Seeing Cassandra deny her disconnection, fight to pretend that she's just as much a part of the world as ever, I understood that the process must be as involuntary as any other part of aging. I've said that Cassandra didn't care about anyone but herself, and she'd been that way my entire life. Although I was sure she'd never been the most altruistic person, if she'd always been as self-centered as she was today, she'd never have been granted a seat on the council. Perhaps, as she grew older, she'd begun finding it more difficult to care, as the years and the faces blurred together, her own self and life the only constant. Yet she'd told herself she wasn't affected by it, that she was still as vibrant and vital as ever. Could I really blame her for that? Of course not.
What about my mother? Could I blame her? She must have seen the signs with Cassandra. Why didn't she say anything? When Cassandra's codelegate, Lawrence, had taken off for Europe, sinking into the final stages of his decline, my mother should have insisted on getting a second, younger vampire delegate. If she had, maybe none of this would have happened. We'd have known which vampires were having trouble with the Cabals. Yet my mother had done nothing. Why? Perhaps for the same reason I sat on the hotel bed, staring at the door, knowing I should go out there and confront Cassandra, yet unable to do so.
Fear glued me to that bed. Not fear of Cassandra herself, but fear of offending her. I've never been very good at respecting my elders. Everyone deserves my basic respect, but to earn extra requires more than just having lots of candles on your birthday cake. My mother raised me to be Coven Leader, meaning I grew up knowing that my "elders" would someday be my subordinates. Yet there's a big difference between kowtowing to a seventy-year-old witch and showing respect to a three-hundred-year-old vampire. I couldn't just walk out there and say, "Hey, Cass, I know you don't want to hear this, but you're dying, so get over it."
Something had to be done. It made my gut churn to admit that my mother may have made a mistake, but if she had, I couldn't perpetuate it simply to avoid disrespecting her memory. If Aaron wanted a place on the council, then he should have it. I wouldn't tell Cassandra that now--that would be kicking her when she was down. But we did need to talk.
Cassandra stood in the living area, staring out the window. She didn't turn when I walked in. As I watched her, my resolve faltered. This could wait until morning.
"Bathroom's all yours," I said. "You can have the bedroom, too. I'll pull out the sofa."
She shook her head, still not turning. "Take the bedroom. I don't sleep very much anymore."
Another sign of a dying vampire. I watched her stare out the window. She looked...not sad, really, but somehow smaller, dimmer; her presence was confined to that corner of the room instead of taking over the whole of it.
"Can we talk, then?" I said.
She nodded, and walked to the couch. I took the chair beside it.
"If you want to speak to John again, I'll help you," she said. "I will warn you, though, that he's likely to send us on a wild-goose chase." She paused. "Not intentionally. He simply puts too much credence in gossip."
"Well, maybe Aaron can help us sift through John's bullshit. Aaron seems to have a good network of contacts."
Cassandra stiffened, almost imperceptibly, then nodded. "Aaron was always very good at that, immersing himself in our world. Helping others. Keeping order. It's what he does best." A small smile. "I remember, we were in London when Peel began recruiting his bobbies, and I told him, 'Aaron, finally, a career for you.' He'd have been horrible at it, of course. If he caught a hungry child stealing a loaf of bread, he wouldn't have arrested him, he'd have helped him steal more. He's a good man. I--" She paused. "So we'll talk to John again, then. Aaron should be able to get an address for us later today."
"I can probably get it tonight. If he owns the Rampart with Brigid and Ronald, then one of them has to have their address in the public record system. I'll also call Lucas, tell him I won't be coming back to Miami just yet, see whether he wants to join us."
Finding John's address was even simpler than I'd hoped. It was in the phone book. Just to be sure, though, I hacked into public records and double-checked. It may seem that supernaturals, particularly vampires, would avoid leaving a paper trail and, in most cases, they do. Few supernaturals will list themselves in the local phone books, as John had. Yet when it comes to such highly regulated matters as the issuing of liquor licenses, it's more dangerous to provide false information. Vampires carry valid driver's licenses and file their taxes like everyone else, though the name on their paperwork may or may not be their true birth name, depending on how they prefer to keep their identity current. Some pick a victim in their age range and take over his identity for a while. Others pay supernatural forgers to create fresh documents every decade or so. Like Cassandra, John apparently chose the latter route.
Next I called Lucas. As I'd expected--and hoped--he did want to join us. We discussed whether Cassandra and I should wait for him before visiting John, but he didn't think his presence would help. He'd catch the next flight to New Orleans, and we'd meet up after lunch.
By this point, it was after six, so sleep was out of the question. I fixed a fresh poultice for my stomach and cast a fresh healing spell. It helped. A few hours of sleep might have helped more, but I didn't have time for that. The painkillers might have helped, too, but I'd left them back in Miami, and not by accident. This trip, I needed to be clearheaded.
At seven, we went to a bistro down the road, where I had beignets and cafe au lait while Cassandra drank black coffee. After breakfast, Cassandra tried calling Aaron, but he wasn't answering his cell, so she left a message. Then we hailed a cab and headed out to interview the vampire again.
Embracing One's Cultural Heritage
WE STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF JOHN'S HOUSE. Cassandra looked up at it and sighed.
"You weren't really expecting a brick bungalow, were you?" I said. "At least it's not as bad as the Rampart." I peered through the wrought-iron fence. "Oh, I didn't see that...or that. Is that what I think--oooh." I pulled back. "You may want to wait outside."
Cassandra sighed again, louder, deeper.
Now, I have nothing against Victorian architecture, having grown up in a wonderful little house from that very era, but John's place was everything that gives the style a bad name, plus a good dose of southern Gothic. It looked like the quintessential haunted house, covered in ivy and peeling paint, windows darkened, spires rusting. On closer inspection, the disrepair was only cosmetic--the porch didn't sag, the wood wasn't rotting, even the crumbling walkway was crumbled artfully, the stones still solid enough that you wouldn't trip walking over them. The yard appeared overrun and neglected, yet even a novice gardener would recognize that most of the "weeds" were actually wild-looking perennials.
"This used to drive my mom crazy," I said, pointing at the lawn. "People paying to make their yard look like an abandoned lot. No wonder the neighbors have high walls. He has some nice gargoyles, though. I must admit, I've never seen them anatomically correct."
Cassandra followed my gaze, and shuddered.
"It sure is dark in there," I said. "Or are those blackout blinds? No, wait. It's paint. He's blacked out all the windows. Can't be too careful with those fatal sunbeams."
"The man is an idiot, Paige. If you doubted that last night, this house should seal the matter. We're wasting our time."
"Oh, but it's so much fun. I've never seen a real vampire's house before. How come your fence doesn't have wrought-iron bats?" I grabbed the gate and swung it open, then stopped dead. "Hey, I missed those. Forget the bats. That's what you need outside your condo."
Cassandra stepped into the gate opening, looked inside, and swore.
"I didn't think that word was in your vocabulary," I said. "Guess now we really know why the neighbors put up high fences."
There, flanking either side of the walkway, were a pair of raised fountains. The base of each was a shell-shaped bowl filled with water and lily pads. Standing i
n each bowl was a masculine version of Botticelli's famous "Birth of Venus." The man stood in the same pose as Venus, left hand coyly drawn up to cover his chest, right hand down by his genitals, yet instead of covering them, he held his optimistically endowed penis, pointing it upward. Water jetted from each penis and over the path into the basin of the twin statue opposite. The water didn't flow in a smooth stream, though. It spurted.
"Please tell me there is something wrong with his water pressure," Cassandra said.
"No, I believe that's the desired effect." I followed the path of the water over the walkway. "So, are we supposed to duck or run through between spurts?"
Cassandra marched around behind the left-hand statue, following a path undoubtedly created by countless delivery men.
"Hey," I said as I ducked between the statues. "That looks familiar."
Cassandra fixed me with a look.
"No," I said. "Not that. The face. Check out the statue faces. It's John, isn't it? He had them modeled after himself."
Her gaze flicked down. "Not entirely."
I grinned. "Cassandra, you and John? Say it isn't so."
"May I never be so desperate. I meant that if he was that gifted, I'd certainly have heard about it. The vampire community isn't that big."
"And neither, apparently, is John."
We climbed onto the porch, then both stopped to stare at the door knocker, an iron Nosferatu-style vampire head, teeth bared.
"You know," I said. "We might not be giving John enough credit. All this could be a clever example of reverse psychology. No one would ever suspect a real vampire would be stupid enough to live like this."
"One would hope that no person would ever be stupid enough to live like this."
She lifted the door knocker.
"Hold on," I said, putting my hand out to stop her. "Is this really such a good idea?"
"No," she said, wheeling and heading down the steps. "It is not. I saw a nice little boutique on the corner. Why don't we do some shopping, wait for Aaron to phone back--"
"I meant it might not be wise to announce ourselves. If he bolted last night, he might do the same again."
"Only if we're lucky."
"I think we should break in."
"Quite possibly the only suggestion that would make this excursion even more unbearable. If this involves crawling through a broken basement window, may I mention now that these pants are dry-clean-only, I didn't bring another change of clothes, and I'm certainly not going to--"
I finished murmuring an unlock spell and opened the door. Inside, all was dark and silent.
"It's daytime," Cassandra murmured. "He'll be asleep."
Guess I should have known that. I needed to brush up on my vampire lore.
The house was cool, almost cold compared to the warm fall day outside. I could chalk up the drop in temperature to an otherworldly chill from stepping into the abode of the undead, but I suspected John just had his air conditioner cranked too high.
I cast a light spell and looked around. The walls were covered in crimson velvet-flocked wallpaper, and decorated with paintings that probably violated obscenity codes in a dozen states.
"I didn't know goats could do that," I said, casting my light over one picture. "And I'm not sure why they'd want to."
"Could you dim that thing?" Cassandra said. "Please?"
"Sorry, it's a single-wattage spell," I said. "But I could blindfold you. Hey, look, there's a leather hood right there on the coatrack. Oooh, check out the cat-o'-nine-tails. Think John would notice if I scooped it?"
"You're enjoying this far too much."
"It's just so refreshing to see a vampire who fully embraces his cultural heritage." I waved my light-ball toward the stairs. "Shall we see whether we can wake the undead?"
Cassandra shot me a look that said she was seriously reconsidering her thirty-and-up policy. I grinned back and headed for the stairs.
Upstairs we found more red velvet wallpaper, more paintings of questionable artistic merit, more S&M-themed knickknacks, and no John. There were four bedrooms. Two were furnished as sleeping quarters, but seemed to be used only as dressing rooms. The third could best be described as a museum of vampire-fetish, and is best left undescribed in further detail. The fourth door was locked.
"This must be his," I whispered to Cassandra. "Either that, or the stuff in here is even worse than the stuff in the last room."
"I doubt that's possible." Cassandra's gaze darted toward the fetish room. "Perhaps, though, I should wait in the hall. In case John returns."
I grinned. "Good plan."
I cast a simple unlock spell, assuming it was a normal interior door lock, the type that could be sprung with a hairpin. When that failed, I moved to my next stronger spell, then to the strongest. Finally, the door opened.
"Damn," I murmured. "Whatever he's got in here, he really doesn't want anyone to see."
I eased open the door, guided my light-ball around the corner, and found myself looking into...an office. An ordinary, modern home office, with gray carpet, painted blue walls, fluorescent lighting, a metal desk, two computers, and a fax machine. A whiteboard on the far wall held John's to-do list: pick up dry-cleaning, pay property taxes, renew cleaning contract, hire new dishwasher. Not a single mention of sucking blood, raping the local virgins, or turning his neighbors into undead fiends. No wonder John didn't want anyone coming in here. One glance through that door and all his image-building would be for naught.
I stepped out and closed the door behind me.
"You don't want to go in there," I said.
"Bad?"
"The worst." I looked along the hall. "So he's not here, and it doesn't look like he's slept up here in a while. So where does a culturally faithful vamp sleep? You didn't see a mausoleum out back, did you?"
"Thank God, no. He seems to have had the sense to draw the line at that."
"Probably because he couldn't get the building permit. Okay, well..." I looked at her. "Help me out here. I'm not vamp-stereotype savvy."
She paused, as if it pained her to answer, then sighed. "The basement."
We stood in the center of the basement. My light-ball hung over the only object in the room, a massive, gleaming, ebony black, silver-trimmed coffin.
"Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, huh?" I said. "At least it's not a mausoleum."
"He's sleeping in a box, Paige. It doesn't get any worse than that. A mausoleum, at least you could fix up, add some skylights, perhaps a nice feather bed with Egyptian cotton sheets..."
"He might have Egyptian cotton sheets in there," I said. "Oh, and you know, it might not be as bad as you think. Maybe he doesn't sleep in there. Maybe it's just for sex."
Cassandra fixed me with a look. "Thank you, Paige. If those pictures upstairs weren't enough to taint my sex life for weeks, that image will certainly do it."
"Well, at least we know he's not having sex in there right now. I think it'd need to be propped open for that. So what's the proper etiquette for rousing a vamp from his coffin? Should we knock first?"
Cassandra grabbed the side of the coffin and was about to swing it open when her head jerked up.
"Paige--!" she called.
That was all I heard before a body struck mine. As I pitched forward, pain shot through my torn stomach muscles. I twisted and caught a glimpse of a naked thigh and a swirl of long, blond hair. Then a hand grabbed me from behind and a head plunged toward my neck.
I reacted on instinct, not with a spell, but with a move from a barely remembered self-defense class. My elbow shot up into my attacker's chest and my other hand slammed, palm first, into the nose.
A shriek of pain and my attacker stumbled back. I scuttled around, binding spell at the ready, and saw Brigid huddled on the floor, naked, cupping her nose.
"You bitch! I think you broke my nose."
"Stop whining," Cassandra said, reaching down to help me up. "It'll heal in the time it takes you to get dressed." She shook her
head. "Two vampires laid low in two days by a twenty-two-year-old witch. I am embarrassed for my race."
I could have pointed out that I was twenty-three, but it wouldn't have had the same alliteration. At least Cassandra had some vague idea of my age. Most times she was doing well if she bothered to remember names.
Behind us, the coffin creaked open.
"What the hell is--" John grumbled, yanking a sleep mask from his eyes. "Cassandra?" He groaned. "What did I do now?"
"They broke in, Hans," Brigid said. "They were prowling around, looking at everything--"
"We weren't prowling," Cassandra said. "And we were trying very hard not to look at anything. Now get out of that coffin, John. I can't speak to you when you're in that thing."
He sighed, grabbed both sides and pushed himself up. Unlike Brigid, he was, thankfully, not naked, or I'd have been unable to resist vocalizing comparisons with the statues out front. Though John was shirtless, he wore a pair of billowing black silk pants, cinched at the waist. I assumed they were supposed to look debonair, but I was having serious MC Hammer flashbacks.
"We need some information," Cassandra began. "Last night, we weren't entirely forthright with you for security reasons. But, after we spoke to you, it was obvious that I may have underestimated your...stature in the vampire world."
"It happens," John said.
"Yes, well, here's the situation. A vampire has been killing Cabal children--the children of Cabal employees."
"Since when?" John said, then coughed. "I mean, I heard about that, of course."
"Of course. As of yet, the Cabals don't realize that they're hunting for a vampire. The interracial council would like to keep it that way, to catch the perpetrator quietly. We know the Cabals don't like vampires. We don't need to give them an excuse to come after us."
"Let them," Brigid said, stepping forward. "They want a war, we'll give them a--"
John hushed her with a wave. As he watched us, I realized that, as I'd hoped, Cassandra had indeed underestimated him. Playing the fool didn't mean he was one.