Love Is The Beginning (Valerie Dearborn) (2 page)

“Yeah. That sounds...really gross.” Jack wanted to leave
now. She was...peculiar.

“Do you have slugs here?” she asked him slyly.

“No, not really.” And if we did, I don't think I'd tell you,
he thought.

Ella threw her arms out wide and slapped them back to her
sides in the world's largest shrug. His eyes flew back to her wrist and then
the other one. Another purple bruise marred her delicate flesh.  A dog didn't
bite her on both wrists. Jack wanted away from her and was going to say goodbye,
but she spoke first. “It's dinnertime. Marion wants me back now.” She turned
and ran down the hallway, opening the door to room twelve, and shutting the
door hard; the lock twisting loudly.

Unsettled, he went to find his parents. They were in the
kitchen as usual. His mother was making dinner and stabbing at the food with a
wooden spoon, stirring angrily, “Only dinner for five!” she said, disgust in
her voice. “There are thirty people here and only five of them eating!”

All five meals would be delivered to their rooms as well, a
situation that he knew his mother took as a personal affront. Food was to be
eaten in the kitchen or dining room, not hoarded in a bedroom. She thought the
alternative was barbaric.

His papa gave his mama a kiss. She leaned into him while he
told her that with the amount of money they were paying to stay, if they wanted
him to dance as entertainment while they ate, he'd do it. His father did a funny
dance in the kitchen, and he and his mama laughed at how ridiculous he looked.
She was still muttering about their rudeness when Jack grabbed the meals and
took them upstairs. 

The first meal went to room six. He knocked and a tall, pale
man with long, golden hair opened the door. He was startlingly attractive, and
it made Jack think these people were actors after all. Inside the dark room, he
could see a woman draped on a chair. She wore only a negligee, so he looked
away quickly. Her legs had been spread, the white satin of the gown placed to
cover her between her sprawled legs. Almost against his will, he looked back
and saw the woman in the chair smiling at him, her expression amused and
mocking. The tray was taken and the door shut before he'd finished blushing.

Then Jack went to room sixteen, where a stiff-backed woman
opened the door, wiping her near-translucent hand across her mouth, greeny-blue
veins shifting under her skin. A pale hand reached out and took the tray
quickly and smoothly. How could she move so fast and not spill? That was a neat
trick.

No one opened the doors of the other rooms when he knocked,
forcing him to leave the trays in the hallway.  Even Ella's room. He'd hoped
and feared that the girl would open the door. He didn't want to see her or her
friend/mother/Marion. Guiltily, he wondered if he should have talked to his
parents before delivering the meals about the marks he'd seen on Ella.

Jack found his father in his office totaling up the
accounts. If his father wasn't in the kitchen, he could always be found with
the money.  He told his papa about Ella and her bites, and he listened gravely.
If she'd been bitten by a dog, how come
both
her wrists had marks?
Giving him a pat on the shoulder, his papa told him to go to his room for the
night, his expression grim.

Jack didn't argue, but went to his tiny room and lay down on
his bed. He woke up in the middle of the night to hear his father shouting. A
loud, but cool, female voice responded, undercutting his father's words.

Marion.

Another voice interjected, speaking quickly and placatingly
in Italian. Jack thought the voice sounded like his Uncle Vito, the police
chief. Suddenly anxious that his father had called the police chief because of what
he'd said, he strained to listen, sitting up and staring at the ceiling as
though that might make the voices clearer. It was useless; he couldn't hear the
words, but the crying was unmistakable. The slug girl was crying in big
desperate gasps, her high cries penetrating the walls.

Jack wanted to leave his room and see what was happening,
but fear kept him in bed. The voices died down, and the crying stopped
abruptly. Jack waited and listened, then heard the door of his family's
apartment shut. He slept badly the rest of the night, and when he woke up in
the morning, he felt groggy; his hand aching from clutching his rosary.

He kept the rosary on under his clothes, even though he felt
a little self-conscious wearing it.  His parents were having coffee in the
kitchen, and when his mama noticed the rosary under his shirt, she made a
comment about her good son, giving him a kiss on the head as she spooned eggs
onto his plate. 

“Papa, what happened?”

His father looked at him with interest. “When?”

“Last night, when the police came. I heard Ella crying.”

“There were no police last night.” A pause. “
Who
was
crying?”

“The girl who had the marks on her wrists. I heard all the
shouting, and Uncle Vito was here too. It was a big
ruckus
.” He shot a
glance to his mother, looking for support. She stared back at him blankly.

His father leaned over and put his hand on Jack's arm,
concern on his face. He had a thick head of hair and a permanent five o' clock
shadow. When he was worried, like now, his bushy brows were pulled together
like two overly-friendly caterpillars.

“No, son. No police. Nothing happened last night. Did you
dream it?
Who
has marks on their wrist?” Dark eyes roamed over him,
looking for injuries.

“No, not me. Ella. The girl in room twelve. I met her, and
she had bite marks on her wrists. We talked about it yesterday.”

His father shook his head. “There is no girl in room twelve,
and there are no bites. Nothing happened.” The words were oddly mechanical,
like he was reading from a script. He looked back to his newspaper and
continued to read, the conversation apparently over. His mother got up to check
on the bread she was baking. Jack didn’t understand why they wanted to pretend
that nothing had happened, but he couldn't just let it go. 

“I met her yesterday and you told me you'd ask about her!”

His father looked up again. “Who?”

Jack knew his father was a little irritated at being
interrupted.

“The girl in room twelve. She had a meal delivered to her
room last night.”  How could his father not remember the conversation and huge
argument that had happened less than twelve hours ago?

“Jack! I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you are talking
about. Maybe... Why don't you go to the beach today? Your mama will give you
money. Go find Paolo and some of the boys from school. No one is checking out
today anyway.”

His stomach flipped over in fear. “When will they go?”

“Tomorrow evening. They want to travel at night.” He
chuckled. “I wish all our guests were so easy. Don't do anything to bother
them.” His father sounded like a pleased businessman.

“Why are they easy guests?” Jack was surprised that his
father was happy to have them staying here. They were creepy and abusive—what
was there to like?

“Only a few of them want meals, they are paying
a lot
of money, and they are very quiet during the day. No one is even up yet, and
it's noon! Don't you hear how quiet it is?” His father was perpetually amused
by foreigners.

“Where are they from?”

“Hmm. Everywhere. Some from America, Asia, Australia, a few
even from Italy.”

“Why are they meeting
here
?”

His father sighed. “Jack, I don't know. I would guess they
wanted to be close to Venice. It's a conference. Unless they need something in
particular, I don't ask. Tomorrow there will be another group, and then
another. Go. Find your friends and be thankful that there is no work for you
today. ”

Jack left the kitchen feeling torn between leaving the hotel
as instructed, and investigating what was going on with Ella.  He wanted to go
to room twelve and knock, or even take the key and fling open the door to see
if she was in there. Making it up! Why would he do that? And his parents were
behaving strangely. What could anyone do if he did go up and open the door,
anyway? His parents would be angry, but they would get over it.

Perhaps he could say he was supposed to deliver more towels.
He could say he had made a mistake, went to the wrong room. Pleased with this
idea, he went to the laundry closet and took down the ring of keys that opened
all the rooms. Holding the white bath towels tightly to his chest, he slipped along
the corridor on silent feet. There was something wrong with these people, and
it was made worse by the fact that no one remembered anything. He wasn't crazy
or wrong, and he'd prove it.

If nothing else, he wouldn't leave a little girl to suffer
if there was something he could do to prevent it. If he did nothing, he
suspected that he’d spend his whole life wondering about that little girl and
the things he didn't do. He'd regret being so afraid that he didn't help her.
Resolve strengthened, he knocked on the door and leaned forward, listening for
sounds of movement within the room.

His heart thundered as he transferred the towels to one arm,
then unlocked the door. The room was dark, and all the shades were shut. The
air was oppressive and heavy, a metallic smell making him nauseous. He peered
around the door and saw two lumps in the bed while he waited for his eyes to
adjust. He could tell that the sleeping woman was the one from the lobby who
had looked at him so disconcertingly with her hazel eyes. What if she woke up
and saw him? Ella jerked up into a sitting position and looked at him.  Jack
stumbled back, surprised by her quick movement.

“What are you doing here?” Ella hissed at him.

“I wanted to make sure that you were all right.”

She was dressed in a very old-fashioned cotton nightgown,
her hair tied back in a ribbon so that it was off her neck.

That was when he saw it—another purple mark on her neck that
was covered with scabs.

“What are those? It's like...” He couldn't think of anything
it could be besides a bite mark, but didn't want to articulate the words. “Did
she do this to you? Does she hurt you?” he asked her instead.

Ella shook her head in denial. Tears formed in her eyes. She
reached out to him, to make him listen or keep him from rushing out for help,
he didn't know which. Her hand was small, and he wondered if she was younger
than he'd initially thought.

“No, it's not like that. She loves me. She's the only family
I have, and she cares for me. She wouldn't hurt me. Truly, she wouldn't.
Please, just leave.”

Jack shook his head, denying her words.

She changed tactics “All right then, why don't you come back
tonight, and we can all talk about it. Just wait until tonight. Don't say
anything until then. Okay? Please? Meet Marion, let her explain what has
happened. She can make all this go away if you just
wait
.” The last was
said with a broken sob, her blue eyes huge on her pale face.

Jack didn't like the way Ella said Marion would make it all
go away. Had she done something to make his parents forget last night too?
Would Marion do that to him? Maybe she was a hypnotist or something.

Knowing he was unconvinced, the girl covered her face with
her hands and cried out angrily. “Just get out! Come back tonight, and she'll
tell you!”

She got out of bed and started pushing at him, her emotions
changing from devastated tears to fury so fast, he couldn't get a word out
either way. He found himself being moved by this slip of a girl who was a foot
shorter than him and half his weight, his feet sliding backward. She slammed
the door, almost hitting his nose.

There was a sudden gasp and cry on the other side of the
door, like someone deprived of air bursting up out of the water, inhaling
loudly. Or like someone dead to the world waking up. Every irrational fiber in Jack’s
being told him to run. He sprinted down the corridor, careful to stay on the
dark blue carpet runner so that he wouldn't slip on the wooden floor.  He
needed to tell his papa! Tell Uncle Vito and the police. Someone! Then a hand
grabbed him, yanking him down another hallway and pressing him against the
wall.

A man in a long brown coat knelt on his knees before him,
urging him to be quiet by raising a finger to his own lips, light brown eyes capturing
his.

“What's your name, son?” His voice was quiet, and he spoke
with an American accent. The man smiled, a pained and insincere expression, but
Jack understood that the man was attempting to calm him, maybe even gain his
trust. 

“Jack. Sir, I have to go downstairs now.” He tried to pull
away, but the man held on, another grimace-like smile on his face.

“My name is Nate. There is a problem, Jack. You saw the
little girl with the bites, right? The vampire bites?” The man stared at him
intently to gauge Jack's reaction to his words.

“Vampire? They looked like bites, but vampires aren't real.”
His hand unconsciously reached up to his rosary.

“I want that little girl away from Marion as much as you do.
She's a very old vampire, and that means she's powerful. If you get your
parents involved in this, they will die and so will you.” Nate spoke in a low
murmur, his eyes boring into Jack's, as though he wanted him to understand the
gravity of the moment.

Jack nodded, but he didn't
really
understand what was
going on—the crazy things the man was saying, that it was a matter of life and
death. He didn’t know, that for the rest of his life, he would dream about
this
moment; relive it over and over again

“They can move like that.” Nate snapped his fingers. “Faster
than you can think. You need to go down to your parents and wait. Keep them
safe and let me do my job. Do you understand? Will you listen to me?”

Jack heard ringing in his ears. Did he understand? Yes. Go
downstairs and wait. He nodded, and the man let him go. Jack took off down the
stairs but then stopped to look behind him, watching as the man with the coat
stood up, holding a shotgun in his hand as he walked down the hallway towards Marion
and Ella's room.