Peace Bringer
Burnt
Bridges and Old Acquaintances
by Michael L. Finson
Part 1
Sundown in the city is much like being deep
within a series of vast, perpendicular canyons strung with an impossible number
of multi-colored Christmas, lights. As the sky grows darker and the sun’s
swollen red orb melts into the western horizon, the smoothly symmetrical canyon
walls towering on all sides glitter with the beginnings of artificial starlight
in just about any color you could care to name.
The man made canyons of this city are made up
of high-rise office buildings, expensive condos, and equally dear apartments.
Most of the ground floors are occupied by exclusive shops, trendy restaurants,
and “in” clubs crowding each other in vying for people’s attention, beckoning
for patronage with individual, garish lures of light and sound that manage to
blend into a generally indistinguishable cacophony of sense numbing richness.
The place I was interested in had a
twenty-four hour convenience store at ground level. Sitting in my brand new
Maserati and watching the oriental clerk obsessively clean the counter when not
taking the rare customer’s money, I again wondered if the night’s planned
reunion was actually such a good idea. That thought nearly had me driving off
to forget the whole thing while finding my night’s diversion elsewhere.
It was an urge I quelled ruthlessly. No
matter how much I dreaded the meeting, there was a couple in number 17D
expecting my visit and probably more nervous about it than I was. Over a year
had gone by since I had spoken to either one of them for more than a couple of
minutes at a time and they deserved what explanations I was able to give.
Some people, I guess, are able to just walk
away from friends and associates without a backwards glance, or even one word.
I wanted to that time, but just couldn’t do it. These two had been important
to me once, and in spite of what subjectively felt like a century’s worth of
experiences since that time, they still held a special place in my heart and
mind.
Letting out a long, silent whoosh of long held
breath, I put the Maserati into gear and began searching for a nearby parking
space where I could leave it overnight. I had a great deal to tell the people
awaiting my visit, not much of it pleasant, and all of it pretty hard to
believe.
There turned out to be a lot right across the
street, but without an attendant or security guard. Instead, there was a small
group of generic street toughs lounging against the hulks that had been usable
vehicles when the owners had foolishly left them there overnight. Otherwise it
was empty.
All six of them eyed first the car, then me,
as I pulled into the lot and came to a stop facing the street. Two Hispanics,
three blacks, and one ragged looking white boy moved in concert to greet me.
All in all, a pretty scruffy looking bunch, and one that would have had anyone
with sense driving over the sidewalk to get away from them.
Getting out of the car, I gave each of them a
lingering view of long, smooth legs while I searched out their leader.
Distracted for the moment, they were pathetically easy to read. It was quite
clear to me that they meant to enjoy both the car and its foxy, but stupid
driver. Not necessarily in that order.
The pack interplay, with varied tiers of dominance
even among such a small group was fascinating. Five of them deferred to a
good-looking young black man of indeterminate age. On the streets, sixteen
year olds might appear to be in, their twenties, and vice versa. I could have
cared less about his age, just that he was in charge of this bunch and was
acknowledged as the meanest among them. “Hey, mama, you come to party?” One of
them asked with a disgusting, high-pitched giggle tacked onto the end.
I ignored that one, and the others, while giving
my full attention to the leader. “What’s your name?” I pleasantly asked him.
“The Dangler, baby. Cose mah cock reaches muh
knees. Whuts yours?”
“Magda,” I replied without visible reaction to
his taunt. “I wanted your real name, not what they call you on the street.”
I’m told that when aroused, or angry, my
emerald eyes glow with a lambent, hungry power. Evidently they were doing so
then, because “The Dangler” actually backed up a step before answering.
“Hannibal Dean Thomas. What kind of rich bitch
nose candy you on, anyway? You got the weirdest eyes I ever did see.”
“Hannibal Dean Thomas,” I breathed, exerting
just a trace of mental force while gliding up to press myself against his hard
young body. “Do you want me?”
I must have allowed my fangs to descend a
little in my excitement, because he recoiled as if I’d held a flame to his
prized body part, “No, lady, I don’t want nothin’ to do with you. Not tonight,
not ever.”
Pulling the fangs back into their recessed
sockets in my upper jaw, I favored him with a dazzling smile. “Well, maybe I
want you. You would enjoy the ride. Sure you don’t want to play?”
He didn’t. Halfway disappointed even though I
had fed and taken care of my other needs earlier, I shrugged. “I’ll... hunt
for another playmate then, provided you do me a favor, Hannibal Dean Thomas.”
“Anything you want lady,” came the immediate,
relieved response, funny how I have that effect on some people when the mood is
on me. I never used to be so casually cruel, or enjoyed cruelty for its own
sake. Usually, I still avoid such petty little games, finding them
distasteful. Fear does have its uses though, and was something this one
understood far better than anything else I could have tried.
Given my rather unusual nature and the needs
going with it, there were times I enjoyed being that way, like then. Power of
any kind can be intoxicating when used. What many never manage, is to use it
well. I was still learning about mine.
Holding out the keys to the Maserati, and then
pulling his unresisting hand up, I dropped them into his open palm. “Watch my
car for the night. Drive it if you like. Just stay out of trouble when you’re
in it, and have it back here an hour before dawn, in one piece, with enough gas
for me to get somewhere I can get more, and I’ll even pay you for doing it.”
“Pay me?”
“That’s right,” I purred. “But if you don’t
have it back when I need it, in the condition its in right now, I’ll come
looking for you tomorrow night. I don’t think you’d care for that at all,
would you?”
He had no doubt that I was telling him the
truth, or was capable of doing exactly as I’d told him. “Sure, lady. I’ll
take real good care of the car for you.”
“I’m sure you will, Hannibal,” I smiled
cheerfully. “And please, call me Magda. Lady is so formal for people as
intimate as we still might be, don’t you think?”
That frightened him all over again, which
would make him mean. Big strong street toughs hate to be faced down,
especially by petite, beautiful young women. Even if their eyes do glow in the
dark and they have fangs. That anger would be directed at his cohorts, and
insure that my new toy, the car anyway, would remain intact. I’d just bought
it and was in no mood to replace it yet.
“Thank you so much, Dangler,” I gave him the
sop of using his street handle in front of the rest. “I promise you two of the
best rides you ever had in your life for this.”
“Excuse me,” I gingerly stepped around the
open mouthed group who had silently watched our exchange. None of them made the
slightest move to impede my progress, which was a little disappointing too, but
I had business and no time for any more amusement just then.
“You fellows take care,” I tossed back over my
shoulder, giving the short walk across the street to my destination the sexiest
moves I had. Without looking back, I was aware of the lust and desire
radiating from them and made a mental note to return sometime when I did have
time to play.
The clerk in the convenience store stared open
mouthed at my unmolested progress across the street. I gave her a warm smile
and cheery wave, then entered the vestibule leading to the upstairs apartments.
The doorman, middle aged, tough and capable
appearing, held the door for me, even in the tacky uniform he managed to look
distinguished. He had obviously been observing my bargaining session in the
parking lot as well.
Giving me an odd look, he nodded with a tight
little smile. “Lady, either you’re the luckiest person I’ve seen in a week, or
I didn’t really see what happened over there. You’ll lose the car the minute
we’re out of sight, you know. I could open the private lot for you if you
want.”
“That’s okay,” I softly responded with a lazy
smile. “They’re friends of mine and will take good care of the car while I’m
here. I gave them permission to drive it, so don’t worry if it does pull out
of the lot.”
He plainly thought I was insane, or a high
priced hooker who could care less about something as trivial as a brand new
Maserati. Whatever he decided, probably both but I didn’t bother to probe, he
kept to himself. “May I ask who it is you’re here to see?”
“Steven Klien. In number 17D,” I gave him
benefit of a full view down my dress with another slow smile.
“Uh, right,” Striving mightily against the
distraction, he picked up the in-house phone. “Who should I say is here?”
“Magda Durant,” I told him, stressing the
French sound of the last name.
After
a rapid consultation on the line, he replaced the receiver with a shaky smile.
“Mr. Klien is waiting for you, Ms. Doo-rahnt,” At least he pronounced it
properly. “May I escort you to the elevator?”
“That would please me very much,” I assured
him, amused that he actually thought I was the kind of night visitor people
like him could never hope to afford even once in his life.
I allowed him to go right on believing that.
For all I know, he still tells his buddies in whatever bar he frequents during
time off about the very expensive, unbelievably sexy little number who visited
one of the guys in the building where he works. One of these days I might even
look him up in that bar, so the guys will finally believe his story. You never
know. My sense of humor always has been considered a little strange.
Checking myself over one last time in the
mirrored walls of the elevator on the way up, I was more than satisfied.
Thick, glossy black hair cut in a sleek, nape-length bob, framed my oval face
perfectly, though the bangs would need attention soon. My five foot two frame
packed a figure crudely labeled as lush, without being exaggerated enough to
look like a caricature. Firm, flawless, and female, seeing that image mimic
each motion I made never ceased to fill me with a sensual, cheerfully vain
feeling of pleasure.
The blood red velvet dress, hugging my shape
like a jealous lover while showing more pale, smooth flesh than some swimsuits
packaged the whole rather nicely, I thought. Real platinum jewelry in a simple
pattern and sparsely used set the picture off with just the right amount of
style. I looked expensive, because I was and it pleased me to advertise the
fact.
The hall was carpeted. Not that I didn’t like
the color and pattern, but pile carpeting steals much of the drama from spike
heels, and often treacherously snags them when you least expect something like
that to happen. I idly considered, then discarded the idea of arriving at
Steve’s door with my dainty four-inch heels dangling from their ankle straps in
one hand.
Playtime was finished for the night. No
matter how much I had dithered, and hidden the truth with my small amusements,
this meeting would not be an easy one for me. Truthfully, I wanted to run away
for all I was worth and never return. But I owed these people. And they had a
right to receive full payment on that debt.
Steve, looking more nervous than I’d ever seen
him, but otherwise his usual, plump, large boned self, opened the door right
when I touched the buzzer. He was probably waiting for me from the time the
doorman called up. That would have been very characteristic of him.
“Magda?” his eyes widened almost a full
quarter inch while he seemed frozen to the floor.
“Hello, Steve,” I smiled winningly but he
still wouldn’t get out of the doorway.
After another second or two, I carefully
looked up into his face and teasingly began to turn away. “Well, if you intend
to keep me standing in the hallway all night, I’ll just go back down and play
with that cute doorman in the lobby.”
He laughed, backing away so I was able to
enter, “That would make Harry’s year, if he didn’t die from pure ecstasy
first. He’s the best doorman this building’s had in a long time, and a lot of
people would really hate to lose him. Come on in.”
“Thank you,” I glided past him and into the
living room beyond the entryway without asking directions. I’d been in the
place enough to know my way around in it, and it hadn’t changed all that much
in a year or so.
Molly was seated on the couch, five feet six
inches of extremely attractive woman, with thick honey blonde hair curling over
her slim shoulders and down her back. I nearly turned around and headed for
the door right then, seeing her again was that hard on me.
She had been watching my progress across the
room with the wary, half hostile air of a beautiful woman seeing one she thinks
is more beautiful. I gave her a tentatively friendly smile while folding
myself into one of the padded torture devices Steve always insisted were
comfortable chairs. “Hello Molly.”
“Do I know you?” she asked, puzzled, thinking
she should have remembered meeting someone like me and didn’t.
“In a way,” I answered. “I’m Magda Durant.
Your friend James Duncan and I were very close once.”
That frightened her. I could see that she
knew full well what I was, though she found it difficult to believe. Gathering
her courage, she gave me a direct, unfriendly stare. “Are you the one who...”
“Killed him?” I brutally finished for her, and
then sadly went on, “No. In fact, I did everything in my power to preserve
him, though I really can’t blame you for not believing that.”
Steve, again frozen in place, had taken that
small conversation in raptly. Molly began thawing a little while I assured
her. “You have absolutely nothing to fear from me, Molly, or you either,
Steve. I made a promise to James, and I do keep my promises, no matter what
you may think of me right now, or in the future.”
“Would you care for some wine?” Steve
hesitantly offered, not knowing for certain what I would normally drink, but
fearfully positive it wasn’t wine.
“Yes, thank you. White if you have it,
otherwise red would do nicely.”
“White it is,” he forced a cheerful tone into
his voice. The fear coming off him was thick enough to cloy my senses, but
there was no way of putting him at ease until my story had been completely
told.
“Molly?” he glanced in her direction
questioningly.
“I’ll have the burgundy, thanks,” she seemed
far more relaxed than I would have expected under the circumstances.
While Steve was fetching our respective
refreshments, Molly gave me a halfway warm look, “For what it’s worth, I do believe
you. I don’t know why, but I do.”
“I’m glad,” Steve, returned with the wine,
mine was a barely tolerable Zinfandel, but I sipped it out of politeness. As I
recalled, the stuff did have a tendency to get better as you drank. Only I
didn’t expect to drink enough for that to happen, not even if I consumed the
full bottle. My tastes were far more sensitive than they had been.
“Good God, Steve,” I grimaced in a way that
had to be familiar to both of them. Some mannerisms remain no matter what else
changes, I’ve found. “You’ve got to have a palate and tongue the consistency
of old boot leather that’s been sitting outside for years.”
“I just keep the stuff for high falutin’
buddies like...,” he trailed off before finishing his standard comeback to his
friend’s taunt about his taste. “Down to the inflections,” he softly finished
as the carefully polite grin faded from his face.
Carefully sitting beside Molly he shook his
head, a grieved expression crossing his round face, “You have the way he used
to prod me about the wine I kept down perfectly. If your voice was deeper it
would have sounded exactly like Jim.”
“I’m sorry if that hurt you, Steve,” I meant
it, seeing the clear grief he was still feeling nearly caused me to break
down. “But I need to convince you that I did know James Duncan very, very
well, and that trying to save him was nearly the death of me. Literally.”
“We’re ready to listen,” he glanced at Molly,
who nodded encouragingly, then pulled out a small tape recorder. “Would you
mind if...?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I would,” I interrupted him.
“This story is for you and Molly. If you insist on recording it, I’m afraid
our little soiree is over before it starts.”
“Okay,” Popping the tape out, he set the
recorder back where it had rested earlier. “Satisfied?”
That would have been a very clever dodge, if I
hadn’t been so familiar with his place. There was an ancient, but immaculate
old reel to reel hidden behind some panel backed shelving. It was running, and
on record. A simple mental thrust in the right direction, and like any
machine, it obediently shut itself off once the power switch had been
disengaged.
“Completely,” I beamed a sunny, pleased smile
in his direction and felt him begin to melt. Curious, the mix of absolute fear
and yearning desire he was broadcasting towards me. In a way, it was amusing,
but in another I was deeply saddened and almost offended.
“Good,” I leaned forward with a brisk motion
of the hands. “Indulge me. No questions until I finish, and I wish to tell
this tale from your friend’s point of view,” they gave me odd looks at that,
but I pressed the issue. “I realize that may seem more than a bit strange, but
rest assured that you’ll understand why once I’ve finished. Will you grant me
those conditions?”
“Yes,” both replied almost in unison.
“Fine,” I leaned back in the chair, making
myself as comfortable as possible, “This will take some time, so feel free to
perform whatever necessary functions you must as the need arises, and please do
keep the wine flowing. I know from experience that this stuff starts tasting
better the more you have.”
Cassandra
I
The first time I saw her, I knew I wanted to
know her. It happened in a new club named G’ Day that I frequented because of
I liked the real Australian beers on tap, and to hear the often ridiculous
attempts by the place’s staff to sound authentically Down Under.
Back then I had time and money, plus the
leisure to spend both pretty well as I saw fit. Right out of college I’d taken
a double major in chemistry and business and figured out a simple, but
effective method to dry-clean carpets while renewing the looks of the carpet
being cleaned. It was easy enough coming up with a machine to apply the stuff,
I just took parts from an old vacuum cleaner, new tubing, and added a stiffly
cylindrical brush to beat the pile, then put it all in an impressive appearing
chromium tank on wheels.
I approached an old friend, Steve Klien, for a
little seed money to get started in exchange for a piece of the profits. The
rest, as they say, was a breeze. Within two years, I was a millionaire several
times over, with a factory busily churning out my “innovative” Carpet Genies
and another producing the concoction I’d christened Magic Carpet.
Steve, of course, had never expected much more
than an even return on the loan he’d made me. The look of surprise on his face
was probably one of the most priceless things I’d ever seen, when I personally
delivered his first percentage check. It was in the neighborhood of six figures
and that was only the start. Both of us got very rich, very fast.
Steve expanded his small music store, and
opened another, then another, until he was sole owner of a successful chain. I
found trustworthy people who enjoyed working for the sake of work alone and
made one of them President of my company, then sat back in my capacity as
chairman of the board and let the money come to me.
After five years, James Duncan, that’s me, had
a fortune amassed that I couldn’t have spent in twenty lifetimes if I’d
dedicated myself to trying. I effectively doubled that by selling out my share
of the company, with a further fee for the patent rights, and quite happily
settled into the pleasant task of trying to spend some of my fortune faster
than it was still growing.
But that palled long before I expected it to.
So I bought into Hasting’s Insurance, and began learning that business, just to
fill my time. I guess I just wasn’t cut out to be a dashing playboy type after
all, and found myself actually enjoying the time I spent in Hasting’s home
office, though I really did very little and was careful not to upset an already
successful business. I wasn’t about to try and fix something that already
worked very well.
I met Molly Johnson there, and found a lady I
finally was able to enjoy spending time with. She was a beauty, with brains
and drive, rising fast through the corporate mess and sure enough of her
accomplishments not to unnecessarily flaunt them, or assume mannish airs to
compensate for her sex.
Molly, five feet six inches of practical, very
feminine dynamite, had long, honey blonde hair and a figure that attracted
almost as much attention as her delicate oval face. I suspected that she was
actually smarter than I was, and found out later that she was a certified
genius. Not that it mattered to me. She was fun to be with and made no
demands that I didn’t feel like meeting, which was a pleasant change from a lot
of the women I’d been seeing before she came along.
But back to G’ Day and the first time I caught
sight of Cassandra Ridley.
I’d put in a very long day for a change,
immersed in a board meeting that seemed determined to drive everyone
participating into a frenzy of chart ripping and pencil breaking. You’ve
probably been to meetings like that, the things almost take on a wicked life of
their own, and don’t want to let go.
As a reward for putting up with that, Molly
and I decided it would be fun to go tease the fake Aussies and enjoy some good
brew for a few hours just to unwind. We arrived, found an empty table and were
giddily comparing accents for who had the worst one when I glimpsed a pale
composed face wreathed in dark hair off in another corner.
She was just about the most perfectly lovely
woman I had ever encountered. Tall enough to be just a little imposing,
slender without being skinny, there was no doubt that she was female and not
ashamed for people to see that, with smooth, clear features further highlighted
by her pale complexion.
I was transfixed, just like half the other
guys in the place, as she seemed to float with a curiously old fashioned grace
through the crowd without having to detour once. She was out the door with
some guy who obviously couldn’t believe his luck at being chosen as her escort
for the evening, before I even realized I had been staring.
A not so gentle nudge in the ribs brought me
out of the near trance I’d sunk into, “Hey, remember me?”
The silky, throaty voice brought me completely
back, and I turned to see a half smile on Molly’s face. Shaking my head once,
I grinned. “Sure. Aren’t you one of the girls who works for that insurance
company down the street?”
“Nope,” she shrugged. “That insurance company
works for me.
“Oh, yeah,” I feigned sudden enlightenment. “I
remember now. You’re the lady in the leather suit with the whips and hoops for
fawning executives to jump through.”
“You got it now,” She gave me a satisfied nod,
and then glared with a severity that wasn’t all in fun. “Are you over whatever
nailed you to the floor like that?”
She knew all too well that the “whatever” was
female, but also knew the problem had walked out the door with some other guy
than the one she had come in with. I gave her an honestly sheepish grin, “Yes
I am. Want to ask for a menu, or shall we go somewhere else for dinner?”
“Here’s fine with me,” Molly relaxed, then
admitted. “She really was striking, wasn’t she?”
“She was that,” I felt she had understated the
case but a well-developed sense of self-preservation prevented me from saying
so. Molly can really be nasty at times. Especially if she thinks the man she’s
with isn’t giving her proper due. “Sorry.”
“Forgiven,” she grinned impishly. “But not
forgotten. You’re going to pay dearly for that lapse later on tonight.”
“You don’t mean I have to be on the bottom and
take the wet spot again?”
“Fraid so. Got to keep you in your proper
place, you know.”
“How humiliating,” I covered my eyes with the
back of my hand and threw my head back theatrically. Then looked at her with a
very sly smile. “Sure you want to wait on dinner?”
II
That should have been the end of it. Later I
fervently wished it had been. But I couldn’t get that woman out of my mind.
She haunted my sleep, and the odd waking moment, like a nagging itch you can’t
quite reach no matter how hard you try.
She kept returning to me like a perfectly made
porcelain doll somehow made life-sized then brought to glorious, fascinating
reality. I began watching for her, and was rewarded on several occasions.
The men she was with never seemed to do her
justice, except for one, with pale features and height that were the masculine
equivalent of her own pristine seeming beauty. He never deigned to touch her,
but she orbited him like a moon around a majestic planet whenever they were
together.
Her female companions were as striking in
their own ways, but eclipsed when placed beside her. Two were obviously
sisters, with rich looking chestnut hair complementing flashing blue eyes
filled with good humor and promise of further delights for any man either one
allowed to be with them.
The other was oriental, lovely, cool, and
aloof most of the time. I always hated categorizing people for any reason, but
that one was a typical stereotype of her race. Beautiful and remotely
mysterious as a china doll, she left with more men than any of the others, I
noted. But only because the woman who so captivated my interest turned down
most of her would be suitors.
Being quietly wealthy does have its perks. I
asked around, greased a few palms, and found out names. My mystery woman was
Cassandra Ridley and the man who seemed to match her so well was her brother
Charles. The redheads were Monica and Cecelia Murtagh, and the coolly distant
oriental was Marilee Chen.
But no matter how I tried, that was all I was
able to discover about any of them. No one could, or would, tell me where any
of them lived, or where they were from, or why each of them seemed so filled
with old world grace and manners.
A mystery and a woman, I wanted very badly,
Irresistible, also very frustrating given the resources within my reach and the
inability to unearth more.
Finally, in absolute desperation, I bribed
someone to accidentally insert me into whatever party she was a part of. Then
wondered why I just didn’t walk up and introduce myself like a regular human
being. I suppose Cassandra struck me as so unapproachable that I needed some
outside help to boost my confidence and give me an in I feared would otherwise
be refused.
So many others had been, and quite brusquely
at times.
At least I had the grace to appear embarrassed
when the time arrived and I suddenly found myself seated at the same table with
Cassandra, who was alone for change. Truthfully, I was embarrassed.
“My apologies,” I told her, making to rise and
leave. “Someone seems to have mixed up our reservations or something.”
Giving me a slow, measuring look, I barely
believed it when her velvety contralto assured me that it was quite all right
and she wasn’t expecting company that night. “Please. Stay, I don’t really
want to be alone this evening.”
I wasn’t as tall, or elegant as her brother.
I did stand at an easy five foot eleven, and kept myself at a fit hundred and
ninety pounds. In her heels, she was just about my height, I discovered later
on. “If it isn’t an imposition. I know ladies like to be left alone off and
on.”
“I’ve seen you watching me,” Cassandra cut
through any prevarications I might have tried. “And have been waiting for you
to introduce yourself.”
“Probably so you can have the pleasure of
personally telling me to get lost,” I sighed.
“Oh no,” she laughed from deep in her throat.
“I wanted to meet you. You’ve caught my eye, you see.”
“James Duncan. Jim to my friends,” I
introduced myself.
“Cassandra Ridley,” Holding out her hand for
me to take, she finished. “Very pleased to meet you, James Duncan.”
Her hand was cool to the touch, and soft. I
wasn’t sure whether I was expected to shake it or kiss it. Not being well
versed on the right way to perform the second, I opted for the first, “Cassandra.
It suits you.”
“I don’t make a habit of voicing prophecies of
doom that no one will believe,” She smiled mischievously. “Though I do see an
interesting future for us.”
“Since that has nothing like gloom and doom in
it, I’ll accept it as a true prediction,” I returned. As it turned out, her
name was far more appropriate for my future than I dreamed. Had I known what
was coming, I think I’d have left her right there without so much as a
goodbye. But maybe I wouldn’t have. She held an attraction that I could
barely resist at all, and never when she was present.
We passed a wonderful evening with dinner
followed by visits to several clubs, then a theatrical performance involving
vampires and their victims. Cassandra’s upper lip curled derisively as the
villain died the moment he was caught in the first rays of the rising sun. I
thought she found it juvenile, but that wasn’t the case.
“Anyone who believes a true Vampyri can’t
endure the sun is deluded,” she told me with conviction. “Even Stoker knew
that, though much else in his romance is quite wrong.”
Teasingly, I raised an eyebrow, “And I suppose
that you’re an expert on things like that?”
“Yes,” she very seriously replied, “I am. I
have studied such things for many years.”
That gave me a momentary chill, as I watched
her flawless features shaped themselves into a warm smile that didn’t quite
reach her violet eyes. “But you don’t want to hear about that tonight. My
studies are really quite dry and uninteresting in comparison with what you have
done.”
“No, I really am interested in what you do,
but won’t press. Especially since you don’t seem all that anxious to tell me
about it,” I shrugged. “But all I did was hit on an idea that worked.”
“And were intelligent enough to make it work
for you instead of the other way around,” Cassandra gave me an admiring smile.
“Not many have mastered that art.”
That smile did reach her eyes, and I knew that
I was hopelessly, irretrievably in love.
III
Molly had more or less divided her time
between Steve and me before I met Cassandra. She drifted away as I began
seeing more of my porcelain-skinned goddess. But not before trying to talk me
out of plans for a lasting relationship.
“The woman is too perfect, Jim,” Molly had
given up on ever being an important part of my life beyond being a friend, and
was now doing her best to be that to me. “Not a wrinkle, or hair out of place,
and that complexion. It’s like something dead and preserved, not a living,
breathing person.”
“It’s just the contrast between her hair and
skin,” I defended my love. “I’ve seen it before and so have you.”
“Sure I have,” Came the rapid rejoinder. “Artificially
contrived in high tone fashion rags, and in some of the older vampire movies.”
“Oh, come on,” I was openly caustic at that,
and then relented when I saw her flinch at my tone of voice. “Can’t you just
wish me the best, and stop trying to batter Cassandra into bloody shreds?”
“Okay,” she agreed, “If you’ll tell me
something honestly.”
“Whatever you want to know.”
“Do you know anything at all about Cassandra,
or her brother?”
“They’re from Europe, somewhere in the former
communist bloc, and are researchers, university level professors specializing
in Central European folklore and history.”
“So they tell you. And anyone else gauche
enough to question them,” Molly pressed. “But have you ever seen either of
them go to work, or so much as attend a scholarly conference?”
“No, they’re on a long sabbatical,” I answered
easily. “Their credentials check out, and really are very impressive.”
“Has it occurred to you that she might be
playing you up for a chance to get at your money?” That bothered her most of
all, I think. The chance that someone might try and swindle me had come up
before, and I’d dodged that particular bullet several times, enough to be wary,
and to recognize even subtle signs of a con.
“Destitute European aristocrats looking for an
infusion of good old American wealth?” I asked with a laugh. “I had Clay Meyer
check them out on that.”
“Clayton D. Meyer?” Molly’s eyebrows shot up
while her mouth pursed into a disapproving frown. “The notorious lush and
lecher himself?”
“Okay, I don’t care much for him either, and
won’t even try to keep up with either his drinking or womanizing, but he is
about the best there is when it comes to investment banking in spite of those
faults.”
“Until some irate husband finally decides to
shoot him, or his employers have had enough of his antics,” Molly interrupted,
and then sighed at my patient expression. “Oh, go on and tell me what he found
out.”
“They happen to be very old money,” I told
her. “Old and smart enough to have scattered their wealth through a lot of
foreign investments to avoid the communist seizures after the Second World War,
and from everything Clay showed me, they’re probably worth about twenty times
what I am. They are not only uninterested in my money, they think it’s a
pretty paltry sum all in all.”
“Fine,” giving up, Molly leaned over the table
we were sharing for lunch to peck me lightly on the cheek. “Just be careful,
okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt here, and these people strike me as
being something other than what they claim.”
“Like why they have such an English sounding
name if they hail from Central Europe?” She pressed, not quite ready to give
up.
Their grandfather Anglicized the family name
of Ridescu when he moved the family to London before the war… any other
suspicions, or nightmares? Going to accuse them of being vampires or something
equally ridiculous?” I had shifted to teasing in an effort to get her off the
subject.
“I know, I know,” holding out her hands palm
forward in a placating gesture, she finished with a weak smile. “I’m honestly
happy that you’ve found a woman you think you can love, even if it makes me a
little jealous, okay? I wish it had been me, but it isn’t, so chalk up all my
doubting and prying to the time honored sour grape syndrome. Good luck, and
keep in touch, okay?”
“Sure, Molly,” I lightly gripped her arm,
planting a return kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for your concern. Really.”
“Friends watch out for friends, don’t they?”
I nodded, “That’s how things are supposed to
be.”
“So I’ll keep on looking out for you, dummy,”
her eyes glistened as she said that. “I have to go now. Work to do, whips to
crack, and hoops to hold, you know.”
“Bet getting into that leather dress on short
notice is a real bitch,” I joked back. “See you later Molly.”
“Bye, Jim. Take care of yourself?”
“Always. You know that.”
“I used to,” she walked away without giving me
a chance to rebut that comment. A woman’s need for the last word, I thought,
and let it pass.
Fondly watching her move through the noon
lunch crowd, my hand reached under my shirt to rub a persistently scabbed over
and itching spot on my chest.
Cassandra could get a little wild during our
love making, and nearly always drew blood from some part of my body when we
coupled.
Never a lot, but she called it the elixir of
life after delicately licking the wound clean. That was the only kink she had,
though, regarding sex. I thought it was a relatively harmless one no matter
how strange or frightening it seemed at first. Although my own joke about
vampires returned to haunt the edges of my mind as I absently rubbed the
healing wound.
IV
The following month went pretty well as I’d
grown used to having things go over the previous years. I saw Steve and Molly
socially at least once a week, and Molly fairly well daily at the office,
though our relationship had cooled into the slightly wary friendship shared by
former lovers who parted on good terms but haven’t resolved everything that was
once between them.
Molly had settled on Steve as a more or less
permanent partner by then and my friend still seemed to be a little dazed that
someone with her looks and brains would find his slightly pudgy self
interesting. I would have been worried that she was going to him on the
rebound, so to speak, except Molly had been seeing him while she saw me, and
was quite clear about what she wanted and why she did things.
“So, buddy,” Steve, asked one evening as I
bravely swallowed his latest idea of decent wine, much to Molly’s amusement. “When
are you going to bring this new light of your life over to meet us mundanes?”
I answered that with a shrug, “Whenever we can
agree on a time and place, I suppose. Cassandra has told me she’d like to meet
both of you, but doesn’t want to feel that she’s intruding on long time
friends.”
“My friend,” Steve promised. “If she’s good
enough to snag you the way it appears, she’d probably fit right in without much
trouble. I know how picky you are about women as part of your life.”
I gave Molly a surreptitious glance as he said
that. She serenely sipped her own drink without flinching, and favored me with
an easy, but neutral look of her own. “Yes Jim, I’d like have a chance to meet
Cassandra, too. Tell her I’m not the jealous, vengeful type and bring her over
some evening.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “We’re having dinner with
her brother tomorrow, but the rest of the week is open so far as I know. I’ll
check with her on what she has going and see what she says.”
“Good,” Molly nodded. “How’s Saturday sound?”
“Fine with me. I’ll call you once I check
with her, okay?”
V
It was fine with Cassandra. Though her
brother, Charles seemed a little unhappy over things. I had thought he held an
unhealthy power over her personal life since meeting him, but hadn’t really
known either one of them long enough to be comfortable with making a judgment.
All I really knew about him was that for some
reason, even though he openly approved of my seeing his sister, something about
him frightened me on a level I seldom reached into. My hind brain screamed in
near panic every time he looked at me.
Charles Ridley was an imposing man and would
have been no matter what kind of company he was in. His six foot nine inch
frame towered over most people I knew, and he held himself erect, without the
slight stoop many tall men develop to compensate for having to look down at
just about everyone they deal with.
He was very powerful physically, too, with the
physique of an athlete and carefully controlled movements of a trained
fighter. Not a boxer, but someone with the knowledge and skill to use a
variety of weapons and even bare hands for killing. Something in his bearing
clearly told anyone smart enough to read such signals, that he had killed
before, many times, and possibly casually.
Given the part of the world he claimed to have
extensive contact with in spite of his grandfather’s moving the family to
Britain, I could easily believe that of him. Central Europe following the
withdrawal of Soviet control was not a very peaceful part of the world, and
hadn’t even been so under the Russian yoke.
Pale, sculpted features, wing of contrasting
hair so black it glowed with blue highlights, and deep set, grey eyes that
seemed able to bore past the mere flesh they beheld to strip the soul of
whoever he was scrutinizing made him even more unsettling. The women were all
over him, I’d seen that, and had to admit that he was a very beautiful man
without being the least feminine.
With his size, looks, and those disturbing
eyes, it wasn’t at all difficult to understand how he was able to dominate not
only his sister, but also the small circle of constant companions the pair had.
All those were women. I felt like an interloper in some sultan’s private harem
at first, and felt that Charles did resent my presence among what he called “his
little family group”.
Yet he put no restrictions on what any of them
did regarding the men they picked up, not even on his sister. In fact, he
seemed to encourage them to find the companionship of males and do whatever
they liked with those men.
Provided those encounters remained basically
one-night affairs.
If he had been openly hostile towards me, I
might have been able to get things out in the open and saved a lot of problems
later on. But after a short conversation I left feeling as if I had been
interviewed for a position and not come off at all well. He gave the
impression of regarding me with something close to amused tolerance for
something unimportant enough to not irritate him with its presence. His
contempt was clear, and he endured me for his sister’s sake. He barely
acknowledged me following that first, and last dinner as being worthy of his
notice at all.
The one time he did show any real interest in
me, or the things I did, was when I offered to sketch portraits of the women.
They all exclaimed over my efforts, complimenting my skill, though I thought
their enthusiasm was a little overdone. I’d always been fairly talented with a
pad and pencils but not really good enough to be considered an artist by
anyone. It was a hobby. That was all.
Charles watched me finish one of Marilee Chen
with interest that he hadn’t shown in me since that first meeting, “You have a
good eye for capturing your subjects.”
“Thanks,” I was startled by the sound of
approval in his voice, glancing up to see him alternately smiling at Marilee’s
pleasure with her likeness and favoring me with something besides disdain
across his face.
“Could you?” he asked, “Do one from a simple
description of someone for me sometime?”
“Sure. I suppose I could manage, depending on
how well you’re able to describe the person.”
“Oh, I have her image fixed firmly in mind,”
Charles gave me a tight smile. “I’m sure you’d have no trouble at all getting
her image on paper as you’ve done so well with these.”
I looked at Marilee, Monica, and Cecelia
poring over each other’s sketches like schoolgirls seeing how pretty they
actually could be when all done up for a special occasion. Cassandra watched
them with obvious pleasure, while throwing an occasional glance at her brother
and myself. I could see a trace of worry tighten the corners of her mouth, and
got the impression that Charles was regarding me with something akin to hunger.
That faded, if it had ever existed as he
mildly nodded at my agreement. “Well, there are other things to occupy me this
evening, but I will approach you to do that favor for me in the near future if
you are willing.”
“Anytime at all, Charles,” I was glad when his
attention returned to the accustomed indifference to my presence. When his
full attention had been focused on me, I felt as if my mind was being sucked
down a deep, fog filled tunnel.
Later, when Cassandra and I were on our way to
dinner with Steve and Molly, she voiced her concerns. “You should be wary of
Charles, James. He likes you, but considers you as something that will not be
a factor in our lives for much longer.”
“If he likes me, I’d hate to see what he did,
if his attitude was different.”
“Yes you would,” she told me with force. “Charles
can be very dangerous.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I snorted at
that.
“You really don’t, James,” Cassandra fervently
pressed her point. “Be very careful around him, please. If not for yourself,
then for my sake?”
Another disturbing turn, in developments,
Cassandra was very clearly afraid of her brother. Recalling how I’d felt when
his eyes were fixed on mine, I silently agreed that I didn’t know, not nearly
so much, or clearly, as I’d believed.
For the first time since I’d met Cassandra, I
was afraid. Not nervous, or worried for someone else, or on a subconscious
level, afraid for my own well-being. This fear was insistent, nagging, and had
been right in front of me for examination not so long before that moment.
And its name was Charles Ridley.
VI
That fear receded into something vague enough
to become more like a poorly recalled nightmare in the bright light of a noonday
sun. Even so, it was always lurking at the back of my mind, waiting to seize
and shake me like a cat worrying at a mouse it had caught then allowed to think
escape was possible before pouncing again.
Charles positively warmed to me following the
incident with the sketches, but had not yet approached me to do the one he had
spoken about that night. Still, I was uneasy in his presence. It emanated a
faint chill, like the sudden sharpness of a north wind that interrupts the easy
warmth of a late September day with hints of the bitter, killing winds of
winter waiting in the wings.
I actually saw more of Cassandra than less,
even with the unease I felt around her brother. Charles maintained his
distance, rarely being present when I visited the huge, well maintained mansion
the entire group lived in. I wasn’t sorry that he always seemed to have
pressing business or an engagement that demanded he leave whenever I was there.
As my time with her increased, I began to
neglect other things, divesting myself of all interests, financial and
otherwise in all my business ventures. I rationalized that my investments and
interest coming in from those would keep me quite comfortable no matter what I
did, and was frankly obsessed with my ladylove.
I couldn’t see enough of her, and was
miserable in a quiet, melancholy way whenever we weren’t together. That
worried me… a lot, but I just couldn’t bring myself to stop seeing her.
Oh, I tried several times, but whenever I
started to tell her that maybe we should cool the relationship, she would touch
or stroke me in just the right place, or give me a knowing, sensual little grin
and my resolve melted like a snowball pulled out of the freezer in mid-July.
I just couldn’t make myself leave her, though
the power she held over me was so intense as to be like something out of a poor
romance novel, or maybe a horror story. I was fascinated, constantly marveling
about something new I’d discovered about her, some new trick during lovemaking,
or an idea for entertainment.
Whether I wished to admit it to myself or not,
I was very completely enthralled. I really think I’d have handed her my whole
fortune and robbed to get more if she had asked for it.
She wasn’t interested in my money. Her own
fortune was extensive, and old, just as I’d told Molly once. Inherited and
increased by her brother Charles’ investments.
Cassandra wanted me. That was something she
made perfectly clear from the beginning. I could have been, a pauper, a
criminal, whatever and it would have made no difference to her. I was the
person she wanted, and she was interested in nothing else. Just me.
Maybe that’s why I was so caught up with her.
It’s rare for a woman these days to place so much emphasis on the man she wants
instead of his job, money, or social position. Those things she regarded with
an aristocrat’s bored, disdainful disregard. She could have had any man, in
any position, anywhere and wanted no one but me. Desire, and love of that
intensity and commitment can be overwhelming when you’re on the receiving end
of it.
That was about the time I really began
drifting away from Steve and Molly. I’d already cut off most of my other
pre-Cassandra associations. My two friends voiced their concern every time I
saw them, becoming more insistent that I was losing myself too completely in
this new romance.
We were at my place, uncomfortably intimate in
the spacious living room of my rambling place just outside of town. Odd how
even the largest space can seem far too small at times, isn’t it? Cassandra
was due at any time, and both Steve and Molly were working at me to get back
into the old swing of things and stop cutting myself off from the mainstream of
life I had found so invigorating only months before.
“You look so pale,” Molly fussed, worrying
over me like a Jewish mother visiting her only child who still wasn’t a
doctor. “Have you been eating right, and getting enough exercise?”
“I’m fine, Molly,” my assurances weren’t
accepted, I could see by the Mona Lisa set of her mouth. When Molly put on the
funny little half smile, half smirk, it was a sure sign that she patently did
not believe what she was being told.
“You do look a little under the weather,”
Steve added. “Been fighting a bug or something lately?”
“No,” I ran a hand over my face to break the
eye contact Molly insisted on maintaining even when I tried to shy away from
it. Every time I looked back, her steady gaze was still fixed firmly on my
face.
“Been a little tired lately, is all. Working
on some new investments, and tinkering in my workshop a little more than is
good for me. That’s all,” I was tired, weary with a kind of enervated
exhaustion that would have had me running to the nearest physician to find out
what the problem was only a month earlier.
“You’re more than just tired,” Molly’s
pronouncement was just that, more an accusation than a statement. “Have you
seen a doctor? You really do look terrible. You’re losing weight, too.”
“Molly,” Irritated, I attempted to remain
light with my response. “You aren’t heavy enough, or old enough to pull off
the concerned mother routine. I’m okay, really.”
“No you aren’t,” she insisted, then dropped
her gaze, and the subject at my scowl.
“Sorry,” I vented a ragged sigh, genuinely
contrite. “I’m just tired out, Molly. Really. That’s all it is.”
“Sure,” she didn’t believe it yet, but knew
that pressing the issue would result in another argument and didn’t want that.
I could see her thinking, ‘It’s her doing this to you’, but she wouldn’t come
out and say it openly. Not any more.
“Admit it, buddy,” Steve forced a jocular tone
into his voice, along with a heartiness that wasn’t evident in his eyes. “You
just tangled with too much woman, and she’s wearing you out.”
“That,” I grinned, happy that he had tried to
lighten the general mood. “Is probably a lot of it. She does keep me hopping
what with one thing and another.”
“Not that I don’t like her, Jim,” Molly gave
me a sad smile. “I do, but since you’ve been seeing her things just haven’t
been the same with you.”
As I raised an eyebrow, she quickly cut off my
coming rejoinder. “Not because we aren’t an item any longer. I knew that
would happen eventually. We got along well, and were compatible, but both of
us knew there was some kind of necessary spark missing that would have made us
something more than just good friends.”
I couldn’t argue that, and had spent more than
a little private time grieving over the fact. Molly deserved to be well loved
by her man, and for some reason, I had never been quite able to reach that
state with her. In time it might have happened, but each of us had been
doubtful even at the height of our involvement with one another. It seemed
that we were doomed to be friends, close to soul mates, but always just a
tantalizing little step or gesture away from actual love.
Nodding agreement at that, I let her go on, “It’s
just that you’ve lost interest in the things that used to get your blood
pumping. You don’t have the old fire any more. I hate that most of all, that
you seem to be losing the thing that made you uniquely you.”
“People burn out, Molly,” I shrugged. “I took
a break from things before. I’ll get back into my old form again. I seem to
be one of those people who need to take the odd break from just about
everything so I can recharge my batteries.”
Both of them gave that statement a doubtful
acknowledgement. I got a slow, genuine smile out of Molly, and an agreeable
shrug out of Steve. Molly brightened perceptibly then, reaching for her glass
to find it empty. “I love coming here for the wine. One thing that hasn’t
changed is your good taste. Is there any more of this?”
I laughed as Steve protested her backhanded
slur on his own wine choosing abilities. “You bet. Got another case in the
basement if that bottle isn’t enough, too. Take some home with you if you
like.”
“I won’t turn that offer down,” she
emphatically accepted. “I don’t suppose you’d part with the whole case?”
We all dissolved into laughter at her feigned
greed. The remaining evening was very congenial for everyone concerned, with
all four participants, once Cassandra arrived and become soused enough to be
just a bit dangerous.
At my insistence, Molly and Steve used the
guest bedroom that night. They were my best friends and I didn’t want
something stupid to happen like a traffic accident from being too drunk to
drive, end that friendship. Every once in awhile, I let myself realize just
how much those two really did mean to me.
And how much I didn’t want to lose them.
VII
Cassandra rested
her head on my chest, several nights after our minor blowout with Steve and
Molly. My hand went automatically to her lustrous, raven hair and began
stroking it all on its own. She had nipped me again, in the right pectoral,
and was quietly lapping at the small amount of blood oozing from the tiny
wound. I didn’t mind at all, the act had become an integral part of our love
making early on, adding a halfway forbidden sensuality to our couplings that I
had come to find very erotic and stimulating.
Lips stained brighter red than normal,
jarringly evident, contrasting with her pale features. She raised her head to
fondly watch me while cleaning the residue from her mouth with the pink tip of
her tongue. “I like your friends.”
I had ceased being startled by her sudden
jumps into subjects that would never occur to many people at the time she
brought them up. Cassandra’s mind sometimes worked on a wavelength that was
almost alien to anything I had ever run into. We hadn’t discussed Steve and
Molly at all for the past few days, but now she launched into the subject.
“I’m happy for that,” was my lazy, almost
drugged response. “They mean a lot to me.”
“I can tell,” giving me an, odd, sad look, she
drew herself away from my embrace, wrapping herself in the bed sheet. Her way
of distancing herself was very disturbing at times. She could be right beside
me and off to Alpha Centauri for all I could tell when she got that way.
“They’re concerned for you,” she went on.
I gave a little twitch of my shoulder in lieu
of a complete shrug, “Friends worry about friends. I worry about them.”
“They don’t fully approve of me, do they?” she
pressed, as usual, unnervingly perceptive and able to home in on what was
bothering me. “They think I am not good for you.”
“They don’t run my life, honey,” still, I knew
she was correct. Molly and I had gone through a ridiculous argument a week
earlier, where she referred to Cassandra as a vampire who was sapping me of all
the things that made me the person she had become so fond of. She hadn’t meant
it literally, but you get the idea.
“They are right to be concerned for you,
James,” soft voiced, her rich contralto heavy with some emotion I couldn’t
quite identify, Cassandra sadly examined my nude form.
“And in their belief that I am the cause of
your evident illness,” letting the sheet shrouding her form fall away, she
flowed out of the bed to stand with her back to the full length mirror hanging
on the closet door.
Puzzled, I watched her, feeling the beginnings
of arousal again at sight of her unclothed form, so milk pale against nearly
any background. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not sick.”
“No, you aren’t ill,” she agreed. “But you
are dying, my love.”
That got my attention, “What’s that supposed
to mean? First you tell me I don’t have a disease, then in the next breath you
say that I am dying. Make up your mind here,” I was concerned, but not to the
point of cutting things off with her. I was too much in love, and felt that
whatever was wrong, had gone too far for sudden withdrawal to change things.
“I have,” came the simple response while she
stared stonily at the wall over my head, then she gestured for me to join her
in front of the mirror. “Now it is time for you to do so, too. Look at
yourself. Really look this time, and ignore or deny nothing you see.”
It wasn’t a request, but a command. Delivered
in an imperious tone that expected to be obeyed, that couldn’t conceive of not
having its injunction followed immediately. I got out of bed, more than a
little unsteady at first, but regained my equilibrium rapidly enough to join
her and stare at my own reflection.
It had changed. A lot. I was pale, with an
unhealthy looking pallor approaching the clear porcelain look of Cassandra’s
flesh, and of her brother’s. But mine was more yellow, and marred with tiny
scars where her teeth had drawn her “elixir of life” over the past few months.