Forbidden (9 page)

In the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace—

Radiant palace—reared its head.

In the monarch Thought's dominion—

It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow…

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch's high estate;

(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow

Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)

And, round about his home, the glory

That blushed and bloomed,

Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

And travelers now within that valley,

Through the red-litten windows, see

Vast forms that move fantastically

To a discordant melody;

While, like a ghastly rapid river,

Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out forever,

And laugh—but smile no more.

Akiva imagined Edgar Allan Poe wrote this poem with the apartment building where Akiva had lived in New Orleans in mind. Hoping at one time to bring Hannah back here temporarily, as he'd imagined them finding a place more suited for their future lives, he was now without Hannah, without hope, and without any place else to go.

“Akiva!” a throaty voice called to him. The deep tone defied the woman's voluptuous form spilling over the boundaries of her extra-large clothes. “What you be doing here now?”

His footstep didn't falter as he approached the building. Wrought-iron gates painted black surrounded its courtyard, and on the top step sat the old woman he'd known for almost two years. Her name was Orphelia, which wasn't her original name, just the one she had adopted since her changing.

He squeezed Rachel's hand and whispered, “Stick close to me.”

She kept pace with him but didn't answer. He'd bought her English clothes in Tennessee: maternity pants and top. Amish attire stood out and became memorable. This way, she looked ordinary, uninteresting, and could easily be overlooked—except, in this place. She was alive, which made her intriguing to those who lived here.

The sun glowed an orangey-red along the horizon and made the elderly buildings appear gilded, like blood pouring out from a wounded heart, spilling down along the straight sides and over awnings.

“Where you been all this time?” Orphelia spoke in a tone that would have been suitable if they'd been three streets away, but Akiva whisked Rachel past the older woman without acknowledgement, reaching the heavy door at the top of the steps.

The reddish hues of sunlight glinted on the brass handle, making it burn as if it opened the gates of hell. He braced himself for demons to pour outward at his appearance, but the darkened entryway looked deserted.

Akiva grabbed Rachel's arm and jerked her against him. “Stick close. You hear me? We're going straight to the top of the stairs. Don't stop for anything.”

“
Ja
, okay.” Her footsteps sounded heavy on the stoop, and she stumbled over the threshold. He righted her and ushered her inside.

Orphelia snagged his other arm. She had some strength in those old hands and some swift moves. She'd risen up from the step and now stood next to him, holding him fast at the threshold as Rachel slipped through his fingers and went obediently up the stairs. Akiva met Orphelia's black eyes. She had a wide, dark face and thick, wiry hair, salt-and-pepper in color, which stuck out in all directions. Exotic scarves covered her round, lumpy body in a jambalaya of colors and textures that didn't seem to go together and yet complemented her perfectly.

“Where you been, Akiva?” she asked him again.

“Up north.”

“Long time you gone.” Her Creole accent rolled across her tongue in a smooth, thick sound like molasses pouring over pancakes. Orphelia's big black eyes shifted toward Rachel. “You bring a souvenir back with you?”

Maybe
this
wasn't a good idea. But where could he take Rachel?

Orphelia's smile flashed, a gold eyetooth winking. “You gonna share with us?”

But as he always did with the bloods, he ignored her comments, shrugged out of her grasp, and walked right past Orphelia to the wooden staircase. He couldn't see any of the other dwellers, but he sensed them, heard their whispers.
This
was
a
very
bad
idea.

Rachel was already reaching the second landing when a door opened in front of her. A deathly chill settled on Akiva.

Stephanos stepped into the hallway and leaned against the doorjamb. He had a sinewy body and looked much younger than he was. He had been the first blood Akiva had met living in the building. His shoulder-length hair had an unkempt look in its loose brown waves, with two blond streaks framing his face. He wore outlandish clothes—a velveteen jacket, silk shirt, faded skinny jeans, along with scarves and necklaces, bracelets and rings—all of which Akiva figured were a compilation of things the vampire had picked up throughout the two hundred years he'd lived in New Orleans.

Stephanos had once told Akiva, “I was a sailor on the
Mohongo
, come ashore to enjoy a doxie or two, when I met the wrong one.” The wide Mick Jagger mouth grinned. “Or maybe I should say the right one, eh?”

Akiva had laughed with him but wondered if he could believe what he said. “Where'd you come from?”

“Galway, Ireland. The famine hit us hard, and I got work with the McCorkells. Never looked back.”

“You don't sound Irish.”

Stephanos had elbowed Akiva in the ribs. “Been here longer now. Right around…” He paused then shrugged. “Never was much good with my arithmetic. Came over to stay for good in fifty-three. That's eighteen fifty-three. So it's been a while.”

“Ever think of goin' back?”

Those black eyes stared at him. “Why would I do that?”

With Stephanos's eccentric looks, Akiva originally thought this was a building for dead rock stars and had looked around to see if Elvis, Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, or Jerry Garcia had apartments here. But these dwellers of the night brought a whole new meaning to the Grateful Dead. It had proven to be a good place to live after Akiva had been changed. Nobody bothered nobody. Nobody cared if they heard strange sounds coming from apartments in the middle of the night or even screams.

Stephanos was one of the most dangerous. Akiva had seen him bring young girls and women into the building. They'd disappeared into Stephanos's apartment, clinging to his hand, curving their bodies around his as they sought a good time. But Stephanos was merciless. Akiva had heard the unending screams.

Now Stephanos's black gaze traveled over Rachel, noting each swell and curve with keen interest. “Well, hello. And who are you?”

Rachel kept her hand on the railing and glanced back toward Akiva as if he would save her. He might have to try. He leapt up the last few stairs in one bound and put an arm around her shoulders. With a brief nod, he said, “Stephanos.”

“Akiva.” The vampire smiled, but his gaze remained on Rachel. “This your rent?”

“I sent payment while I was away.”

“You were gone a long while.” Stephanos shrugged a shoulder then ran a ringed finger along Rachel's bare arm. “This could be payment for my watching after your stuff.”

Akiva stepped between Stephanos and Rachel, blocking her with his body. “What do you mean?”

“You weren't here. Others wanted such a choice apartment.”

“So? I paid—”

“So, others were interested. Others needed a place. Some wanted to know more about you, where you came from, what interested you.”

A growl emanated from Akiva's throat.

Stephanos's smile widened, then he chuckled. “Don't worry.” He placed a congenial hand on Akiva's shoulder. Still he continued to watch Rachel with great interest. “I watched out for you. And you—”

“Look what Akiva brought home with him!” Orphelia's voice trailed up the stairs after them. “Do you see? Can you smell her?” She drew a great breath, expanding her broad chest like an opera singer.

Stephanos breathed deeply, luxuriating in the delicious scent emanating from Rachel. “I do indeed.”

“She expecting,” Orphelia said, coming up the stairs. “He cannot—”

“Enough!” Stephanos shoved a hand out toward Orphelia, and she immediately stilled. “Akiva knows what he is doing, right?”

Akiva gave Rachel a nudge to the next set of stairs, and she stumbled again but righted herself this time. Akiva moved behind her, his hand still on her arm, but his gaze remained on Stephanos, who gave a slight wave of his fingers. “See you later.” He leaned to one side in order to gain one more look at Rachel. “You too, beautiful.”

When he reached the top floor, Akiva opened the door to his apartment without a key.
What
would
a
lock
accomplish
here?
It wasn't necessary or helpful. He couldn't keep the bloods out, and no halfway intelligent criminal would dare cross the threshold below. At least not and live to tell about it.

But one quick glance told him others had been in here. His keyboard's cover was on the floor, the keys and controls exposed to dust, and the power turned on. His state-of-the-art stereo hummed, and CDs, which consisted of an eclectic pairing of greats from Bach to Beethoven and Meatloaf to Ozzy Osbourne, were scattered on the floor.

Something fluttered above him, but he ignored the fact they weren't alone. Here, they would never be alone. He should not have brought her here. Rachel leaned in the direction of the lumpy sofa he'd inherited, but he pushed her through the apartment. He couldn't leave her alone for a moment, because another blood might swoop down and end his plan. “Come on. We're not staying.”

“We're not?” she asked, looking dazed and confused.

He shook his head. “It's too dangerous.”

She tripped on a cord stretching from the wall socket to his stereo. “Dangerous?”

“Come on.” He pulled her past the never-used kitchen toward the bedroom, which was where he kept pieces of his old life: his books about the authors he loved and their writing in novel and poetic forms, the Amish clothes he'd been wearing when Camille had changed him, and pictures he'd taken with a camera utilizing a telephoto lens. He'd returned to Promise after he'd been changed, simply to take photographs of Hannah: while she hung out the laundry on the line, rode in the buggy, carried eggs, and chased her little sister in the yard. He'd framed them around his bedroom, and he would lie on the bed, not needing sleep but aching for her and staring at those photos. This was where he had birthed the notion he would change her. The hope she would live with him throughout eternity. But it would not happen now. And he would not live without her.

He slammed shut the door to the bedroom, closing off the rest of the apartment, and stalked across the room toward the dusty bookshelves. The books were there, although he could tell many had been moved or riffled through. Some reposed on their sides. Some lay open, their spines cracked, their pages ruffling in the breeze of the air conditioner.

Akiva swerved toward the narrow closet and slid open the mirrored door. His black broadcloth coat, white shirt with dried bloodstains, suspenders, and straw hat were still inside. A fine layer of dust speckled the shoulders of the coat. Even his old, worn work boots remained on the floor.

Turning back toward Rachel, who now sat on the edge of the bed, he noticed something…something missing. The photographs of Hannah were gone, the frames blank vistas of cardboard backing.

He circled the room, staring at the tilted frames, stepping on broken glass under his feet. A growl rumbled in his throat and erupted as he knocked over a lamp.

“What's wrong?” Rachel asked.

“Everything!” He whirled toward her, and she cringed. But he stalked toward her. How could he explain? How could she understand what had been taken? Stolen! He kicked a foot at the bed and swore. Rachel only blinked at him. “Get up. We have to get out of here before—”

“Before what?” a high-pitched feminine voice asked.

Both Akiva and Rachel turned. A waif of a girl stood in the partially opened doorway. She had a pixie haircut like Peter Pan and skinny arms and legs sticking out of blue-jean shorts, and a pale pink shirt. She looked to be about ten or twelve.

“Who the hell are you?” Akiva asked.

“Jacob!” Rachel reached out to the child as if to protect her, when it was Rachel who needed protection from the black-eyed, pint-sized vampire.

“Did you do this?” Akiva ripped an empty frame off the wall and hurled it straight at the girl, who shifted sideways a couple of inches and avoided the launched missile, which smashed into the wall. The broken frame and glass crashed to the floor. “Did you steal my pictures?”

The young girl tipped her chin downward and shook her head. Innocence exuded from her, but those black eyes told Akiva she was anything but.

He narrowed his gaze on her, unsure if he should believe her or not. If she'd tampered with his stuff and stolen the pictures of Hannah, he'd rip her head right off her swanlike neck. “You tell whoever did, they have twenty-four hours to bring my stuff back.”

Then he grabbed Rachel's hand, flung open the bedroom door, and whisked her out of the apartment and the building, well aware that several pairs of black eyes trailed them.

The good news: Roc knew what they were up against. The bad news: it was Akiva.

Chasing vampires wasn't like chasing a criminal. They didn't leave fingerprints or credit-card trails. They left only blood.

Roc had squeezed as much information as he could from his old cop friend, Mike. Which amounted to nothing much. The Philadelphia cops knew nothing about this latest disappearance of an Amish woman, and they cared less. Roc had driven all over Lancaster County, from Promise to Intercourse, asking folks if they'd seen Rachel Nussbaum. He couldn't get any useful information though.

No one had seen her for days or weeks. It was as if she'd simply disappeared. No one had seen a man with dark hair and darker eyes, either. The Lancaster sheriff's office acted a bit more interested, in light of the Yoder girl's death, but they were like a fly swatter batting at Goliath. Roc had been to the train station, bus depot, and airport, and he'd come up empty.

What a fool he was for agreeing to chase after a hungry vampire and his next victim—an innocent, pregnant widow.
Did
it
get
more
pathetic?
Heck, he should go straight to CNN where this would be a great story. Or maybe
The
National
Enquirer
would be interested. Yes, definitely, add a vampire or alien and any sleazy rag would print the story on its first page with a big headliner: “Vampire Kidnaps Amish Widow.” Papers would definitely sell. Maybe they'd theorize it was a vampire from outer space. And then Roc would be locked up in the loony bin.

He could hear the boys back in NOPD. “Knew Roc was losin' it.”

“The alcohol pickled his brain.”

“Nah, losing his wife put him over the edge.”

His last-ditch effort was Mike again. Even though out of uniform at the moment, he still had cop eyes, which narrowed suspiciously on Roc. “You're drunk, aren't you?”

“No. I'm telling you, this woman is missing—”

Mike tossed a thick manila folder onto his cluttered desk. “So are all of these folks. From kids to old folks. Teens who ran away. Kids who disappeared in the night. Some pedophile neighbor took a hankerin' to 'em. Or their dad picked 'em up one day after school before Mom got there. And
bam
—they disappeared. For good. No trace. Nothing. Grandfathers who wandered out of the nursing home. Aunts who went to the grocery store and never returned home, their car found on some deserted road. Wives, husbands, daughters, sons, grandkids all searching and desperate to find these missing folks. Some have been missing thirty years. This Amish widow ain't the only one, my friend. So good luck.”

Good luck was right. It was like finding the right straw hat in a pile of Amish ones. Rachel wasn't the only one missing though. But the likelihood of finding Rachel seemed more hopeless than all these other folks combined. All these missing folks had recent pictures, stats listing their weight and height. A few who had been missing for a while had drawings of what the person might look like after all these years. But for Rachel, there wasn't even a starting photograph, just Hannah's description: “blond, blue eyes, a smidgen shorter than me.”

Knowing what Akiva was and his modus operandi, Roc figured Rachel was already dead. Negativity had nothing to do with his prediction. It was a simple probability. And it was Roc's fault, the way Ferris's death was his fault too…and Josef's…and Emma's. The list was long and growing.

Driving back, he thought about his own wife, the lost years, the empty hours. A raw ache of grief surged upward and hopelessness stole over him. Levi and Hannah had made a bad mistake asking him to search for Rachel.
What
use
was
he
anyway? What was the point?
He'd search and eventually some kid would head out to a creek to do some fishing and find an abandoned sneaker, then a hand…It always ended the same.

A flash of a neon sign caught his attention, and he steered his Mustang toward a liquor store to buy a bottle of rotgut. The brand or year didn't matter.

He returned to the bed-and-breakfast where he'd been staying on and off for the past six months. When he first arrived in Pennsylvania, the NOPD had been footing his bill, but after they cut him off, Roc had bunked sometimes with Roberto, sometimes with Mike, and occasionally in his car. But tonight, he needed a soft bed, and his usual room was available.

“Need help with your luggage?” the redheaded teen, Suzy, asked.

He shook his head and took the key. She wore black nail polish. “You still into vampires?”

She grinned. “Werewolves.”

He tilted his head. God help him if the next battle he had to face was against giant wolves.

“And angels,” she added. “They're cool.”

“The chubby kind with harps?”

“No, the kind with gigantic wings and big, honkin' swords.”

“Swords, huh? Now that's something I could use.” He retreated toward the door, ready to get in his room, eager to drown his depression.

“I think you're really a vampire fan,” she said.

He shook his head. “If I ever saw one, I'd kill it.”

She laughed. “Just don't let one bite you.”

He turned, backing his way through the screen door. “Why's that?”

“Then you'd be a vampire.”

“Is that what it takes?” he teased
.

“Has some sort of venom or something…I don't know what…gets in the blood.” The girl kept telling him about vampires like she was an expert. Maybe she was. Maybe she should be the vampire hunter. He stepped out into the cool night air.

A sidewalk led around the two-story house to his rented room. His foot caught on the edge of the concrete, and he stumbled. A hand stuck out and righted him, and Roc gazed up into the face of a tall man. Fear took hold of Roc in a split second, until the man's eyes—golden, not black—registered on him.

The stranger had a smile like a star. “You all right there?”

“Sure, yeah.”

Roc rushed on, irritated for not seeing the stranger before. He didn't like surprises. He should be more alert. Pay closer attention. But once again he was a failure. A failure at saving Emma. At finding Rachel. He fumbled with the key, shoved it into the slot, and the door finally gave way. He pulled the bottle from inside his jacket and took a long pull, then let the door close behind him. Clunking the bottle on the nightstand, he chucked off his jacket, gun, and stake. He tried to yank off his boots, finally having to sit down on the bed and tug hard to release his foot. Then he flopped back onto the sun-dried pillowcase and breathed in the summery scents, which he promptly drowned with more whiskey.

His thoughts swirled downward into dark places, drifting past understanding and consciousness. He glided in and out of sleep, sometimes not even aware of which world he entertained. Emma floated along beside him for a while until turbulence separated them. He lunged for her, tried to grab her hand, but he woke himself instead.

He sat up in bed, blinked at the darkness enfolding him. Sweat stuck his clothes to his skin, and he tugged off his shirt and hurled it across the room. Then once more, he turned back to the bottle for comfort. Each swallow carried a wave of guilt and remorse, and the grief pulled him under the surface.

When he awoke again, spluttering and coughing, the room undulated around him like a giant wave rippling across the bed and dresser and television. A light at the end of the bed made him squint, and he struggled to sit upright, bracing a hand against the mattress to keep from toppling over. He blinked against the light, which slowly solidified into a form…a form of a man.

Roc tried to remember what he'd done with his Glock. “Who the hell are you?”

“Pay attention, Roc,” the man said in a gruff voice, a voice that sounded too familiar to be dismissed.

Roc's throat closed as if a fist gripped it. “Dad?”

Remy Girouard glared at him from the end of the bed. He had a wiry frame and pale, watery eyes. Years of drinking and hard living lined his face. “You're not finished yet, son.”

“What would you know about that?”

“Get up, Roc. There's a life depending on you.”

Then the image flashed brighter and disappeared. Roc blinked against the sudden darkness. His elbow collapsed, and he fell back against the bed, breathing and sweating heavily. A sob welled up in his chest, and he choked and coughed. He rolled sideways and grabbed the bottle off the bedside table. After gulping the rest of the whiskey, he fell back against the pillows, feeling the bed jounce and time ripple around him in concentric circles of dreams and visions.

***

Eyes blinked at him, and he jerked open his own, but he could still see them: black eyes staring, leering, glaring. Among the dark orbs were Emma's, her gaze solemn and calm. And there was another pair: blue and pleading.
Rachel.

A pounding woke him next. The cacophony crashed against his skull. Then the door swung open. The heat of the night poured inside, and Roc stared at the shape of the man in the doorway, blinking and trying to register where he was, what he was doing, what was happening. His limbs felt weighted, as if he couldn't lift even his little finger. Nor did he care to fight or struggle anymore. Resigned, he tilted his head back, exposing the vulnerable place along his neck as his heart pummeled his rib cage.

The man stepped quietly into the room and closed the door behind him. Roc had seen many expressions, from joy to frustration and from fear to anger, in those particular eyes, but he'd never seen this particular look before. The eyes tilted downward at the corners. The mouth stretched wide in neither grin nor grimace. “Feeling sorry for yourself?”

Roc grabbed for the bottle, missed, and grabbed again. “Toasting Ferris.” And Emma. And Rachel. And maybe even his dad, for it had to be his father's ghost who had visited him earlier. “And all the dead on my account.”

“How selfish can you be?”

Roc blinked slowly, trying to sort through what the priest had said. Finally, he took a long, slow drink of whiskey. “There's a glass in the bathroom. If you want some, you better hurry.”

“You're selfish, Roc. Wallowing here in self-pity.” Roberto lifted a giant-sized chip bag off the table and dropped it.

Roc didn't even remember eating chips or buying them. Had he driven to the store? Or were those from his car? Maybe the redheaded teen—what was her name?—had gotten him food. He didn't know what day it was or how long he'd been drinking. He wasn't sure which scared him more: not knowing or knowing too much.

The priest didn't give him time to answer or defend himself. “Trying to kill yourself with all this drinking, I suppose. And stoking your ego, which is bigger than I would have imagined. To think you have some ability to cause someone else's death when you didn't even lift a finger.”

“That's right. I didn't lift a finger.” His words slurred, and he drained the rest of the bottle. “So why bother?”

“Why bother?” Roberto snatched the bottle from him. “Because lives are at stake! Are you going to let Ferris die in vain?”

“Is that v-e-i-n?” Roc laughed and saluted the priest with the bottle. Roberto's image wavered before him, and the starkness of his black-and-white collar blurred into gray.

“Did Levi call you?”

“Levi?”

Roc nodded, which made the room tilt and do a slow roll.

“Are you talking about Levi Fisher? Akiva's brother?”

“Yeah.” Roc forced himself up off the bed, tripped over a boot, and stumbled forward. The room kept moving even when he remained still…or almost still. He couldn't steady himself. He sat on the edge of the bed and bent forward in case all he'd poured into his body came right back out. He braced his head with his hands as if he could make the spinning stop. “She's missing.”

“Who's missing?” Roberto demanded. “Hannah?”

Roc shook his head then decided against the maneuver. He slumped back against the headboard. “Her sister. Rachel.”

“This the one that lost her husband?”

“Yeah.” His head throbbed, like when his dad had taken a baseball bat to it.

Suddenly Roberto was moving around the room in fast-forward motion. He plopped a wet rag at the back of Roc's neck and stuck a warm Diet Coke in his hand. “Drink up. Sober up.”

“What for? It's a lost cause.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And you're a lost cause too. If I were feeling nice, I'd let you wallow in self-pity, but right now you have to go find this woman. She's pregnant, right?”

Roc took a sip of the warm Coke and bubbles worked their way back up his esophagus.

“I know what Akiva wants with her,” Roberto said.

“Yeah, a snack.”

“No. She's not dead.”

“And you know this how?”

“She's in danger. And her baby is in more so.”

Roc tried to follow not only what the priest was saying but his movements around the room. His eyeballs ached and pulsed. “I've done all I know to do. I don't know where to go, where to look.”

“Maybe you're looking in the wrong place.”

Roc sat straight up, tilted, then straightened.
Wait, was that why his father had come here? Did Remy know something? Was he trying to lure him back to New Orleans?

It seemed the only place Roc knew to go.