Dracula's Desires (6 page)
Authors: Linda Mercury
C
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D
espite her newfound love of the sun, Valerie remained a night creature. Wide-awake after her nap, she had left their bed hours ago. Yet John didn't sleep. Valerie stopped her midnight weapon cleaning at the sounds of his thrashing.
espite her newfound love of the sun, Valerie remained a night creature. Wide-awake after her nap, she had left their bed hours ago. Yet John didn't sleep. Valerie stopped her midnight weapon cleaning at the sounds of his thrashing.
The tiny apartment boasted a separate kitchen and bath, but the white walls were old-fashioned lathe and plaster. Soundproof, they weren't.
Her first instinct was to ignore him. He was an adult. He could get himself a sleeping pill or a glass of warm milk or whatever it was mortals used. The baby dug its toes into Valerie's ribs, a reminder of the reality of love.
Her eyes lit on the remains of the pastries he'd brought home earlier today. She was sitting in a rocker he had bought specifically for her and “their” baby. The warm pleasure between her legs suggested that she treat him as gently as he had treated her.
A fluff of John's pillows decided her. She picked up her viola case.
John's bedroom faced away from the street, but some traffic sounds still made it through the open window. In her bare feet, she crossed the floor, automatically avoiding all the creaky floorboards. Their gazes held until she sat on the foot of the bed.
John's bedroom was small by American standards, but roomy by European thought. It was small, spare, and spotless. Instead of a double bed for them to share, they had two single beds pushed next to each other, each with its own linens. The blond hardwood floor warmed up the drifting curtains and white linens. Valerie smiled at her thick rugs pooled by the foot of John's bed. They'd had sex on them this afternoon.
Despite the color of her furs, John's bedroom reminded her of Lance's monklike cell.
“Did I disturb you?” John's normally mellow voice held the scratch of hard contemplation.
“No,” she lied. Valerie unlatched her viola case. “This used to help my wife sleep.”
“Your wife.” John lay on his back and tucked his hands behind his head. “You were married.” He sounded irritable, as though she had deliberately kept secrets from him.
“Ilona never knew, John.” Valerie answered the question he didn't ask. “My brother stole her from me, dug his teeth into her fair neck.”
“Is she still alive?”
Valerie plucked the E string. “I killed her.”
The evening froze around them. She felt John's gaze on her downturned face.
She picked up her bow and ran a quick scale on the instrument. “I've not played for another living being since she was turned.” Valerie settled the familiar wood under her chin and adjusted her strings.
John rolled over to lean against the wall behind his bed. His nipples peaked and the hair on his chest ruffled in response to the chilly night. She breathed his mouthwatering apple aroma released by the disarrayed blankets.
“Who is your favorite?” he asked.
“Tonight, it is Berlioz.” With that, she played for him.
Passion dripped from Valerie's fingers. The complicated notes blended to reveal things she couldn't say out loud: her loneliness, her heartbreak at the loss of her wife, brother, and family, the uncertainty of her future, her growing fear of what was inside of her, and the devastating amount of loss that six hundred years inflicted on a person.
Here was her shattered heart. How could one being see and experience so much change, lose so much, and remain sane?
Eventually, she released Berlioz, delving into a slow, tender rendition of Bach.
Not once during her concert did the neighbor knock on the ceiling.
“Why are you not asleep?” she asked John when she finally set down the bow.
“Because you are not finished playing.” He knew there were more things she needed to say.
It was about the frightening reality of love. Centuries of lying were not easily broken, despite the motivation.
John laid his hand on her thigh and let himself drift. Tomorrow he'd continue his campaign to stitch her to him as tightly as he wanted.
C
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L
ate into the night, the Harker household finally quieted. Mina had dosed herself with opium-laced brandy and gone to bed, exhausted by Maxwell's news and her unworldly hysterics. One by one, the Fallen Angels assembled in the kitchen, the one place Mina was guaranteed to avoid. Bright light hurt vampires. Though Mina was an unknown hybrid of human and vampire, she shared the distaste for fire.
ate into the night, the Harker household finally quieted. Mina had dosed herself with opium-laced brandy and gone to bed, exhausted by Maxwell's news and her unworldly hysterics. One by one, the Fallen Angels assembled in the kitchen, the one place Mina was guaranteed to avoid. Bright light hurt vampires. Though Mina was an unknown hybrid of human and vampire, she shared the distaste for fire.
The team, on the other hand, found the kitchen oddly comforting. Pans of baking bread were laid on the stove to rise overnight. The earthbound scents of yeast, spices, and fruit raised appetites for more than food.
Maxwell had never heard such violent masturbation as he had tonight before he had spread the word to meet. Everyone on his team had awakened from the passion-killing existence of Headquarters. Maxwell did not want to know what elicited Mina's desires.
As the leader of this mission, he took his place by the stove and waited for everyone to settle into place. The walls of copper-bottomed pans reflected bizarre, distorted images of the Fallen's true shapes. In the soft flicker of the gaslight lamps, they draped themselves over chairs and clotheslines, each finally comfortable in their natural form. Some chose composites of Earth animals, others sported the curlicues of imagination. Each of them carried an air of sleepy satisfaction. None showed wings.
Inside, Maxwell sighed. Despite his people's proud claims of rebellion, spreading their wings could be a painful reminder of what they left behind.
Tonight's planning session was the first step in changing that.
He opened his briefcase and distributed a number of eight-by-ten glossy photographs.
“Lucifer himself has handpicked us to carry out this mission. Our goal is simple. It is nothing less than the utter destruction of the traitor Lance Soleil.”
His troops shifted. Shock filtered through each mind.
The housemaid flicked her monkey tail. “How are we supposed to do that?” she challenged. “You're nothing but a paper pusher.”
Murmurs of “Don't draw attention to yourself,” “Stop it,” and “Oh, for crying out loud,” ran through the crowd. One of them tugged at the maid's hands, trying to force her to sit. She merely raised her chin at Maxwell.
Once he would have been amused at her confrontation. As they stood on the cusp of his private plan's fruition, he just wanted to finish.
“For crying out loud, indeed.” Maxwell captured her gaze. “You doubt my abilities?”
The housemaid stared like a snake caught in the glitter of a mongoose's eyes. Her tail curled underneath her. Her body tucked into a tight little ball.
She had forgotten his reputation. One did not become the highest paper pusher in Revolutionary Headquarters by accident.
Maxwell ran his gaze over the rest of his people. Each showed the requisite amount of fear. He smiled his satisfaction.
“Now that we have gone past the usual foolishness, let us begin. To destroy Lance, we will capture his Guide and hold him hostage.”
His underlings gaped in horror.
Guides were off-limits for Revolutionary activities. Kidnapping one could lead to a second cosmic war between those Above and the Rebellion.
Moral rules entrenched into the very fabric of the Earth's existence mandated that Guides were treated as sacred entities.
With his back to the oven and the subordinates at his feet, Maxwell reigned supreme over the darkened world of this pocket universe. His empty heart expanded with what he remembered was joy. His arms spread to encompass each of them.
At the end of this, they would all be free.
“The Guide, John Janté, must remain unharmed. Not a hair on his head misplaced or a ruffle on his shirt wrinkled, because the Guide is not our true goal. Lucifer wants Lance Soleil back in our fold.”
Everyone nodded, following him.
“That is what Lucifer wants. Let us talk finally of what we want.” He leaned forward and his troops huddled in closer. When one spoke treason against the First, it was best to whisper.
“There is another way to escape our fate. With the Guide, all of us shall escape the hopelessness of our lives.”
“What is the plan?” the housemaid murmured.
“I will reveal only one step at a time. If we fail, it is best if you can claim ignorance.” Maxwell pointed to the butler and three footmen. “You take Janté. Create a car, and meet us at one of the hot zones.” Not waiting for an answer, he continued. “According to Lucifer, Lance is still young and limited in his powers. He will have trouble finding us and that will incur his wrath. Once he is weakened from the search, we will fill him with pride.” He paused for a few seconds, increasing the anticipation. “I know we each have confidence in Lucifer's plan.”
The small band exchanged secret smiles. They had confidence it would fail.
“There is one small complication. For the last few weeks, this pregnant woman has shared our target's apartment.” Maxwell handed out the pictures of Valerie Tate. The team studied her.
In the pictures, she stood in her bra and panties, her distended stomach protruding from her slender body like a shelf. A glass filled with a dark fluid hid her mouth. She had large eyes and an angular face softened only by impending motherhood.
“No problem,” the butler said.
“She looks harmless, but stay away from her. Take him when she is not watching,” Maxwell warned.
“Why not kill her?” the housemaid asked, curious instead of confrontational. “She's a complication.”
Maxwell shook his head. “No. Under no circumstances is she to be harmed. All I can tell you is that she is essential to part two.
He held up his hand, halting any questions. “First things first. We need the Guide.”
Maxwell picked up another set of pictures in his hand and then fanned them out.
“Here.” He pointed to a narrow alleyway next to the apartment. “We grab here. He comes home this way every evening. He picks bread up at this patisserie. Drug him, grab him, get out. I'm in no mood to deal with someone so blatantly heroic. And whatever you do, don't let him slug you in the nose.”
C
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B
lood and Coke in hand, Valerie swallowed her prenatal vitamins. She hurriedly drank to chase away the bizarre sensation of the tablets in her throat. She had already made the mistake of grinding the vitamins up and stirring the powder into her drinks. She'd never tasted anything more repulsive.
lood and Coke in hand, Valerie swallowed her prenatal vitamins. She hurriedly drank to chase away the bizarre sensation of the tablets in her throat. She had already made the mistake of grinding the vitamins up and stirring the powder into her drinks. She'd never tasted anything more repulsive.
Clad only in a faded black tank top and panties, she pushed aside the curtains to watch the street. The train would have just arrived at the station. Soon John would be home, carrying more delicious food than could be imagined.
Valerie grinned into her drink. Franco-Swiss cooking might get short shrift in the food snobs' world, but she'd never experienced such animal sensuality as she had since she'd moved in with John. Hot melted cheese served to her off his fingertips, segments of sausage on dark bread, and liquors that seemed distilled from mountain flowers shook her and the child with bliss. When John offered his neck, reassuring her that, no, really, he did heal fast, she washed his gifts down with his apple-laden blood.
The memory of what they had done once she had drunk her fill made her rub her thighs together. To keep from losing her balance, Valerie supported her even bigger belly with one hand. The child had grown beyond all expectations under the spoiling.
Catalogs for baby supplies and toys for infants littered the countertops. Almost like normal people would have.
Normal? Valerie pursed her lips. How heinous.
“No way, Mom.”
The baby agreed.
The baby agreed.
Mom.
Valerie tried the word on for size. Yes, she could live with Mom. So far the unborn had rejected Dread Lady, Death Bringer, and Omnipotent Potentate. Valerie had rejected the baby's suggestions of Silly Goose, My Mindless Minion, and Strawberry as names for the maternal unit.
She leaned one elbow against the window's vertical support and smiled into the coming dusk. This parenting thing was going to have its good moments.
John turned the corner and waved at her. Valerie allowed her smile to spread. She pushed up her T-shirt to let the baby greet him, too. His beautiful black-and-white aura lit up the fronts of the buildings that lined the narrow street.
She had believed the love she bore for Lance could never allow for any other affection. Her love for Ilona had kept her isolated. But this time, the more love and desire John showed for her, the more Valerie had to share with everyone around her. For example, her viola had become popular at the café next door.
A whiff of sulfurous car exhaust interrupted her lovefest. Irritated, she searched for the offender.
A dark blue sedan idled in front of their building. The streetlights reflected on four shaved heads.
The hair stood up on Valerie's neck. She set down her blood and stepped onto the windowsill.
“John!” she called.
Moving faster than sound, Fallen Angels piled out of the car, surrounding John. Within nanoseconds, they stuffed him into the trunk of the car and screeched off.
“What the fuck?”
the baby shouted.
the baby shouted.
“On it, kid,”
she replied.
she replied.
She wasn't faster than sound, but she was fast enough to stop a car. Valerie threw herself from the third-story window. The passengers in the car watched her, their mouths open, as she landed on the street behind them. Barefoot, she pushed her supernatural muscles to the limit. One more leap and she landed on the trunk of the car.
She balanced with one foot on the bumper and one on the edge of the car. Her toes dug into the metal, giving her secure footing.
The driver slapped one hand over the other on the steering wheel, whipping the car back and forth. She laughed at him, even when he tried accelerating and slamming on the brakes in a useless attempt to dislodge her. The quaint brick street gave way to the smooth modern highway. The unforgiving pavement stretched like a gray ribbon underneath the smoking tires.
With a single punch, she drove her fist through the lock of the trunk. As she peeled the metal away from an unconscious John, the driver of the car swerved harder than before.
“Die!” she screamed, and shoved the now-useless scrap metal through the rear window.
Her makeshift lance pierced the skull of one of the back passengers. His dust coated the interior of the car.
Cursing, the other passengers pulled out semiautomatic weapons. They aimed for her. Ignoring them, she reached into the trunk to gather a limp, drugged John into her arms.
They shot her in the chest.
The bullet was blessed silver. Trails of fever spiraled out from the tunnel the bullet punched through her.
Valerie fell off the back of the car, clutching her hands to her open wound. She rolled on the pavement, her blood spouting from the hole.
“Get up!”
the baby ordered.
the baby ordered.
“Unnecessary orders are the sign of an insecure leader
,
kid”,
she retorted, stanching the wound with her hand.
,
kid”,
she retorted, stanching the wound with her hand.
Then a miracle occurred. The silver stopped hurting. The gunshot hole closed faster than she'd ever experienced before. She found her lips twisting back in a snarling smile. Carrying the kid completely negated any of the usual vampire-stopping measures.
Valerie staggered to her feet. As the car neared a tunnel, she was able to see John groggily resisting a kidnapper. The Fallen was attempting to pull John into the backseat through a gap in the seat back.
“Find Lance,” John shouted before the Fallen coshed him with the butt of his pistol. Red stained his black hair as the car bounded out of sight.
Valerie placed her scraped hands on her knees. Screw Lance. She'd find John by herself.
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