Forbidden (12 page)

Rachel sat on the one chair in the tiny room, her hands folded over the maternity T-shirt covering her rounded belly, her ankles crossed and feet bare. On the scarred desk sat a greasy bag filled with fried chicken. The warm, tasty scent made her stomach rumble with the need for home. She made a plate out of a napkin and opened the container of mashed potatoes. “You're sure you don't want any?”

Acacia sprawled across the bed, belly to the mattress, as she danced two dolls belly-against-belly over the coverlet. Gripped in a tiny fist, the girl doll with thick, matted hair bobbed and swayed in a jerky fashion. The boy doll looked as if he didn't know what to do then flopped over face-first into the blanket.

When Acacia didn't answer, Rachel asked again. “Would you like some chicken?”

The young girl shook her head. The short mop of blond hair partially hid her dark, magnetic eyes. Slight of build, she looked even more so in the black leggings beneath a summery dress, which had daisies and bumblebees all over it. If she'd been soaking wet, she wouldn't have weighed a hundred pounds.

Rachel hesitated before plunging the plastic spoon into the creamy white mound. Maybe she should wait till Akiva returned, but the scent of gravy and fried chicken demolished all her good manners. She scooped up mashed potatoes and tasted the salt immediately. They were good, not as good as Mamm's, but still good. Her gaze slid toward the young girl. “You're not hungry?”

“I'm always hungry. Orphelia says I'm a piglet.” She made snorting sounds, which turned into giggles.

Rachel tilted her head toward the bucket. “You're welcome to some chicken.”

The girl made a face. “Not for that.”

Rachel had learned not to look directly into Akiva's eyes or into this girl's, otherwise she felt off-kilter, like she was falling in slow motion.

Acacia released the girl doll, which toppled over the male, stiff limbs clicking against one another, and then Acacia swung her legs around and scooted off the bed, abandoning the dolls in a tangled mess.

Rachel wondered what this little waif of a girl was doing with such a strange person like Orphelia.
Why
was
she
here
in
the
middle
of
the
day?
Was
school
out
for
the
summer, as it was back home in Promise?

“Where is your home?” Rachel asked.

“Here. New Orleans.” She extended the name into more syllables than necessary.

“Were you born here?”

Acacia released a light sigh as if she hadn't thought of her birthplace in a long while. She walked along the length of the twin bed, straightening the blanket and sheet. “South Carolina. That's where I'm from.”

“And your folks moved here?”

“My folks?” She shook her head then shrugged a shoulder. “I came on my own.”

“But you're so young. Where are your parents? Your family?”

“Dead.”

Her flat tone knocked the breath out of Rachel. Instantly, her heart ached for this little orphan. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's not a big deal.”

So much pain and loss in this world. “I lost my husband only six months ago, and I know how difficult…” Her voice trailed off.

Acacia swayed in front of the boxed air conditioner while the motor whirred, the air blowing her hair back from her face. She closed her eyes, her smile widening, like she was on a carnival ride and didn't have a care in the world.

Her odd response raised Rachel's eyebrows.
But
who
was
she
to
judge
anyone
else
on
their
grieving?
She certainly hadn't handled everything the right way in the last few months since Josef had died. In fact, she'd probably been too harsh with Hannah on her sister's long, drawn-out grief over Jacob Fisher. Now she understood better.

“So who do you live with?” Rachel asked.

The young girl twirled and flitted about the cramped space in the locked room as if a bigger kid were manipulating her arms and legs and she was simply a puppet. “Orphelia,” she answered. “I stay with her some. Or not. Don't matter much. But she's the only one who'll put up with me.”

Rachel's heart constricted at the thought of no one taking care of this little girl, no one making sure she ate properly, tending her clothes, tucking her into bed at night, worrying when she got sick, or checking her schoolwork. She wanted to mother Acacia, or at the very least, care for her like she often did Katie. Tears stung her eyes thinking about her little sister.

The girl stopped, her arms frozen at odd angles, and stared at Rachel. “You gonna cry or something?”

Rachel offered the little girl a gentle, understanding smile. “No. I'm—”

“Why are
you
here?” Those alluring black eyes blinked slowly. “I mean, what does Akiva want with you anyway?”

“I don't really know.” Feelings of missing home welled up inside her, rising and surging toward the surface. Rachel dabbed at the corner of her eye with a napkin. “I would really like to go home though.”

“Me too, sometimes. But I've gotten used to New Orleans.”

Rachel remembered the conversation between Akiva and Orphelia, and the way the older woman had questioned him. “What does Orphelia think?”

Acacia waved her hand through the air as if her fingers were trailing a particle of dust twirling about her. “'Bout what?”

“About why Akiva brought me here.”

“Oh.” She twirled again and collapsed onto the bed, letting her limbs go limp like a rag doll's. She laughed, her chest expanding, but she stopped suddenly, her gaze darting toward Rachel and then away.

“Acacia?” Rachel said carefully. “Do you know what Orphelia thinks?”

“Sure. Don't everybody?” She nibbled on a fingernail.

“Acacia?” Rachel prompted.

“She ain't exactly quiet on the subject. Orphelia told me not to say nothing though.”

“Why not?”

The girl picked at a nail, and a bit of pale pink polish flecked off. “Orphelia's funny that way.”

“You can tell me. I won't say anything.”

Acacia blew out a breath, and her chest contracted. She pursed her lips as if considering for a moment what to say. She stretched her arms out wide on the bed, and her hand rolled over to pluck at a thread on the blanket. “Akiva's gonna do the forbidden.”

Rachel's heart lurched. She swallowed a sudden lump and forced herself to say, “The forbidden?”

“Ya know, killing hisself.” The girl spoke as if suicide and death were the same as pancakes, bike riding, and sunshine.

Rachel's brow scrunched downward.
How
could
someone
think
of
such
a
forbidden
act? Taking away the Lord's will. And why?
But if it was Akiva's plan, then why was she here?

“Why would he need me then?” Rachel asked.

“He doesn't need
you
.” The girl straightened her shirt. “Just your baby.”

Rachel's hand automatically went to her belly. Her lungs constricted, as if she couldn't draw a full breath. “My ba—” She choked on the word. “But why?”

Acacia sat up and swung her legs against the bottom of the bed, making a clicking sound with her heels against the frame. “'Cause that's how it's done.”

She spoke in a tone as if it were the most obvious answer in the world, but what the girl said didn't make any sense to Rachel. “W…what do you mean?”

“He can't do it—kill hisself—like you would.” She made motions with her hands to indicate a hanging, slitting wrists, or a gun to the temple. Her innocent, placid face gave the motions an even more gruesome bent.

Rachel's stomach lurched, and the blood drained from her face.

“Blood gives life,” Acacia stated. “Right?”

Rachel nodded, remembering what she'd learned in school so long ago about the heart pumping blood to all the organs and extremities.

“But,” Acacia explained like she was old enough to teach a class on the subject, “blood from an infant, it's bad.” She squinched up her face. “Like poison to us.”

The edges of Rachel's vision wavered and quivered. “Blood?”

“What else?” A hint of a smile played at the corner of Acacia's pink-bowed mouth. She leaned forward, her gaze intensifying. “From everybody else, blood is”—her eyes slanted upward as she smiled, and then the tip of her tongue touched her upper lip—“delicious.”

At Rachel's intake of breath, Acacia tilted her head to one side and studied Rachel as if she were a ladybug crawling along a windowsill. “I could change you. I know how.”

Rachel's heart pounded, the sound thumping and pulsing in her ears, and she attempted to quiet the noise throbbing through her entire body by covering her heart with a hand. She wasn't sure she understood what the girl was saying, but instinctively, fear chilled her. “What do you mean?”

“Ya know,
change
. It's not so bad. I don't hardly remember it anymore.”

“I don't…” Rachel shook her head, but her whole body was shaking and trembling. “What are you talking about?”

“Becoming a blood…a vampire. Then you can't die. Well, not as easily as you can now. You can live forever. Unless you try to kill yourself. Then I guess you'd be dead.”

Rachel leaned back, fear making her hands tremble, and she gripped them together. “And you live forever by…drinking…” She couldn't bring herself to say it.

“Well, it's not that easy. But as Orphelia says, it ain't rocket science neither.”

“I…is that what happened to Jacob…Akiva?”

“Yeah. Of course. Me too.” Her hands settled in her lap as she twisted her fingers together. “Most of us change our names afterward. 'Cause we feel different. We don't feel like our old self no more. I guess we ain't the same. I used to be Ann Marie Marshall from Spartanburg, South Carolina.” She grinned. “Now I'm just Acacia. I like that name, don't you? Acacia. Acacia.” She tested it out with different inflections and dialects. “Acacia.”

Rachel felt as if her brain were compressing and her heart leaping out of her chest. She couldn't speak, couldn't manage a single word in answer to the girl.

“Ah, now I've done it. You're upset. Don't you worry none. I won't change you…” She grimaced. “Giovanni hates that word—
change
. He calls it awakening. Sounds fancy, don't it? So I won't awaken you. Orphelia would be mad as a wet hornet if I did anyways. Giovanni too.”

The girl flopped back onto the bed. “Why, the last time I changed somebody, Orphelia threw one giant hissy fit and Giovanni threatened to make me his slave. 'Course I know why he wants that.” She patted her chest and traced the lines of her shoulders and upper arms with her hands until her arms were splayed wide upon the mattress. “He likes all the pretty girls, boys too, and offers to educate them.” She blinked her black eyes solemnly, as if she were talking about playing hopscotch. “But Orphelia won't allow him to touch me. And 'cause she protected me, then I promised I wouldn't do that awakening thing no more. So's when I eat, I make sure I kill the person good. It's best that way, I guess.”

Staring at the young girl, Rachel could no longer see the sweet, innocent face. Now all she could see was a monster.

Gliding over the magnolias and moss-draped oaks, two and three stories tall, to the shaded sanctuary below, Akiva transitioned back into his usual form and planted his feet solidly on the smooth, grassy plain.

Orphelia had already landed and was walking ahead of Akiva, her footsteps determined across the clipped green grass. Up ahead, surrounded by a fortress of stalwart oaks, the antebellum mansion gleamed white with its giant pillars and wide front porch. Someone darted out of a side door, skirted the yard, and disappeared into an outbuilding.

A gleaming statue peered around a tree's trunk. Akiva noticed other more implike statues, white and smooth, hidden among the oaks, and his mind ventured toward a poem he'd read and pondered:

Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy

With his marble block before him,

And his eyes lit up with a smile of joy,

As an angel-dream passed o'er him.

He carved the dream on that shapeless stone,

With many a sharp incision;

With heaven's own light the sculpture shone,

He'd caught that angel-vision.

Children of life are we, as we stand

With our lives uncarved before us,

Waiting the hour when, at God's command,

Our life-dream shall pass o'er us.

If we carve it then on the yielding stone,

With many a sharp incision,

Its heavenly beauty shall be our own,

Our lives, that angel-vison.

Was this then the hour he'd been waiting for, yearning for, when the final chink in his statue would be complete? Would his dreams be shattered and pulverized by the decisions and mistakes of the past? He imagined the carver's chisel, slicing through flesh and bone and removing his heart, only to discover it no longer beat but had hardened into stone.

“Are you coming?” Orphelia called. She had paused and turned toward him, shading her eyes with a hand. A slight breeze rippled the vibrant, flowing material wrapped around her body in loose waves. “You can't keep Giovanni waiting.”

He took a more leisurely pace, spying the chiseled forest pixies, sprites, and fairies, but soon he reached her. “How did Giovanni acquire all of this?”

She started again toward the mansion. “You really are ignorant of our ways, aren't you?”

Akiva glowered at her back, but he put his emotions on a short leash. “Maybe because no one bothered to share.”

She motioned for him to catch up with her. “Camille should have handled all of that, I'll admit.”

“Why Camille?”

“She the one changed you, ain't she? It's the duty of the one who changes another to educate and train. But maybe you not make it so easy on her, eh?” She shook her head slowly. “I would guess not. You a challenge always.

“So you want to know: how does Giovanni get anything? He takes. He takes whatever he wants. It is not so difficult.” She sounded breathless as she lugged her large frame across the expansive yard. “He has been around a long time. Some say longer than those trees there.” She pronounced her “th's” as “d.” “No one really knows. But he's owned this place long as I've known him, that's right.”

Akiva smiled to himself. “‘He who plants a tree plants a hope.'”

“What you say there?”

“‘He who plants a tree plants a joy…plants peace.'” Akiva's footsteps slowed. “This Giovanni must be…”
What? Powerful? Hopeful? How could a vampire be hopeful?
Yes, they believed they had acquired eternity, and yet they were not a happy, joyous lot. Or at least not the ones he had met. Maybe this one would be different. Or maybe Akiva simply wished it were the case. He longed for a simple peace. A plain joy. But those things were now impossible.

“We have many of us in powerful positions,” Orphelia explained as she walked. “We help our own, yeah? And those in power overlook certain things, things that give money and secrecy. Do you understand? Giovanni is most secretive about his past. It would not surprise me if he is three hundred years old. He knows much. And it is not easy to reach his level of authority. Of course, you know the rent you pay for your apartment goes to him.”

“He owns the building?”

“He owns many things here and in the big cities of New Orleans and all the way up to Jackson. His region is extensive. You would be wise to acknowledge how powerful he is.”

He nodded his understanding of her not-so-subtle warning as they climbed the wide steps to the veranda.

“And if he did not own that building where you live, then you would have more trouble from the authorities. Things get overlooked, yeah?”

As if their approach had been scrutinized, the door immediately opened without a knock. A thin, pale person of diminutive size greeted them with a slight bow and inquisitive gaze. Akiva could not tell if the creature was male or female. A thatch of gray hair capped smoldering black eyes, eyes holding ancient secrets. “Orphelia,” the butler said in an anemic voice. “And who do we have here?”

“Lynn,” Orphelia acknowledged the person dismissively, “we're here to see—”

“You're late”—Lynn's slight smile vanished—“and he's not too pleased.” Those black eyes seemed to take in every detail of Akiva. “Not pleased at all.”

“It couldn't be helped.” She whisked her bulk through the open doorway, the hem of her dress sliding over polished marble floors.

Akiva stepped into a world seemingly centuries past. Flowered, flocked wallpaper and antique furnishings had been preserved with the upmost care. What looked to be servants, wearing the same black slacks and white shirt as Lynn, hurried and scurried through the vast mansion like ants on secret missions. They seemed to pay no attention to the newly arrived vampires and kept at their tasks, yet Akiva sensed they were all paying very close attention, as if every word was logged and registered, analyzed and retained.

Lynn shuffled past Akiva in an attempt to lead Orphelia, but she ignored the slight creature and trounced through the grand entryway, which boasted marble flooring, polished, intricately carved wooden showpieces, and gilded-framed artwork. Seeming to know her way around without need of a guide, Orphelia stormed through the fortress, rounded the edge of the wide staircase and its gleaming mahogany banister. Like a ribbon of blood running along the center strip of the stairwell, the carpet was plush and bright red.

Akiva paused, staring up at the crystal chandelier and the lights sparking off the beveled-glass teardrops, which dangled from each golden limb. The glittering life of a vampire maybe wasn't as dark and painful as he'd imagined.

“He's not in the library this morning, Orphelia.” Lynn finally caught up to her at a set of double doors.

With a hand on the brass knob, Orphelia turned, her features disgruntled. “Well, where's he at, then?”

Lynn gave a stiff bow. “If you will follow me, I will present you.”

Orphelia gave a vexed wave of her hand and swiped the sweat off her beaded brow. “Hurry up, then. I haven't got all day. And this chore has taken up way more time than it should have.”

She grumbled and complained as they retraced their footsteps and entered a magnificent room with a thirty-foot ceiling, a broad, ornate fireplace, and dark wood paneling. Many of the lavish frames showcased glorious landscape paintings with lush, bucolic settings. Others were of battles, blood spilled, swords gleaming, bodies lying spent, limbs at awkward angles. Furniture was sparse but elegant, and Akiva suspected the room's purpose at one time was for dancing. He wondered what it would be like to see a room full of vampires all doing the minuet or jamming to Eminem. In one corner was a spiraling staircase. It led to an overhanging balcony, which was either for a small orchestra or simply a place for Giovanni to look down upon his subjects.

At the far end of the room, French doors led to a veranda. Sunlight poured through the beveled windows in lush spotlights, which illuminated the gleaming hardwood floors. Lynn stopped at the second door, turned, and held a hand up to Orphelia. “Allow me to see if this is a good moment. If you know what I mean.” Lynn gave a chilling smile. “I will be right back.”

Lynn slipped through the door before Orphelia could protest and closed the door decisively. With a huff, Orphelia turned to Akiva. “The little snit. Thinks he's so almighty important.”

“He works for Giovanni?”

“He's a servant.”

“As in slavery?”

“Of course. It simply means he did something against the rules—”

“Bloods have rules?”
Did
they
try
to
impose
order
and
decorum
on
chaos
and
death? How many rules had he broken over the past three years? And did he really care?

She gave him a sharp look. “And now Lynn must pay for his crimes with allegiance and servitude toward Giovanni.”

“Is that always the sentence? To answer the door for Giovanni?”

She snorted. “He got off light, if you ask me.”

“What did he do?”

“It don't matter. Just keep in that thick head of yours that the punishment is often much worse. You'll find no grace here.” Shrugging, she continued, “When his sentence is up, Lynn will be free once again. But I'm telling you—”

Her tirade ended abruptly when the French door opened again.

“This way!” Lynn chirped and pushed the door wider.

They stepped out onto a veranda. Instantly, Akiva thought of cool, shady days and tall glasses of mint juleps. A wide assortment of empty rockers and wicker chairs was scattered about the covered porch. One chair, though, appeared to hold some importance, as it had a high, arching back like a great fan. In it sat a man of medium build with a dark swath of hair and equally dark mustache, all matching his black eyes. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt, which hung loose, and a pair of khaki pants. At ease and in control, he looked like a contemporary plantation owner overseeing his property and affairs.

In one hand, he held a tall, narrow glass filled with what looked like tomato juice, but Akiva could smell the tangy scent of blood. Sticking out of the glass was a celery stalk. He lifted the glass toward Akiva and Orphelia, and the ice rattled against the glass. “Good morning.”

Orphelia's features froze, as if she could hide her thoughts and reactions behind a mask. “Thank you for seeing us so quickly, Giovanni. We are sorry it took us so—”

“So this is Akiva, huh?” Giovanni asked, his dark gaze pointed, gliding over Akiva like a flat blade against a throbbing vein.

Akiva stepped forward, head lifted, shoulders squared. “I am.”

“Well, it's about time you came to see me. It's been much too long, actually. You've been awakened…What? Five years already?”

“Two years and nine months.”

“Detail oriented, eh? I've been remiss in not welcoming you into the fold.” Giovanni stood and stretched out a hand to Akiva. “But I will say in my own defense that you were a might reticent.”

Akiva said nothing but stayed where he was, not moving, not shaking hands, not trusting.

“Please, have a seat. Would you care for something?” Giovanni snapped his fingers, and a servant instantly stepped forward out of the shadows to await his command. “I can highly recommend this little concoction. A very good year.” He sniffed the drink like he would a brandy. “1988.” He chuckled.

But Akiva shook his head. “Nothing. Thank you.”

“Very tasty.” He sipped the drink and smacked his lips. “A Bloody Mary.” He tilted his head and studied the drink for a moment. “Was her name Mary, I wonder?” He shrugged and laughed. “I can't remember. But mixed with vodka, it's an exhilarating combination. Of course the secret is not in the Tabasco sauce but in the Worcestershire. And of course, the specimen must be quality. And she was. Oh, indeed, she was.”

Orphelia was leaning forward, her hungry gaze intent on the glass. “I'll take—”

“You can wait inside.” Giovanni waved her away and backed toward his own chair. “This shouldn't take long.” He never even looked in Orphelia's direction but kept his gaze trained on Akiva. “I'd like a few minutes alone with our new friend.”

Orphelia's features melted, her jowls sagging, before her thick lips twisted. But she kept whatever comment to herself and backed toward the door. With a sharp glance, even though seemingly affable, Giovanni seemed to see everything that went on. His household ran like clockwork wound up by fear. Akiva could sense it like the deep darkness just before dawn.

Now alone with this vampire, Akiva stepped forward. Giovanni offered his hand once again like a gentleman.
Or
was
it
a
challenge?
Akiva hesitated then finally clasped the vampire's hand. A mistake. The instant palm met palm, a jolt shot through Akiva's body, and his gaze locked with Giovanni's. Everything around them tilted and whirled. Akiva struggled to release his hand, his thoughts, his emotions from Giovanni's grasp, and finally pulled free. Or maybe he was simply released.

The older, more experienced vampire smiled pleasantly, as if unaffected by their connection, and sipped his drink again. “You are one of us now.”

“What do you mean?” Akiva rubbed his tingling palm against his other one as the sensation spread to his other hand. “What is this?”

With a wry smile, Giovanni leaned backed into his chair, obviously comfortable with his position. “You have the mark now.”

“The mark?” Akiva stared as this palm, but he saw nothing different. Slowly, the prickling sensation subsided.

“Let's just say you're in the fold. It makes it easier for us to find you…if you're ever in trouble. We take care of our own.”