Vampire Miami (22 page)

“Perhaps not,” he agreed. His voice was smooth
and cool like a freshly fetched river stone. “But it might remove
much of the evening’s unnecessary unpleasantness.”

Selah could hear somebody moaning through a thin
screen of ferns, the voice pitched in a low, private register, raw
and urgent. She turned more fully to the view of the beach below,
to the magnificent spread of the ocean beyond. Someday, she
thought, she’d have to come see these waters under the light of the
sun. Azure, with white sand. Not jet with ash gray tidal
reaches.

“Why are you here?” asked the Dragon. “I have
heard that this is Plessy’s arrangement, but not much more.”

Selah restrained a surge of hope. Might he
intervene? “Do you mind if I ask your name? People keep calling you
‘the Dragon,’ but that’s … awkward in conversation. Why do they
call you that?”

For the first time, he smiled. At least, his
lips quirked. He still didn’t look at her. “My name’s Theo.”

Selah waited for more, and then accepted that
was all she was getting. “Theo. That’s … better. And, one last
question. Why are you helping me? Why did you help me back in the
club, even?” She tightened her fingers on the railing. Hadn’t
understood until this very moment how important a question this
was. Couldn’t bear to look at him.

He didn’t answer for an agonizingly long time.
It only made her heart beat harder, and she thought he might simply
straighten and turn and walk away. At last he said, “You remind me
of someone. Someone who was very important to me.”

“Oh,” said Selah. Wanted to press on: during
your human life? During your unlife? Who? Your mother? Wife?
Daughter? “Well, Plessy, yeah. I—well. When vampires feed from me,
we exchange something. Like, I walk away with the vampire’s
strength and speed, while they gain my … I don’t know. Humanity?
Ability to feel emotion?” She shrugged.

Theo pursed his lips and looked away. Selah
waited for a response. Finally he nodded. “Interesting. I’ve heard
of something like this before. It’s rare. The last time was …
nearly a century ago.”

Selah leaned over the railing next to him. “He
thinks that might be of interest to some important people, though I
don’t see why. All it did was make Charles cry.”

Theo laughed. “It does more than that, I
believe. To become one of us, you have to die. The embrace brings
you back, or at least parts of you. The rest of what you once were
remains dead, leaving you little more than a combination of
predatory instincts, the desire to feed, and to survive. Empathy,
compassion, even love—those are absent. Yet we feel that absence,
as a tongue might a missing tooth. Years of causing pain to others
can grind us down, leave us little more than animals, but always we
feel that absence, that loss.”

He spoke slowly, quietly, as if figuring out the
words as he went. When he paused, he looked at her, and she
couldn’t help but stare into his dark eyes, those pools of liquid
night. “If you are what Plessy believes, then for a night you can
bring back that part of us that has died. Can make us feel what you
humans take for granted. It must be a terrible thing to experience,
yet also something sublime.”

“Oh,” said Selah, “I see.” She looked away,
chilled. No capacity for love, for compassion. And yet. Here he
was, speaking quietly with her, helping her understand. Sawiskera’s
right-hand man, feared by most if not all as the Dragon. Because
she reminded him of someone? There was too much here that she
didn’t understand.

“You don’t like Plessy, do you?” asked Selah,
the realization coming to her unbidden. “Is that part of the reason
you’re being nice to me? Because you don’t like him?”

Theo stirred restlessly, turned around and
leaned back against the railing, one arm crossed over his midriff,
the other stretched out to the side. He didn’t respond at first,
but if anything, his face became harder.

“Never mind,” said Selah. “It’s not important.
But—could I ask you something else? Why is Blood Dust illegal in
Miami?”

Theo gave her a sardonic look. “Because
Sawiskera wills it so.”

Selah shifted impatiently, “But why?”

“Sawiskera does not explain himself.”

Selah opened her mouth to ask another question,
but then felt Theo’s touch at her elbow, and turned to see Karl
approaching. He’d made no attempt to dress up for the party, still
wearing his little suit. He walked unaccompanied and glanced down
at the ground every few steps as if afraid of tripping.

“Ah,” he said, smiling brightly to them both,
“how nice! The two of you having a little chat. Informal, discrete,
perhaps even a little romantic? No, that couldn’t be, how perverse.
Still, you two cut quite the couple.”

“Karl,” said Theo, voice little more than a low
drawl. Selah decided that the best way to not lose control was to
ignore Karl, so she instead gazed over the garden at some
indeterminate point.

“I do hate to interrupt, but I’m going to have
to steal Miss Brown away. Who, may I add, is looking quite
fashionably stunning. Well done, Selah! I’d hoped you wouldn’t show
in tennis shoes and jeans. Much more presentable. I see you’re
taking to your new role quite well.”

Selah couldn’t help it. She looked over at him
and gave him the most vicious, level stare she could manage,
pouring all her contempt, loathing, and disgust into the look. Karl
met it with a blank look of his own, and then grinned, delighted.
“Come, let’s be on our way. The hour grows propitious.”

Selah looked at his extended hand, small and
plump, and stepped forward. It was one of the hardest things she’d
ever done. For now she was going to be taken like a doe-eyed
sacrificial victim to some altar. That one step was akin to
crossing a chasm, a step in which she acceded to what was going to
come. All she could do was raise her chin and retain as much
self-control as she could manage.

Karl watched her with glittering, bottomless
eyes, and then slid his hand so that it pressed against the small
of her back. He was talking, chatting inanely with her about her
dress, about fashion, but Selah tuned him out. They walked through
the garden maze, leaving Theo behind. Selah fought the urge to look
back, to beg with her eyes for his help. He had no doubt done all
that he was willing to do. Would she be taken here, in plain sight?
Would they gather to watch? She tried not to shudder. Reminded
herself that it had happened twice before, each time a soaring
epiphany of pain and ecstasy. One could grow used to it, in the
proper frame of mind. Used to a soul-deep violation, exsanguination
that took her humanity along with her blood. She was shivering, she
realized, and fought to relax.

Karl guided her through the garden, and then
back to the solarium. Found another set of stairs leading down into
a different part of the penthouse, and down they went, Karl behind,
into a different world. Small, interconnected rooms in sultry
shadows, lit by red and burgundy and maroon lamps that made
suggestive islands of faint light in the heavy, velvety shadows. It
wasn’t a series of different rooms, Selah realized, but rather
another vast one that had been divided by screens and partitions. A
new maze, a separate labyrinth in which the smell of sweat and sex
and blood hung thick like a wretched pall, a miasma of physical
scents that spoke of the human body in all its humors and
secretions.

Selah tried to breathe lightly through her
mouth. Karl was still talking, and though she didn’t listen to the
actual words, his voice was a litany of sound that helped block out
the rhythmic, pulsing music that seemed more bass than anything
else, the sounds of people enjoying themselves in all manners
carnal. She felt as if she were drunk in a world gone mad. It took
all the effort she could muster to not stagger, to not grow dizzy,
faint. On they went, around partitions, stepping carefully over
countless cushions.

At last they reached an open area, a clearing of
sorts. A dozen or so men and women were lounging in a circle of
great cushions or chaise longues, and as one they turned their
black eyes to her. But Selah couldn’t see them. Didn’t see them.
Instead she stared with horror at the man who hung naked by his
ankle in the center of the room, a great hook thrust under his
Achilles tendon, holding him aloft. He spun slowly, his throat torn
open, his blood drained into a great, roughly carved stone bowl set
beneath him. Strips of flesh had been torn from his ribs and
thighs, and those strips were nowhere in evidence.

Had she thought she was ready for this? Had she
thought herself brave when she’d told Cloud that she would do
whatever it took for the Resistance? That she was prepared for this
evening’s entertainment, that she was willing to sacrifice for the
greater good? Selah stared at the man’s glazed, open eyes, one of
which had filled with blood, saw that his mouth was open and
missing its tongue, just a guttered well of black and crimson.

She didn’t scream. Though her gorge rose, though
her stomach cramped and her mind spun until she couldn’t think, she
didn’t scream. She didn’t move, didn’t cover her mouth. Who had he
been? What had he done to deserve this? Nothing, nothing, no crime
could be equal to this punishment. She stood shivering, trapped,
and allowed herself one mercy: she closed her eyes. She couldn’t
close her nose against the charnel smell, couldn’t close her ears
against the music and the whispers, but her eyes, those she could
close, and if for but a moment gain respite from the sickening
spectacle before her.

Karl spoke. It was as if she could no longer
understand English. His tone was servile, subservient. He was
praising somebody, or something. She didn’t care. She didn’t need
to understand. They would have their pleasure regardless. Right now
she didn’t care. Couldn’t think, act. Instead, she fought for
simple self-control. To not run screaming, wailing, to be dragged
down by laughing fiends as they pulled her back to this space, to
toy with her and derive even more enjoyment from her terror.

A woman spoke. Selah opened her eyes, and saw
that it was a beauty such as she had never seen before. She seemed
unreal, too fleshy and carnal to be human, her thighs and breasts
too full, her figure voluptuous, her lips blood red, her eyes the
same pitch black but surrounded by lashes so dark and thick, they
became impossibly huge. Black hair to make Maria Elena weep was a
vast wash of ink behind her recumbent form, and her fangs were
exposed and an almost shocking white against her lips. Selah felt
entranced, couldn’t tear her gaze away. There was such redolent
power to her that it almost made Selah vertiginous, such allure
that she was drawn despite herself, despite everything.

Karl responded. “Nothing, I assure you. But a
gift, a gesture of respect. For you to enjoy, should you desire a
bite of the forbidden fruit. For that is what her blood promises. A
pleasure and taste of life such as you have not had since you
became your august self, so many centuries ago.”

The woman studied Selah. There was no trace of
humanity in her eyes. She was a beast in human form, her face
governed by an alien expression that lay partly between feral
hunger, amusement, and boredom.

“Very well,” said the woman. “Your gift is
accepted. You may leave.”

Karl opened his mouth, clearly not having
expected dismissal. He caught himself. Bowed, stepped back, and was
gone. Selah never thought she would miss him. The devil you know.
She resisted the urge to close her eyes. To tremble. Thought of
Mama B, thought of her father. She was their daughter. She was
Selah Brown, and nothing they could do could ever change that. So
she raised her chin, forced a scowl onto her features, and placed
her hands on her hips.

The woman watched, and then laughed, the sound
akin to hearing a subterranean river of blood pouring over black
stones.

“Karl tells me that you will be such a drink as
I have not tasted in centuries, little lamb.” Her voice was thick,
almost clotted, with an Eastern European accent; it made goosebumps
shiver up and down Selah’s skin. “I find that hard to believe.” The
others stirred in interest. Selah ignored them. Stared above the
woman’s head. “So let us delay my disappointment. On your
knees.”

Selah refused. She would not kneel before this
monster. And yet. And yet. She found her legs buckling against her
will. As if a great and ponderous weight had settled about her
shoulders, forcing her down. Shuddering with the effort to resist,
gritting her teeth, Selah fought to remain standing, but moments
later she fell.

A hiss of pleasure. “Good, I enjoy spirit. It
makes the breaking so much more enjoyable. Let us find your limits.
Let us test your boundaries. Crawl to me.”

Tears filled Selah’s eyes. She placed her hands
on the ground. Never had she felt such terror, such helpless rage,
such humiliation. To the sound of titters and half-whispered
suggestions, she began to crawl across the marble floor toward the
woman.

“Stop,” she said as Selah drew next to the
hanging man. “Strip off your clothing.” Selah closed her eyes. She
was powerless to resist. Slowly, she shrugged out of her dress, her
shoes, her underclothes. The titters rose, and then became silent,
as if they sensed what was to come.

“Place your hands in the bowl, and wash yourself
with Marco’s blood.” The voice was thick with arousal now, and the
woman was leaning forward, one hand on the chaise longue, the other
under her chin.

Selah shook her head. No.
No
. She would
not. She would. Not. Struggling, shaking, she turned toward the
stone bowl. It was large, about four feet across, carved from rough
granite and splattered with gore. Its depths smooth with a pool of
blood. Not a whole body’s worth. Much of it was gone.

Selah was sobbing now, she couldn’t help it. She
slipped her hands into the blood. It was still warm. She cupped it,
and brought it up to her chest, poured it over her skin. Felt it
run over her breasts, down her stomach. Reached in for more. She
couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Poured more over one shoulder,
and then the other.