Chapter Nine: Lingering Here
Lucia sat alone in the café, reading a book in her hands. She was in her own little corner where no one seemed to notice and was just too disturbed by her presence. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back into a regal ponytail. She pulled at the wrinkles of her turtleneck and tapped her manicured nails impatiently on the table. Her mouth twisted into a thin, hard grimace. I hate them all, she growled. Her fingers dug into the wood, crack, and left finger-sized imprints on the edge of the table.
She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her paperback novel. Another sigh and she studied the whorls of the wooden surface of the table. A growl rumbled from the depths of her chest and blocked out the voices of the people around her. Pointless, pointless chattering! So many pulsing veins—so hungry. The back of her throat ached and she licked her plump lips for emphasis. Damn, I forgot to feed earlier. Hmm, it would not be hard to kill them off. She eyed the nearest person and calculated her menu. Now who shall be the plat de principal?
"Excuse me, Miss? Are you all right?" a soft voice asked, politely tapped on her shoulder.
"What?" she barked hoarsely. Her dark eyes lashed at the man's. To her surprise, they were a tawny shade. He in response widened his eyes at hers.
"Sorry I just—," he choked on the words, struck by her dazzling beauty. Damn, even mad, she is hot!
"Is there anything you want?" she asked, regaining her composure.
"Well—I", the young man started to sweat and glisten under the strobe lights. Or perhaps it was just the fact that he was bundled up in a beanie, scarf and a thick sweater of some sort. "I was wondering if could draw you?"
"Go right ahead. Nothing's stopping you." This should be amusing, she thought.
"At—at my apartment?" Silence. Lucia considered it. A free meal and I would have to overexert any energy. She shrugged to his question. She rose to her feet and glided out the door, leaving her novel behind. The man's eyes flickered to the dents of the edge of the table and then to the blonde-haired vampiress waiting outside.
"Damn," he managed to say.
The elevator was out of order so the pair had to trek up half a dozen flights of stairs. The apartments made not a peep. The lights above them sputtered on and off. By the time they go up to the last floor, the male was obviously looking out of shape. They walked down the empty hall. He jostled his keys in his pocket and opened the door to his apartment. He kicked off his shoes and tore his scarf and beanie hat from himself. Lucia stepped hesitantly inside. She looked around for the man, but he was no longer in the living room. She walked past the broken air conditioner and other scraps that lay scattered on the floor.
There were three rooms: one was the living room that joined the tiny kitchen, one bathroom and one bedroom. Now the bedroom held a twin-sized bed with a mound of plaid blankets on top. There was a wooden desk shoved neatly into a corner, a window with moth-eaten curtains and an easel with a half-sketched drawing. Tiny jars of water paint were toppled over and tubes of acrylic pain were closed with a dried pain crust on the cap.
Lucia edged closer to the easel and traced the outline with her finger. The door closed behind her. His round, tawny eyes gazed at her with a touch of sadness. The sadness made his eyes like liquid and seemed to melt like butter. The vampiress's cold mask cracked.
"I apologize for not introducing myself. My name is Jack Bromnal," he said.
"Jack, you drew this?" Lucia inquired softly.
"Yep. She's a work in the making," he answered proudly.
"You draw like someone I know," she whispered.
"And you look like someone I know," he said. He quickly bit his tongue. "Err—let's get started. Sit over there, please." He pointed to the bed. Lucia sighed and plopped down at the foot of the bed. The young man pulled up a stool to the easel and rotated his easel so that it faced him. He twisted the cap off of the acrylic paint tubes and squeezed some of the colors he needed onto a Dixie paper plate. He looked around for his set of brushes and found them soaking for a little too long in the water.
"Damn," he muttered. He dried them on paper towels, glanced at Lucia who had a placid expression. His number 12 brush picked up a little brown and white and he began. The digital clocked blinked minutes away. Lucia sat there as motionless as a statue and just as perfect. Slowly an image was being done. It was to be golden-brown shades so that it looked antique.
Lucia broke the silence, wrinkling her nose at the nauseating scent of paint in a nearly enclosed room. "Tell me about yourself." Distract yourself so you do not see me sneak behind you and end your life, she thought at the same time.
"Well…I was born in Ireland in the seven-zeros. My mother, Rebecca had died giving birth to me. My father was a purveyor of store goods and we lived as best as we could. My father never gotten over the death of my mother and sometimes I felt that he was blaming me with his eyes. School was a distant dream for me; I didn't give a damn about education. I spent my days hanging about the roughest-looking boys of the bunch. I stood out like a sore thumb. A tulip in a bouquet of cosmos. But we drank, we brawled. Laughter. Laughter. It was not hall monitors gone bad. No. No. We were brothers. Simple as that. I was the happiest kid in the world.
Then my father disappeared. They said he had ridden to Italy. He never came back. So then I was left alone. I ran through the stores through my teenage years to put food into my stomach. Mooching off of the guys didn't seem right. I was considered a good boy, but good boys are sometimes the weakest—and nuns, toughness…you know that masculinity crap. I wore a continuous smile through my days. Why I kept on smiling, I did not know. It seemed like a better option than frowning. Smiling work less facial muscles than frowning.
Over the years, my friends died one by one whether it from disease, fighting, starvation, and whatnot. I wallowed in a pit of ooze, metaphorically. So I sold my father's hop and set out on my own as an impressionist artist as my cover, but that did not last long. I found myself wandering all over Europe and that was when I met my teacher. He found me half-dead on the cobble-stone roads and downwind from a pile of horse manure.
His name was Gabriel Mazelli and was a real father-figure to me. He easily towered over people at that time and had a face of the angel. I did fall in love with him, but somehow I knew he would laugh at me if I spilled out my passion. Anyways…he taught me about love, life, art, and food. 'Always show manners to the ladies', he would repeat as I could forget! We spent many months in Italy and France. Whatever city we left, we were sure to leave a trail of awes and adorations behind us. There always seemed to be some rich lady or gentlemen throwing a party and no party would be complete without us! I love him, truly I did. Did I repeat myself? Yes…I…did. Love has no gender. It was a pure innocent thing. If all was fair in love and war and war spared no one, women, children, or men, than why not love?
Dundundun. My heart finally opened up to someone else! I met her at one of Baroness Suzanna's galas…balls…overly extravagant shindigs. It was a masquerade theme, if I remember correctly. Many dolled-up and pinched bodies lined up against the wall. Some of them were so powdered heavily so I could have sworn it was icing!" Laughter. A shuffle on the mattress.
"She wore this beautiful gown of some design I could not identify, then and now. It was the shade of blue bells. Her hair was about the same shade of yours except it seemed more ethereal. Oh—yes! And the same gray eyes. She wore this simple black mask with a silver outline and feather that stuck out. The mask seemed fit for a man than a woman. I stepped forward and offered to dance with her. She smiled coyishly and accepted. One: it was not proper for a lady to dance with the same man thrice, and two: it was proper for the gentleman to ask first. Standard behavioral rules, you see. We were inseparable. I was shocked to find that she was only twelve! Twelve! I mentally whipped myself to keep my thoughts pure as they can be.
But by then, it was already too late. We both sank deeper into the darkness and I held her hand all the way. Then my teacher passed away. He had been quartered and his remains were burned. I was barely fazed by it. I felt incredible guilt about it later on. That good one left his fortunes to us though. So we lived as siblings in his manor. Rowan tended to stare at me for a long, long time without blinking. It was mildly disturbing. She was studying me and waiting for something. Finally she blossomed into a young woman. Oh, suitors would from far and wide to woo her, but first they had to get through me.
I guarded Rowan with a deep jealously. I would try to cast threats or pranks on the unfortunate cur to scare them off. There was one that was rather persisting so I had to take care of him. Outsiders saw it brotherly love, but it was so much more. I lusted deeply for her. She was mine and only mine. She placed some distance between us from then on. I asked why was she avoiding me and she replied, 'You smell like death, brother'.
I came down with pneumonia soon after. The doctor could not find a cure for it. He tried bleeding with leeches or gorging of milk that left me constipated. He said all he could do was make my last days comfortable. My sister hovered about me through and through. I pleaded with her to go away so she would not catch it, too. She always answered 'No' and shoved porridge into me. Maids came into feed, bathe and redress me. My mind was frying like an egg on hell. Rowan mused that Hell was a great breakfast café. 'You could make pancakes on the ground', she said. This is how people in the desert die. They do not dehydrate, but rather they broil to death.
I had taken a turn for the worst. I spewed up everything that went down into my stomach. She was still there. 'The moon is full tonight,' she said. 'Would you like to see?' I could barely hear her. Did someone stuff my canals with cotton? I believed I babbled incoherently because of the delirium.
When the curtains were drawn back and the moonlight shone into the bedroom, I was terrified. Rowan casted a shadow when she loomed over me. He gray eyes was serpent-like, the pupils were narrowed to a thin lie. Her skin rippled and the illusion of pale snake scales shimmied and faded. In her right hand was a syringe filled with some kind of solution. The needle glinted maliciously in the light. Rowan stabbed me in the jugular vein with it and injected the liquid into my system.
The next few days after that, I felt even worse than before. It was like first-degree burns that crept under your skin and could not be cooled ice, medicine or leeches. After that, I got better. I was stronger than ever and I wound up demolishing my room to pieces. Rowan got mad at me for that. Heheh. I did not need to eat or sleep ever again. I just paced across my replacement bedroom like a cage animal. The rumors escalated over the years. The servants whispered words of black magic; they were suspicious of my lack of sleep and appetite, but also my appearance. My flesh was icy-cold and my body was white marble. Witch's child, they would whisper. Demon. Incubus. Slave to the Devil. Perhaps he was the devil himself? Vampire. The last word struck a sound chord. Vampire. Was that what I had become?
To escape, I sold everything and paid everyone. I gathered all the money and with Rowan, sailed to America under the name of my teacher. It was quite easy. We took a train that zoomed at a mind-boggling forty miles per hour. Hahaha. We found a Victorian house deep in the woods. We bought it as soon as it was complete. There were minimal questions from the neighbors. We lived.
I felt detached from my body. I woke up sometimes in a place I did not know or could I move or say anything. I felt divided in the recesses of mind; one part was blocked off entirely. I was becoming two different people. I plunged into the black oozing pool. Pressure crushed me from all side and was suffocated. This was not the feathery pillow smothering. It was like someone forcing me to swallow bleach. Truly, truly painful. Welcome Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!
We had sold our souls to the devil. Rowan did it out of free will to save me. And I did it because I was afraid. I could have fought against the process until my body died from the stress. But…could it have been accidental? She would have no way of knowing that the deal with a two-edged sword. Or did she?" Jack sighed in relief and leaned back. He put down his paper plate and brush. "I think we are done here. Excuse me—Miss? Miss?"
Lucia was gone. The covers on the bed were scattered about and little wet drops dotted the floor. He scratched his head in confusion and wondered where she went. Jack shrugged and rose to his feet. His walked into the living room and switched the television on. He headed into the kitchen and grabbed Yum-Yum ramen from out of the cabinet. He then fetched a kettle and filled in with sink water. He set the kettle on the tiny stove and turned the knob into high. He grabbed the ramen bowl on his way back to the living room. What he saw on the tellie froze his innards.
The headlines flashed "Vampire Alert" with an intro of cheesy news music. A green-eyed man in police uniform was speaking. "These individuals are considered extremely dangerous and will kill on sight. They have already murdered a dozen people including three police officers." Pictures would flash on screen than went away. "If you run into them, KILL or die trying. Humans will not be able to outrun them. Humans will not able to kill them with a gun. Call 911 if you spot them outside your window." Jack's laughter turned into a snortle. "They will only appear at night so lock your doors and bar your windows. We will attempt to starve them out of hiding." The reporters flashed camera light bulbs, they smacked questions into the officer's face, and there was an air of skeptism and fear. This will end like the Salem Witch Trials.
BOOM! The books on the sofa slid off onto the floor. The television exploded and emitted glass and sparks. His body shuddered and the man broke into sons. They will not find my dark former self, not with Rowan to hide them. I refuse to go back into the darkness that void. His thoughts circulated in circles.
The man hardened his expression, the tears dried up like the Red Sea. He strode from the couch to his bedroom, his intent clear. Jack held no malice towards the auburn-chaired woman-child. He gave no vengeance to his counterpart. He merely wanted answers. The first time, I had woken up, the world was such a strange place, he thought. It was the near end of the twentieth century. He was so excited, but frightened at the same time. Vehicles zoomed past 30 mph, woman dressed in scandalously revealed clothing and colored television! Ah yes! Jack adored television the first few years. HE was practically addicted to children's cartons. He had grown and then some.
After awhile, the sinking feeling came again. The months rolled by and rumors of mysterious murders came about and he was dissolving. It took all the concentration he had to pull his molecules together. He stared at the large gilded mirror that hung near his bed and scowled at his reflection. Bright, tawny eyes gazed back with mute sadness. The reflection nodded and gestured up with an index finger. Jack bore a puzzled expression. The reflection gave him an exasperated look. The reflection ceased to carry on its own and imitated its master. Jack's fist contacted with glass and shivered out of pain. Blood streamed down from his hand to his elbows. The glass shards flew apart from the spider web. The melted and dripped downwards like liquid mercury from the wall, his flesh and the gilded frame. Jack withdrew his hand and studied the wound. Hs his hand to his mouth and licked the wound. Revolting. The man gagged and spat out the blood. Vampires. Demons. Bloody bastards that do not give a damn if people died as long they got their jobs done. His tawny eyes glanced at the painting that he had done.
"Rowan…are you happy?" Jack asked the air. "I won't bother you if you are."