead.”

But he shook his head. “Lady . . . I mean, Mistress, I drove an ambulance to get through college, and I can tell a dead body from a live one. You weren’t breathing. You had no pulse. Your limbs were completely loose. You were
dead
. And then, all of a sudden, you weren’t.”

“That’s impossible,” I scoffed. He started to say something, but I held up one hand to shush him so I could think. Martin had been completely convinced that I was dead, and given his background and proclivities, he wouldn’t have been easy to fool. Besides, I’d never heard of a drug that would be convincing enough—certainly nothing that could be used repeatedly without horrifying side effects—and I’d been drugged every night for as long as I’d been in that room, however long that was. I remembered Martin’s phone, and checked it. Then I blinked. “Is this date right?”

He looked confused but nodded.

If he was telling the truth—and I thought he was too afraid of my chair leg to lie—I’d been in that room for nearly six months.
Six months
. And in all that time, I’d been subsisting on nothing but a liquid diet. Even now, I was craving a pouch of that red liquid. “What time is it?”

“Um, you’ve got my phone.”

“Right.” I picked it up and checked it. It said five thirty-eight. “You came to a whorehouse the first thing in the morning?”

“What? No, it’s nighttime. My appointment was at three, but—”

I held up my hand to quiet him again. Had that been my real schedule all along? Drugged to sleep all day, awake only at night?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in business, it’s to face the facts. What I had were the following: one, I’d appeared dead and suddenly
I wasn’t; two, I was awake during the night and sleeping all day; three, I’d apparently survived for nearly six months with no food other than a liquid. A red liquid.

It was impossible, unbelievable, but either I was insane or it was true. And I refused to believe that I was insane.

Before I could ask anything else, there was a knock on the door and a male voice said, “Mr. James? Time’s up! I’ve fudged it for as long as I could.”

Catching Martin’s eye, I whispered, “Tell him you’re almost ready to go. Nothing else!” Then I brandished the chair leg to remind him of what would happen if he disobeyed.

He nodded and in a loud voice said, “Just putting on my pants.”

“Put ’em on in the corridor, man. I’m going to get fired if I don’t get you out of there before lockdown.”

I pressed myself against the wall so I wouldn’t be seen right away, and for the first time, I saw the door open. A big burly man stuck his head in, and as soon as he saw Martin wriggling on the floor, he hissed, “
Shit!
” and started to pull back. But he was too slow. I grabbed his shirt and yanked him the rest of the way into the room.

In retrospect, I should have left the two men there and run for it, but at the time, I had no idea what was outside the door or how many others might be nearby. I needed information about what was going on before I leapt from the frying pan into the fire.

So I let the door shut behind us as I pushed the new man across the room, where he slammed up against the wall. He was wearing a maroon smock with gray trim, with pants to match. Embroidered in flowery letters on the front of the shirt were the words
Anemone & Lime
, and underneath it said
George
.

George was staring at me, saying, “Shit shit shit shit shit,” over and over again, while Martin yelled, “Untie me, you idiot!”

“Quiet, both of you,” I snapped.

They obeyed as quickly as if I’d flipped a switch.

“You,” I said, pointing at George. “Who else works here?”

“There’s a crew of like twenty guys out there, and they’re going to be in here in a minute if you don’t let us out right now.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” I said in a conversational tone. “How many, really?”

He looked rebellious but said, “Just two of us in this wing, this time of day. You’ve got to let us out!”

“I don’t think I do.” A moment later, a loud buzzer went off, and I heard something click in the door. “What was that?”

“Lockdown,” he said, and now he was sweating. “The door won’t open until morning.”

“You must have a key,” I said.

He shook his head. “If I had a key, I swear I’d let you out. I don’t want to be in here with you!”

While I kept an eye on him, I tried the door, pulling at it as hard as I could, with far more strength than I’d ever had before, but it wouldn’t budge.

“I’m telling you it won’t open,” George said. “Not until dawn.”

Martin said, “Somebody must know we’re in here. They have to let us out.”

George shook his head. “Nobody is going to risk letting
her
out, not when she hasn’t had a meal.”

“It’s because they’re afraid of me, isn’t it?” I said.

George nodded. Clearly he was petrified.

“Then I am . . . I’ve become . . .”

He nodded again.

“How?”

“Somebody . . . you know . . .
bit
you.”

“Claudio,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” Martin asked. “You mean, you didn’t drug her to play dead? She isn’t just a whore?”

I said, “No, I’m starting to think that I’m more than that. And George here is going to tell me everything he knows about what I can do.”

It took a couple of hours, and several more threats, to drain George dry. Metaphorically, that is, as I posed question after question.

The literal draining started immediately thereafter.

Afterward, I took off the cheerleader clothes, showered, put on my regular robe, and spent the rest of the evening rereading magazines. When I felt tired, I used the bed for the first time. The floor was too dirty.

N
othing in the room had changed when I woke. I was assuming my room was still on lockdown—George had said it was protocol in case one of the “girls” couldn’t be controlled. Yes, there were other women with other gifts being held at Anemone & Lime—some were even willing. I just happened to be the only one with my particular gifts currently in residence.

I checked Martin’s phone, pleased when I saw it was five minutes earlier than I’d woken the day before. Apparently I was progressing much faster than those in my situation usually did.

I showered again quickly, then looked at the available clothing options. Definitely not the cheerleader outfit. I could have made do with George’s smock and pants, though the fit would have been loose, but he’d pissed himself the night before. That left Martin’s suit. There was no shirt, since I’d used it to tie him up, and his undershirt smelled too much like him for me to stomach wearing it. But if I kept the jacket buttoned and belted the pants tightly enough to keep them up, I’d be decently covered. For shoes, I had the cheery red-and-white oxfords.

With that done, I sat down to wait. I wasn’t hungry yet, and I’d already finished with the magazines, but Martin had some games on
his phone to keep me amused until I felt the call George had warned me would be coming.