The Deadwalk (26 page)

Desperate for clues, she lurched toward a desk in an alcove off the main
bedroom and almost fell into the fragile antique chair. She flipped through a
stack of parchment papers on the side of the desk, searching for a means to
defend herself.

Something silver slid from the paper, falling to the desk with a loud clink.
Melinda turned the slender object over in her hands. Faded runes ran along the
silver blade that was worn smooth by years of use. A blood-red jewel was set in
the hilt. It could have been a dagger, but she guessed by its presence on the
desk, he used it as a letter opener. She folded it tightly in her fist. As a
last resort, it could be used as a weapon against him.

Melinda turned her attention to the row of leather-bound books that faced her
from the back of the desk. A similar volume lay open before her, as if he had
tossed it there expecting to return shortly.

She reached for the book, feeling its soft leather cover. The passages inside
were scripted in a strong hand, a form of calligraphy so ancient and decorative
it was difficult to read. The open page was dated the twenty-sixth of April. A
few days ago then. Scrolls of red and black ink revealed the beginning of a
poem, lovingly bordered with much care. Melinda read the words aloud, wondering
at the odd imagery,

The blood of sunset stains the sky

lips, of ruby wine

darkness like a feather falls

into the depths of midnight

bless the glow of candlelight...

Was he the author of the poem? She replaced the book carefully, and selected
another from the row behind it.

A huge plume of dust burst from the book, as she opened it, making her cough.
The pages were brittle and yellowed with age. Some leaves were loose, their
corners ragged. She gasped aloud as she read the date, The First Day of May in
the Year 1795. Identical handwriting stared back at her, disguised only the by
antiquated patterns of speech. It had the look of a journal to it, an account of
preparations for a trip to the country, including much annoyance over the hiring
of a carriage.

The next entry was a sketch drawn in thick black strokes of ink. It was a
portrait of two people, a man and a woman in historical dress. The inscription
underneath read 'Kirsten and Me in the country'. The drawing was signed with a
blood-red 'M'. She forced herself to breathe. The man in the picture was her
captor, and he looked exactly the same.

Hastily, she replaced the book, not wanting to think about what her eyes were
trying to tell her. Could these entries, nearly two hundred years apart,
actually be written by the same person? Who was this creature that lived below
the city in a forgotten rat-hole in royal splendor? More accurately, what was
he?

She wanted to scream. For the first time in her adult life, she wanted her
mother. But her parents lived in Unionville, too far away to be of assistance.
Hysteria would accomplish nothing.

Research, she reminded herself. That's what good detectives do before
anything else. She decided to tackle the closet on the other side of the room.

The contents were a lesson in fashion history. The Textile Department at the
Museum would love this! Medieval cloaks, jeweled, brocaded jackets, frilly lace
shirts were neatly arranged among blue jeans and black leather jackets. Melinda
reached out a hand to feel the rich textures, pitching forward suddenly, her
vision going black. She came to staring at her knees, and huddled there a
moment, shivering and sweating while her head cleared.

A flash of brass caught her attention. Hidden away behind rows of
old-fashioned clothing was a small trunk. It was fashioned of dark wood and
decoratively hinged in brass. Melinda tried the lid. It wasn't locked. She cast
a backward glance over her shoulder. The room was quiet. She lifted the lid and
peered inside.

The box revealed a medieval woman's gown. It was a beautiful piece of work,
fragile with age, hand sewn and lovingly decorated. It seemed curiously out of
place among such male accouterments.

Who does it belong to? A past victim, a lost lover, someone dear to him. .
.the person who made him what he is? Strange, to keep an article of clothing
instead of a portrait or a piece of jewelry. . .Perhaps she left suddenly. .
.

Steadying herself on the closet door, Melinda clawed her way to her feet.
Except for the letter opener, her search had not turned up anything else that
could be used as a weapon. Each hopeful discovery seemed to quash another plan
of escape. She felt like a child who'd just been told that monsters did exist,
that all her nightmares were real. How could she reason with a being whose
motives were nothing close to human? It was too much to think about, none of it
having anything to do with logic or reason. She looked around at her absurd
surroundings, the letter opener that was her only means of defense, and uttered
a sob of hopelessness. She staggered back toward the bed, falling into the
pillows, into darkness.

* * *

Melinda awoke to the sounds of her own tortured screams. Searing pain
radiated from the center of her stomach. Her veins throbbed with an agony that
rendered her limbs useless. Every nerve, every cell in her body cried out in
misery. Each rasping breath was an exhausting undertaking. She prayed and begged
the empty air for anything that would end her suffering. Finally, he appeared
beside her.

She looked up at him, desperately hoping against all reason that he would
help her.

“You seem a little happier to see me this time,” he said, gazing down at
her.

“Make it stop,” she whimpered.

Desire burned in those black eyes that flickered from her throat to her face.
Desire and something else. . .reluctance? “Only one thing will make it better,”
he said sadly.

“No,” she gasped trying to sit up, but her weakened body would not obey. Too
much effort was required to hold the letter opener in her fist. It fell from her
hand, a silver flash in the golden candlelight.

“And what were you going to do with this?” he asked with the faintest hint of
amusement. “Slit my throat perhaps?”

Melinda offered only a groan in reply. He walked to the desk and tossed it
back on the pile of paper. He returned and stood looking down at her
thoughtfully. She felt the bed give as he sat down to wait, patiently, as if
he'd been through all this before, while she valiantly tried to resist the
crushing anguish.

“Why do you make this so difficult?” he said softly, when this had gone on
for some time. “It won't get any better. You're half changed already. Either we
continue, or you die.”

She shuddered. “You're lying.”

“Why would I do that?”

“So you can have it your way.”

“I will have it my way.”

“I'd rather die,” she moaned, as a fresh wave of nausea washed over her.

“If I wanted you to die,” he said quietly. “I would have killed you
already.”

Silence filled the room, punctuated only by her labored gasps.

“Why me?” she demanded through clenched teeth.

Whatever the reason, he didn't want to share it with her. “You were in the
wrong place at the wrong time,” he said at last. “Let me help you, Melinda. I
hate to see you suffer so.”

Her mind was a gray expanse of pain. The yearning within her urged to
surrender to him, to let him do whatever unthinkable things would satisfying
this intense longing. But logic reminded her how he'd pounced upon her in the
empty subway car, torn at her neck with his piercing teeth and ripped through
her flesh with his razor sharp claws. She whimpered and tried to slither away
from him, but he stretched out beside her on the bed and gathered her into his
arms.

“I promise,” he said compassionately, “it will only hurt for a second this
time. A little pressure, a little pain, then you'll just feel very drowsy.”

She wanted to tell him to go back to whatever hell he crawled out of, to
leave her to die, but he was kissing her gently, wiping the tears from her eyes.
And with every feather-soft touch, a little of the pain disappeared.

“Please don't suffer anymore,” he whispered, “it's breaking my heart.”

The last of her will crumbled. “Just do it,” she sobbed.

He ran a taloned hand over her eyes, shutting them gently, and grasped her
tightly. His lips traced a line of fire from her mouth to her neck. He lingered
there for a moment, then she felt his lips draw back, baring his fangs. She
heard him suck in his breath, and she held hers. His teeth pierced her neck.

She screamed in the first shock of pain and flailed against him. But he held
her still, and soon she found she didn't have the strength to move at all.

Blood rushed from her neck under the gentle pull of his lips against her
throat. Her body seemed to flow into his like melting wax. He shuddered in
ecstasy, relaxing his grip a little, freeing a hand to caress her tenderly. She
was feeling light-headed, it was difficult to hold on to consciousness. As he
promised, the pain drifted away, dissolving into a total absence of feeling.

With great effort, he lifted his head from her neck and lay back onto the
pillows, pulling her with him. He looked down at her, black eyes glazed with
pleasure and lazily licked the last of her blood from his lips.

Moving was out of the question. Her body was unresponsive, her limbs as heavy
as lead. She hovered somewhere on the brink of consciousness and tried not to
think.

Pain jarred her back to wakefulness. She had the vague impression time had
passed. But how much time. Hours? A day?

Something shifted in her jaw. With a wet sound, her gums tore. She probed
with the tip of her tongue and gasped as she cut herself on the razor-sharp
points of her new teeth. She swallowed a mouthful of her own blood and looked at
him in agonized bewilderment.

Gently, he drew back her upper lip. What he saw seemed to satisfy him. “It's
almost over,” he said, stroking her swollen lips.

To Melinda, the torment seemed endless. Cracked and flaking remnants of her
nails lay in bloody pools about her cuticles. Beneath she could see a new set of
coarse, white nails sprouting. They looked like claws.

Deep within her a desire was awakening, a sinister, compelling lust. It was a
longing beyond sensual, a thirst that could only be quenched by something warm,
red and salty. She stiffened in his arms, dismayed to discover it was blood she
craved.

“Ah,” he said. “Now you're beginning to understand.”

“Oh God No!” Melinda pleaded, realization dawning on her with frightening
clarity. She sat up, trying to free herself from his embrace, but he rose with
her, preventing her escape.

He didn't seem perturbed at all, rather, he was patient, eager to have her
participate in this carnal act. He held out his wrist in offering. “You might
want to try the wrist. The neck takes a bit more skill.”

She gagged and shivered. “I can't.”

“You must.”

“No--” She started to protest, but he raised his wrist to her lips.

“Come,” he said softly, pointing out a thick, blue vein. “This one right
here.”

The desire was stronger than her will. Tentatively, she placed her teeth on
his wrist. She was going to be sick.

“You'll have to apply a lot more pressure than that,” he said kindly, placing
one strong hand behind her head to guide her.

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead in reassurance, then fixed her with
that black-eyed stare of his. She looked helplessly into his eyes. “It's all
right,” he said encouragingly, “You can't hurt me. This is a beautiful
experience, the sharing of another's lifeblood.”

She was falling, tumbling into the depths of those ebony eyes. She lowered
her head and bit deeply into his wrist.

He winced at her clumsiness, drawing in a sharp breath. “Careful,” he warned.
He let the breath out slowly, going limp against her.

His blood was warm and thick like sherry. With each mouthful the pain and
exhaustion receded, until she felt well and whole.

“Enough,” he said abruptly. His hand gripped the back of her neck like a vice
and gently disengaged his wrist from her mouth.

She swallowed blood and retched, letting her head fall to his shoulder. He
held her quietly.

“Aren't you even going to ask my name?” he asked finally.

“Your name,” she whispered. It was hard to think of him as having something
as simple as a name.

He held her away from him, facing her gravely. “I am called Valdemar.”

“Valdemar,” she repeated, trying out the unfamiliar syllables.

He smiled and pushed a sodden lock of hair from her face. “You're a
mess.”

She reached for his wrist, to assess the damage she'd done.

The wound was already beginning to heal itself.

* * *

He took her hand and led her down to his bathing chamber, a level below the
bedroom. Standing on the marble staircase, she looked in awe at the tiled pool
that resembled a Roman bath.

“What is this place?”

“Lower Queen Subway Station.”

“What?”

Valdemar smiled. Her interest seemed to please him. “From what I can gather,
it was supposed to be a junction point for a proposed subway line. Apparently,
the transit company decided not to build it. They locked it up and forgot about
it.”

“You built all of this?” In spite of her fear, she was fascinated.

He shrugged as if everyone constructed Roman Baths in their spare time. “Time
is the one thing I have a lot of.”

“No one ever found you here?”

“Not yet.” Valdemar held out his hand. “Come, let's get you cleaned up.”

* * *

“You'll need a shirt,” he said, standing in the doorway to his huge closet.
He tossed the torn and blood-stained blouse aside. “Your jeans might be okay
once they've been washed.”

Melinda sat before the gilded mirror in his dressing chamber and tried on the
borrowed shirt of soft suede.