Casa Dracula 3 - The Bride Of Casa Dracula (6 page)

“Sure, why not? If it won’t interfere with your…what is it you do, exactly?” Mercedes had inherited her parents’ immigrant work ethic and thought writing wasn’t a real job.

“I just got the commission to ghostwrite the memoir of a world-renowned academic. I can’t say anything about it, however, because of a confidentiality clause.” I told her about registering for wedding gifts at the ritzy department store.

“You’re not expecting me to shop there, are you?”

“Oh, please. I have a catalog for the Womyn’s Sexual Health Collective and they have a gift registry. Oswald keeps going to the page with the pink fur handcuffs. I don’t know if he wants them for him or for me.”

“Too personal, mujer,” Mercedes said. “I’m getting you a blender. Not just any blender, but the Margaritanator 3000.”

“That’s exactly what I want! You’re psychic.”

“Yeah, that and Gabriel told me you destroyed another one,” she said. “The Margaritanator 3000 is for commercial use, and even you won’t be able to kill it.”

We enjoyed our toasty sandwiches and talked about music for the wedding. While we thought Juanita and Her Rat-Dogs were fantastic, Mercedes suggested bands that had a broader appeal.

As I was leaving, my amiga gave me a big abrazo and said, “Anything comes up, you know my number.”

I kissed her cheek and said, “I had it tattooed on my colita in case I ever get hit by a truck and get amnesia.”

I took the red-eye flight out, leaving late in the evening and arriving in early morning. When I went to the baggage carousel, I spotted my green zebra case the moment it came out and grabbed it up while others jostled to identify their boring black luggage.

Oswald had booked a room for me at his favorite hotel, a posh place smack in the heart of things, and insisted on paying for it. I could ponder my discomfort with our vastly different economic circumstances while I soaked in the marble Jacuzzi.

Navigating the subway in a big city made me feel cosmopolitan and capable. When I got out on the street, I studied all the stylish women so I’d know what to buy when I went shopping with Toodles, who was meeting me at the hotel. Guiding my rolling bag through the crowd was challenging, especially since I kept staring up at the tall buildings and signs and trendy urbanites instead of looking where I was going.

The boutique hotel had a Deco glass awning, and the doorman tipped his hat as I wheeled my bag into the carpeted lobby, which was as hushed as a monastery.

The middle-aged clerk at the front desk smiled pleasantly and said, “Good morning. May I help you?”

“Hello. I have a reservation and an early check-in.”

“Certainly. Under what name?”

“De Los Santos, Milagro.”

But he couldn’t find a reservation under my name or Oswald’s. I produced my confirmation information to no avail.

“That reservation was canceled,” the clerk said and told me that no rooms were available.

The concierge was called over to help. When the situation was explained, she gave me her card and said, “If you can’t find anything else, come back late tonight, after eleven. We hold a few rooms for emergencies. Tell the on-duty clerk that I sent you. We can give you a room at half off.”

I didn’t mind waiting for that kind of discount. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” The concierge offered to let me leave my bag in their luggage room. After I gave my bag to the luggage attendant, I turned and saw a preppy young woman coming toward me. “Toodles!”

“Milagro!”

We hugged and stepped back to look at each other. I remembered Nancy’s remark when I saw the pearl necklace at the open collar of Toodles’s blue pinstripe blouse. She wore navy corduroys and brown flats, and her curly brown hair was pulled back. Toodles seemed plain initially, but her sweet expression and plump body became very pretty with familiarity.

“Do you want to go up to your room?” she said.

“My reservation got canceled somehow.”

“Oooh, noo! My brother and his messy friends are crashing at my place, but I’ll kick them out.”

“Don’t do that! The concierge said I could get a room here after eleven, so I’ll do that. I don’t want to waste any of our time together.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m totally sure.”

“Goood! I’ve got a whole day planned and reservations at an amazing restaurant after your meeting.”

I’d told Toodles that I had a meeting at 6 P.M. with my fiancé’s relatives and implied that it was about a pre-nup, knowing she’d be too polite to pry.

We raced from monuments and landmarks, to department stores, to museums. We had so much to do that we ate lunch at a hot dog stand. I kept seeing things that I’d seen in movies and on television, so my experience was one of mingled recognition and wonder.

Toodles and I were sitting in a dark old bar that had been frequented by writers we’d studied at F.U. I told her about Nancy’s new career. “You’ll see her in action at the wedding. She’s developing something called Nancy’s Theory of Style, a rigorous, analytical approach to fashion.”

Toodles’s laugh turned into a very unladylike belch. She covered her mouth and looked surprised. “Oh, dear. My stomach is feeling a bit ooky.” She rushed off to the ladies’ room.

Her face was flushed and glistening when she came out ten minutes later. “I feel terrible that I’m ruining your day.”

“You feel terrible because you’re sick. I’ve had an incredible day and now I’m going to get you home.” I ushered her out to the street. A cab was just dropping off someone and I grabbed it for her.

As I handed her in, she said, “You’ve got to use the restaurant reservation. Promise! I’ll be better by tomorrow.”

I had just enough time to catch the subway back to the hotel. I gave the luggage attendant my ticket, collected my bag, and went to the ladies’ room in the lobby. I’d had a lot of experience using toilet stalls as dressing rooms and knew just how to twist and turn to get into a structured black jacket and hip-skimming skirt. I swapped my flat shoes for peep-toe heels that showed off my pedicure.

I brushed out my hair and as I was redoing my face, I spotted the red stone ring in my makeup case. That one small item was the finishing touch my outfit needed.

bear with me

I ’d planned on checking my case back into the luggage room but a horde of tourists was monopolizing the clerk’s time. I pulled my bag out to the street, and one of the wheels got caught in a grating and froze into place, forcing me to drag the bag behind me. I caught a cab, and we inched forward in heavy, noisy traffic. Thirty minutes and less than a mile later, the cabbie pulled up to an older skyscraper.

The security guard in the lobby checked my ID and then directed me to the twenty-fifth floor. I hauled my bag into the elevator and smiled when I saw a plaque for Presidential Properties. The vampires who had immigrated to America adopted presidents’ names to camouflage their origins, and every one I’d ever met had been wild for real estate.

The doors opened to a starkly elegant lobby with white-and-black marble floors and amber walls. White marble columns framed doorways, and the minimalist furniture was black and chrome. Three huge abstract paintings hung on the walls. I dragged my case to the reception desk.

An elderly woman with gold-rimmed glasses sat there, and her engraved green-glass nameplate read Mrs. Smith. I was reasonably sure that there hadn’t been a president named Smith, so I guessed that she was a Normal.

She glanced at my badge and snapped, “You’re five minutes late. The committee is waiting.”

Don’t poke the bear, I thought. “I’m sorry for the delay. Traffic was insane.”

“The conference room is downstairs.” She stared at my bag and said, “You may put that in that closet.”

I dragged my case to the closet, and then followed Mrs. Smith to the elevator. When it arrived and we got in, she pushed the button marked B2, the second level of the basement. She held a ring of keys and jingled them as we rode down.

The elevator opened into a gloomy room lined with hissing and clanking machinery. Pendant lamps cast anemic circles of light. Mrs. Smith led me down a narrow aisle.

She unlocked a door at the end of the room, and once I had gone through, she locked it behind us. We walked through a storeroom to another door. She unlocked this one, too, and again waited for me to pass through before locking it behind us.

We were in a dank, narrow hallway that was even more dimly lighted than the rooms we’d just walked through. We walked and walked and I realized that this was not a hallway but a tunnel. I felt a rumbling and guessed the subway was nearby. At the end of the tunnel was an old-fashioned cage elevator.

We got in and the gate closed with a loud clank. Mrs. Smith turned the crank handle to the right and we slowly and creakily descended until the elevator stopped with a heavy thud.

Mrs. Smith opened the gate and I stepped out. We were in a cavern. Glittering chandeliers illuminated an area like a stage. Beyond their glow, the cavern was pitch black. An enormous carpet in rich shades of scarlet lay on the brick floor. The cavern had a fantastic arched and tiled ceiling, and there were arches over the large wooden doors on a far wall.

A massive table of white-veined red marble was centered on the carpet. Six men sat at the table. They had the generic anonymity of prosperous businessmen: dark suits, graying hair, and regular features. In front of each was a bottle of mineral water, a glass, and a small carafe of deep red liquid.

The man at the head of the table stood and said, “Welcome, Miss De Los Santos.” His face was calm, his hazel eyes were sharp as a ferret’s. He had a narrow nose and a dimpled chin that gave his face character.

“Hello.” Despite the astonishing setting, my eyes kept going to the dark liquid, and the man saw that.

He turned to my escort. “Thank you, Mrs. Smith.”

She nodded her head and I heard her footsteps retreating, and then the creaking of the elevator as it rose.

The man said, “Please take a seat, Miss De Los Santos.”

I sat at the empty chair in front of the last setting of beverages and willed myself to be patient. Cranberry juice had controlled, but not sated, my thirst. I looked around the table at the other men. A few stared at me as if I were a prize bug and they were amateur entomologists, eager to stab a pin through me for a display. Others seemed annoyed at having to be there.

“Miss De Los Santos, we have received the Grant family’s petitions to grant you rights within our community, but we would like to review the details with you personally.” He clearly pronounced every r.

“And you are?” I asked.

“I’m Mr. Nixon.” He saw my expression and said, “It really is my name,” but I didn’t believe him.

I picked up the carafe and smelled it. It had a strange aroma, not human, but not like the blood of any animal I’d tasted before.

“It’s llama, Miss De Los Santos, since we learned that you won an award for a story about a llama.”

Not that damn llama again. But the thick liquid had a fresh, sweet, copper scent that made my mouth water. “How thoughtful.” I poured a teaspoon of blood in my glass and filled it with water. The taste was a little odd, grassy like lamb, with a not unpleasant stronger note. It was definitely better than emu. It warmed me and I instantly felt more alert. “What is this place?”

A man who’d been eyeing me with fascination explained that it had been built when the first subway had been built, over 150 years ago. “If anyone noticed the additional construction, they forgot about it. Or died.”

I suspected that the doors led out to subway lines and other exit passages. This was where the vamps would come in an emergency. I felt a twinge of sympathy for a people who always had to worry about their safety. I said, “Sam Grant told me that I would be signing the agreement that we already reviewed.”

“Yes, you will,” said Mr. Nixon. “But first we’d like to hear your story in your own words. Let’s start at the beginning. How did you first meet Oswald Grant?”

Don’t poke the bear, I thought, and I recited a brief version of my experiences: my initial infection; kidnapping by a crazed ex-beau; and my more recent encounter with a rogue vampire and the extremist Project for a New Vampire Century.

Nixon said, “You’ve got an ally in Ian Ducharme, but that’s to be expected considering your special relationship.”

“He did save my life after that attack. But if you are referring to our friendship, we don’t even keep in touch. If you mean more, you are mistaken.”

“We are a little unclear on exactly how Ducharme saved you, Miss De Los Santos. He doesn’t usually take an interest in Normals.”

“Basic first aid,” I lied, remembering the taste of Ian’s blood. “I can’t speak for what interests Ian. He seems to like parties and expensive cars.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Nixon said again. It was a dissatisfied “hmm.” “I find it hard to believe that you’re willing to keep this situation a secret from your own family.”

“I have no family other than my parents, and they ignore my existence. There are no phone calls or birthday cards.”

“Even if that isn’t a problem, do you really accept fully what it will be like to live as one of us? To live in secrecy, to have a partner vulnerable to sun poisoning, to have a craving that disgusts and repels people, to have enemies who treat you as less than human?”

He looked around the room, and the other men nodded sadly. He said, “You don’t share our vulnerabilities and your DNA tests don’t show our anomaly. You’ll want a family of your own. If you miraculously manage to conceive, it’s highly unlikely that you’ll carry to term. Our rule against intermarriage was not made to protect us-but to protect spouses and children. There’s no greater pain than having a child die.”

There was such sorrow in his voice. I said, “The Project for a New Vampire Century found historical evidence that those rare survivors, like myself, can have children. I promise you that Dr. Grant and I take this as seriously as you. We have discussed all these issues extensively.”

He smiled apologetically and said, “We have only a few more questions. This is of a somewhat delicate nature. We request that you and Dr. Grant cease all physical relations until you are officially married in our ceremony. If possible, you should move out of his house.”