Adduné - the Vampire's Game (29 page)

Arthur had given him the chair for his 47
^th
birthday. It had immediately gone right in front of the fireplace in his study. He loved nothing more than lighting a rip-roaring fire and settling back with a brandy in hand. It’s what he was doing right now. Sitting – with the two notes in hand – scrutinizing them and trying to remember. He placed them down on the small round side table that he’d dragged over from the sitting area. He lifted the snifter and drank hoping the liquor would loosen up what was inside.

In spite of the note’s alarming topics, he gave them a great deal of weight. These were the last testaments of two people’s lives. He understood the gravity and importance of the documents. To him, they were as important as any priceless antique. He was all about people and not things. He knew it was yet another character trait that set him apart from what had made Arthur tick.

Reginald focused and turned on a tunnel vision type of concentration to find out what it all meant. The glass rested lightly on his stomach as his mind kicked in with theories. He was open to the possibility that two people became despondent about life at approximately the same time, but he didn’t think it was a coincidence. A serendipitous occurrence wouldn’t account for the eerie feeling he had when he went to sleep at night. It’d cropped up soon after having that talk with Figgs. What Figgs had said stayed with him. The uneasiness was now a constant, unwelcome companion. It was there when he went to bed and when he awoke in the morning. He felt it every single second of the day – even when in the sanctity and safety of his study. Was it only Arthur’s friendly ghost? And if it were, why had Figgs given it such demonic proportions? The two men’s matching stories proved something was going on far beyond both being depressed with their lot in life. If they were depressed, why turn the subject to coffins and not keep it on the unfairness of life or employers? What on God’s green earth would possess them both to suddenly raise the specter of … Reginald stopped himself from even thinking about the word, but not for long. It was there – rising up in his consciousness like a hand breaking through the ground in a futile attempt to prove that the dead body buried was still very much alive.

Vampires
.

There it was. The word he hadn’t wanted to discuss even with himself and there was not a blasted thing he could do. He soon paid the price, for although it was summer, he felt a chill run through his bones. What was it about that word that evoked such emotions and fear? It wasn’t as if they were real. He quivered in response to this last thought. Rather than dwell on why, he merely got up and refueled the fire. The night demanded it and he acted as its obedient slave rather than question its need.

The new log and some additional kindling rapidly caught fire. He warmed his hands as he squatted before it on the hearth. When he felt the warmth sufficient to chase out the chill in his body, he stood and gave the fire a few pokes. He watched ashes fly off the tinder and fall blackened and dead into the charred lifeless remains. He drew the metal firescreen in front of the blaze. It clattered along the veined marble hearth. Reseating himself, he quickly downed more alcohol feeling momentarily flushed. He was comforted by the flames performing their dance of death before him. His muscles relaxed and the ache that had been plaguing him finally was purged and set free. A sigh meant to signal good riddance was breathed heavily into the air as Reggie swirled his remaining brandy until an eddy formed. He gazed into the center of the vortex he’d created with the mere shifting of his hand. It reminded him that something was always there – underneath the surface of the waters. Always an eye of the storm. Always a center. Staring into the glass he strove to discover what it was. What was he trying so hard to remember? What? He drank in more of the rich amber colored liquid. Perhaps if he drained the glass of the spinning waters, what remained would be his answer.

The clock on his mantle ticked away as he continued his quest. It was another gift from Arthur – this time for his 40
^th
birthday. Reginald had spotted it in a small, out-of-the way, little thrift shoppe that littered London. Arthur had disparaged the clock saying it couldn’t be authentic. And if it weren’t genuine, the price was outrageously high for an inferior, modern day copy. He quibbled with the shopkeeper as Reginald stood embarrassed and to the side. He hadn’t liked witnessing the spectacle, but that was the risk you ran when you went anywhere near antiques with Arthur. Arthur had given the clock a close inspection, and him a chastising primer on antique clocks for merely expressing interest.

“
Well, it’s a good fake, I’ll give the thief that poses as a shopkeeper that. Pierre
Gavelle
indeed!” he grumbled in retaliation to the shopkeeper’s claim that it was indeed made by Gavelle.

“
I’d have to remove the blasted bell to see if the forged name of Gavelle is on the backplate. I doubt it’s the handiwork of
Gavelle L’Aîné
or even 18
^th
century. The metal casting methodology had not been sufficiently developed to produce this type of craftsmanship. That puts it at least mid to late 19
^th
century. Then I’d have to check the name of this piece to see if this faked replica has a twin that is the original Gavelle. Then there’s the matter of the pivots. For it to be truly French, they would need to be small and not the larger variety used in England.”

He had gone on and on much to the chagrin of the shopkeeper … and Reginald. Reginald had only liked the handsome design and innocently inquired into its pricing. He could have cared less about when, where, or who designed it. He wasn’t a decorating expert like his wife, but felt the clock would look smashing on his mantle. The styling of it was so different than anything he’d seen, but when Arthur threatened the shopkeeper with calling the authorities, Reginald gave up about seeing it in his study. Arthur had stormed out, Reggie sheepishly following. He offered a weak apology to the old shopkeeper who looked as if he would have demanded a duel if given the option. Reginald had been thoroughly embarrassed and made a promise to himself to never go back to the store, and to cross to the other side of the street if he saw the poor, irate shopkeeper. He had no idea that the blustering was all for show. Arthur had him completely fooled.

“
Oh, Reginald, you take things too much to heart! It’s all part of the game! You should have seen your pasty face all white with shame! It was for show and to drive you away from the sale. You would have overspent, but you have a keen eye. Of course, I knew immediately that it was a French Louis XVI mantel clock circa 1771. And please do describe it properly. The white marble base is set on four ormolu toupee feet – inset with an ormolu mount. And those are not poles! They are black marble pillars that are ornately decorated by exquisitely carved ormolu laurel leaves that turn in opposing directions. Those are two classical urns sitting on top of them and not baskets! The white enamel dial is signed and strikingly decorated with gold floral motifs around the dial inset. Its movement is an 8 day duration – it strikes the hours and halves on a bell, flat-bottomed plates. It has a visible silk suspension pendulum. Now do you have all that?” Arthur had asked pounding him on the back.

“
I think it’s a bit much for me to remember,” was Reginald’s terse reply.

All the guests at the birthday party, had laughed – and that included Arthur. He didn’t mind the joke being occasionally turned on him.

He heard the soft tinging of the hour. It was midnight and Reggie was no closer to the truth. He’d again wasted an entire evening in a fruitless search, but the clock … the clock … Arthur had been right in what he said. It kept perfect time and served as a metronome around which Reginald built his life. The extravagant timepiece knew his moods. It used its sounds to either urge him on into a lather of energy or soothe him into sweet slumber. Reginald treated it as a friend in much the same way he had treated Arthur. The clock differed in that he let it structure his life by slicing the hours into sections like that of an orange.

The gentle monotone was now lulling him into sleep. The dinner, the alcohol, the warmth of the fire and the nagging internal agitation that Miranda was in danger finally caught up with him. His eyes were heavy with needed rest. His arm fell limply to the padded arm of the ornate chair – his hand still clutching the now emptied bubble of glass.

The fire before him rose up in a tidal wave of brilliant oranges, purples, and reds, tangling together in an exotic mixture and sea of splendor. The room wasn’t English, but delightfully tropical. It contained not a trace of former frost as everything had melted away. His glass was magically refilled with a mixologist’s concoction of unusual liqueurs that made his body tingle from the taste. The flavors were all new to him and refreshingly agreeable. The side table was moved back to its original position, its legs firmly fitted into the dents in the rug they had carved out through years of territorial occupancy. Reginald was drifting off and floating downstream when he heard a knock at the door. It entwined with the final note of the bell ringing out the hour. It was Arthur. He was sure of it. Arthur was coming for a visit. It had been such a long time.

“
Come in,” Reginald called out anxiously. He was feverish in the expectation of seeing his old friend. He heard the creak of the door as it opened agonizingly slowly. Reginald wished he would hurry, but what emerged was not what he expected. It wasn’t Arthur. How had he forgotten? Arthur was dead.

A tall stranger entered his study. He was the man that had stood on the other side of the solid, hardwood door. It was this man that he’d invited in. Reggie studied him. He possessed exceptional bearing and grace. Reginald found himself transfixed by the elegant movements and striking beauty. He knew this type of symmetry was reserved for Greek statues and the fairer sex. The bone structure, the skin, his coloring – all would happily reside on the face and body of a woman, but he wore it splendidly. In spite of it, he displayed all the characteristics of a virile, dominant male.

Reggie couldn’t look away – he was captivated by the man’s appearance. His eyes ravished the man’s face and form – studying each exquisite detail including his attire. The ornate costume complemented this sexual ambiguity in a way that was disturbing and yet pleasant. His garments only heightened his mystery and allure as they seemed of another time. Blue satin breeches that stopped at the knee, white stockings, high-heeled, diamond-buckled shoes. An embroidered silk jacket that would have been appropriate in the Court of Versailles. On top of his head was perched a white wig, tied back with a satin ribbon. The unannounced visitor looked as if he had stepped out of another century and walked straight into Reginald’s study. But who was he? How did he get in? And what was he doing here?

The stranger smiled and bowed from the waist. His right leg was out and pointed. He had a ballerina’s arch. He walked towards Reginald, but Reginald remained unconcerned. He was somewhat confused as to why he had invited him into his most private of sanctuaries, but was glad he did. The man exuded genuine charm. Reggie welcomed his company. It took no time at all for the stranger to make himself at home. He removed the firescreen and placed it to one side. He made his way towards Reginald the way a panther makes its way through the jungle. He lifted Reginald’s feet and dropped them to the carpeting. Reggie sat uncomplaining and compliant. He swung out his jacket tails and sat on the naked footstool that now had room for occupancy. He was directly in front of Reginald. Reginald glanced at the unprotected fire that looked as if it would explode.

Even a commanding fire couldn’t deter his attention – not when a man of such presence was before him. Reginald regarded the man as he would a work of art or fine painting. He examined him knowing he would hold up under close scrutiny. The man’s alabaster skin was flawless. His brows were dark and winged. His lashes black and so thick they looked mascared. There was a dark artificial mole on his high cheekbone that was in keeping with his style of dress. The oval face ended in a jaw line that was squared right under the lip line. It centered his face magnificently and kept him from looking womanly. It counterbalanced the full lips and eyes that were slanted and whorishly wanton. There was a raw sexuality and sensuality that added an exuberant, lusty excitement to his appearance. Yes, both men and women alike would desire him – would fall in love with him at first sight.

Reginald penetrated the man’s calculating, feral eyes. There was a ferocity of beauty buried in that chilling shade of blue. They were so markedly different from his wife’s blue eyes – almost diametrically opposed. This man’s eyes looked as if they each contained a vortex like the one he’d created in the brandy. As he stared, he realized that in the center, they went on forever. They contained an eternity.

The man’s rouged red lips parted. He saw the flash of a pliant, wine-red tongue and astonishing white teeth. They shone with a brilliance that was reserved for those brimming with good health.

“
I understand you are looking for an answer. I have come to give you one,” he said in a voice that harmonized with his appearance. It was a voice you could listen to for the whole of one’s life and never tire, but there was something else. For the first time, since his unannounced appearance, Reggie felt fear. The voice resonated with a timbre that bespoke of a horrible cruelty. Now that Reginald heard it, he saw it in his exquisite eyes. And his face. Reggie began to feel uneasy. He wanted to ask him who he was, what he wanted, and what he was doing here, but he had no control over his body. He felt numb – paralyzed by a dart delivered by a blow gun that had transported a witch’s brew into his system. He felt the dart still in his neck. It was in there – stinging like a needle. He tried to raise his hand to get it loose, but couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything, but sit mutely by as the man reached into his blue waistcoat that matched his eyes. He withdrew a small black leather pouch dotted with strange symbols. Small tassels were tied to the ends of two long cords that acted as drawstrings to open and close the leather pouch. With an agility and expertise, he took hold of the rim of the opening and expanded it. He tipped the pouch over and poured out a small amount of the pouch’s contents.