Twilight Phantasies. Maggie Shayne
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know your fear, man, but think! Am I more fearsome than the guillotine?” He shouted it, and Eric stiffened and looked around him, but not one body stirred.
“Why—why don’t they wake?” Roland came forward then, gripping his shoulders. “I don’t understand. Why don’t they wake?” Eric asked again.
The guard pounded on the door. “Time’s up!”
“Five minutes more!” Roland’s voice boomed, nearly, Eric thought, rattling the walls. “I’ll make it worth your while, man! Now go!”
Eric heard the guard grumble, and then his footsteps shuffle away from the door as he called, “Two minutes, then. No more.”
“Blast it, lad. It has to be done. Forgive me for not finding a way to make it less frightening!” With those words Roland pulled Eric to him with unnatural strength. He pressed Eric’s head back with the flat of one hand, and even as Eric struggled to free himself Roland’s teeth sank into his throat.
When he opened his mouth to release a scream of unbridled horror, something wet sealed his lips. It sickened him when he understood that it was a wrist, gashed open and pulsing blood. Roland forced the severed vein to him and Eric had no choice but to swallow the vile fluid that filled his mouth.
Vile? No. But warm and salty. With the first swallow came the shocking realization that he wanted more. What was happening to him? Had he lost his sanity? Yes! He must have, for here he was, allowing another man’s blood to assuage his painful hunger, his endless thirst. He didn’t even cower when the word rushed through his brain like a chilling breeze. Vampire. Fear filled his heart even as Roland’s blood filled his body. He felt himself weakening, sinking into a dark abyss from which he wanted no escape. It was a far better death than the one the dawn would bring. The blood drugged him, and Roland stepped away.
Eric couldn’t stand upright. He felt emptied of everything in him, and he sank to the floor. He didn’t feel the impact. His head floated somewhere above him and his skin pricked with a million invisible needles. “Wh-what have you d-done to me?” He had to force the words out, and they slurred together as if he were drunk. He couldn’t feel his tongue anymore.
“Sleep, my son. When next you wake you will be free of this cell. I promise you that. Sleep.”
Eric fought to keep his eyes from closing, but they did. Vaguely he felt cold hands replacing his soiled cravat. Then he heard Roland pound on the door and call for the guard.
“He’ll not live long enough for his execution, I fear.” Roland’s voice seemed to come from far away.
“The hell, you say! He was fine—”
“Look for yourself, man. See how he lies there? Dead before the dawn, I’ll wager. I’ll send a coach for the body. See to it, will you?”
“For a price, sir.”
“Here, then. And there will be more to follow, if you do it precisely as I say.”
“Well, now, if he dies, like you say, I’ll see he gets in your coach. But if not, I’ll be here to see he keeps his other appointment. Either way he ends up the same. In the ground, eh, mister?” Harsh laughter filled the cell and the door slammed.
1
In the dream she was running. From something, toward something. Someone. She plunged through dense forest woven with vines and brambles that clawed at her legs, snared her, pulled her back. Swirls of smoky mist writhed, serpentlike, around her calves. She couldn’t even see where her feet touched the ground. All the while she kept calling for him, but, as always, when she woke she couldn’t re member his name.
Jet hair stuck to her face, glued there by tears and perspiration. Her lungs swelled like those of a marathon runner after a race. She dragged in breath after ragged breath. Her heart felt ready to explode. Her head spun in ever-tightening circles and she had to close her eyes tightly against the horrible dizziness. She sat up quickly, pushing the damp hair from her forehead, and glanced at the clock beside the bed and then at the fading light beyond the window.
She needn’t have done so. The dream assaulted her at the same time each day, just one part of her increasingly irregular sleep patterns. Nighttime insomnia, daytime lethargy and vivid nightmares that were always the same had become a predictable part of her existence. She’d made a habit of rushing to her room for a nap the second she got home from work, knowing it would be the only sleep she was likely to get. She’d sleep like the dead until just before dusk, only to be wakened by that frightening, lingering dream.
The effects slowly faded, and Tamara got to her feet, pulled on her satin robe and padded to the adjoining bathroom, leaving tracks in the deep, silvery pile of the carpet. She twisted the knob on the oversize tub and sprinkled a handful of bath oil beads into the rising water. As the stream of water bubbled and spurted she heard an urgent knock, and she went to the door.
Daniel’s silver brows bunched together over pale blue, concern-filled eyes. “Tam? Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes slowly and sighed. She must have cried out again. It was bad enough to be certain her own sanity was slipping steadily out of her grasp, but to worry the man who’d been like a father to her for the past twenty years was too much. “Of course, I’m fine. Why?”
“I…thought I heard you call.” His eyes narrowed to study her face. She hoped the circles beneath her eyes didn’t show. “Are you sure you’re—”
“Fine. I’m fine. I stubbed my toe on the bedpost, that’s all.”
Still he looked doubtful. “You look tired.”
“I was about to take a nice hot bath and then I’m down for the night.” She smiled to ease his worry, but it turned to a frown when she noted the coat over his arm. “You’re going out? Daniel, it’s been snowing all day. The roads—”
“I’m not driving, Tam. Curtis is coming to pick me up.”
She felt her spine stiffen. Her breath escaped her in a rush. “You’re going to spy on that man again, aren’t you? Honestly, Daniel, this obsession you have—”
“Spying! It’s surveillance. And don’t call it obsession, Tamara. It’s pure scientific study. You should understand that.”
Her brows rose. “It’s folklore, that’s what it is. And if you keep dogging the poor man’s every step he’s going to end up dragging you into court. Daniel, you’ve followed him for months. You have yet to come up with a shred of evidence that he’s—”
“Daniel.” Curt’s voice cut her off, and in a moment he’d hurried up the stairs to join Daniel outside her bedroom door. “Are you ready?”
“And you!” Tamara rushed on as if he’d been privy to the entire conversation. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging this witch-hunt. For God’s sake, the three of us spend every day in a high-tech, brass-and-glass-filled office building in White Plains. We’re living in the nineties, guys. Byram, Connecticut, not fifteenth-century Transylvania!”
Curt stared at her for a moment. Then he tilted his head to one side and opened his arms. She sighed and allowed his embrace. “Still not sleeping nights?” His voice came smoothly, softly.
She shook her head against the damp fabric of his coat.
“I’m worried about leaving her alone,” Daniel said, as if she were not there.
“I have experiments to finish in the basement lab,” Curt offered. “I could hang around here, if you want to do the surveillance alone.”
“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” she snapped.
Daniel ignored her. “I think that’s a good idea,” he said. He leaned over to plant a dry peck on her cheek. “I’ll be back around dawn.”
She pulled from Curt’s arms and shook her head in frustration.