Adduné - the Vampire's Game (32 page)

He put away his carry-on bag in the overhead compartment. He sat down, not bothering to make idle conversation. He looked serious – as if he only spoke when it was necessary, and not to fill dead air. It was fine with Miranda. It was what she wanted also.

When they were safely in the air, Miranda quit staring out the window, and quickly buried herself in reading her guilty pleasure. She had a penchant for romance novels and this looked like a sparkler. She’d bought it at the airport concession stand on the strength of its cover and turgid back cover blurb. While she occasionally read more serious literature, nothing could beat killing time like reading about a pair of passionate lovers destined to hit the sheets. It was the kind of idle fantasy that worked well in taking her mind off travel and life’s problems.

The man next to her spent his time working on his laptop and watching the movie. Miranda had seen the predictable thriller before and wasn’t at all interested in wasting time watching it again. She put on her headphones to deaden the outside noise. Soon she was caught up in the plight of the plucky protagonist and the man heroic enough to bed her.

The story was surprisingly good and moved at a clip. She was soon totally engrossed in the heroine’s plight of losing her husband and having to rebuild her life with the help of his best friend, who Miranda suspected would soon have a more active role in the life of the lonely widow. She forgot about the movie, the plane, and Reginald’s hysterical speech.

In spite of her interest, she found herself yawning. She wasn’t sure why, but a tidal wave of fatigue overtook her. She had barely placed the bookmark in the book’s pages and ripped off the headphones, when she dozed off. She hadn’t meant to. She had only wanted to close her eyes, but the next thing she knew, she taking off on a flight in the land of dreams.

She was riding a horse - a horse she didn’t recognize. She’d ridden horses often as a child, but this horse was not one she’d known. Nonetheless, she was astride the handsome stallion, feet firmly pressed down into the shortened stirrups of an English saddle. She was in a riding habit of yesteryear. Her riding jacket was made of camlet – its lapels fashioned from rich fine velvet. The false waistcoat was fitted and a huge skirt with petticoat dwarfed the hindquarters of her mount and spilled down to underneath his belly. A cravat was tied at her throat – dotted with a single ruby stone. A man’s Bell Crown hat topped her snood encased hair. A length of silk tulle chiffon ran over the top of her chapeau. It tucked into slits and was drawn under her chin. The ends of the black chiffon were tied into an enormous bow – the ends flying out behind her in a never-ending stream. Except for her white petticoat and cravat, her clothing matched the handsome black steed beneath her. The richness of the fabrics melted into the sheen coming from its polished, curried coat. A white streak between the horse’s ebony eyes flashed like a vein down its nose. It was a break of purity in the sea of black that moved in a gallop across the meadow – his hooves tattooing the surrounding area with its sound.

The horse lunged forward at her behest – the wind solidly beating against her face They passed a waterfall that spilled upon rocks below it. It made a deafening sound – not peaceful as would be expected. She stared straight ahead catching the flash of the whites of her horse’s eyes as he looked back at her, registering a state of agitation and stress. The horse was frightened and begging for her to relent in her forward advancement. She did not heed the warning and only urged him with the press of her thighs to not break stride. Flecks of lather had begun to surface, and the horse’s mouth was frothing with saliva dripping into the air. It blew backwards streaking his neck with pearly lines of foam. These were obvious signs that the horse was beginning to tire. The dark skies threatened rain as the clouds gathered and a thunderous clap of thunder begged all to run and hide, but Miranda pressed on at a blistering, fever-pitched pace.

With every step, the horse exhaled in a noisy wheeze telling of the effort he made for her. She heard his teeth biting the metal bit trying to wrest control and take it fully. She reciprocated the challenge to her authority by firmly thrashing his buttocks with the leather crop that she held in her gloved hands. She would not be deterred from her destination. She saw the cemetery up ahead and reined the horse to enter the black iron gates swinging open under the gathering storm’s sharp winds.

As they passed through the threshold to the accompanying creak of rusted hinges squeaking from age, she realized that the horse’s uneasiness and sweat came from his discomfort about being in the place they’d just entered. It was the cemetery that the horse feared. This desolate, crypted cemetery was the source of its anxiety and faltering breath. The horse balefully
whinnied
and tried to shy away from venturing further into such a forbidding, sinister place. She skillfully maneuvered the horse to keep it on the path through the use of tight rein and deadly silver spurs delivered into its sides as a knife through meat.

As the horse carried her over hallowed ground and through lingering spirits not willing to give up their earthly attachments, she looked out over the rows and rows of gruesome gravestones. They marked the final resting places of wearied bones who no longer felt the soft caress of human flesh. The horse raised its head and cried piteously for release from the course she had set, but was steered forward into the midst of the eerie silence of deadened souls. Lightning shot across the sky revealing itself as a bullet. Another deafening toll of thunder startled the horse who responded by increasing his speed. Miranda ignored everything – even the scant drops of rain pelting her face that foretold the fearsome storm that was fast developing. She looked out over the cemetery’s grounds looking for something … scanning the gravestones marking each solitary death and then dismissing them as her trusted steed swallowed up ground at an alarming speed. She even disregarded an old oak tree in the distance where hung a nondescript man. The lifeless body was being tossed by the storm’s vicious breath and resembled nothing more than a garish pendulum.

She begged her horse to go faster. In mid-stride, she pulled her horse’s head to the right with a firm rein, forcing him to veer from the traveled path. The horse reared up and kicked out its back legs in objection to the plan. She didn’t budge from her seat or desire, and merely waited out the resistance by letting him prance in a semi-circle. Midway around she had him under control and spurred him so deeply as to reopen the woundings on his side that were still trickling blood. He shot forward underneath her, her thighs pressing into the mount’s ribs keeping her in place and guiding the direction they took. The horse glided between the graves with an ease that told of its athletic grace and astonishing agility. This horse was a jumper. Its powerful haunches and blistering pace gave away its pedigree. It’s why Miranda had selected this steed as she was to test the horse’s prowess by jumping over graves.

The horse luxuriated in sailing over the first few markers. Its hooves cleared the marble and granite headstones with feet to spare. The horse was well-trained and adept at the art of the jump. He neatly tucked under its back hooves at the ankles to prevent ticking the cold stone tablets. Miranda felt exhilarated, becoming part of the horse as it dug into the ground and launched itself higher and higher into the air. The horse took the graves in stride, its neck white with lather and thickening yellow foam.

They had finally arrived at their destination. The first few markers had been practice, but the next was the one she wanted conquer. It was there – a few feet ahead in the distance. The storm continued pounding out its warnings as the sky lit up as a marquee. Like a neon sign, the light branched outward, drawing the outlines of a glowing outstretched hand. Its finger was pointed at her, but Miranda didn’t care. She didn’t care that it was portending death; she only cared about clearing the grave directly ahead.

She leaned forward and touched her hands against the horse’s neck fully drenched in sweat. Its thick, long mane that had started out combed and cared for was now a knotted tangled mess. Knitted clumps of it flew up into her face as she crouched and steadied herself during the advance. Miranda felt the horse’s muscles tense, not from harnessing power, but from a slight hesitation. She instinctively knew he would never clear the massive black marbled grave for they were to jump the length and not the width. The trajectory and speed would have to be just right to accomplish the task. If not, they would crash and go down. She used the crop to strike the horse’s flank and get his attention. The stallion’s ears pinned back as white appeared around its eyes. A backward glance and then his muscles tightened in response to her forceful and brutal direction. He was going to do it – he was going to take the jump. They neared the grave at a breakneck speed. They were fast approaching – she felt him gather himself for the leap. They were now at the very lip of the grave. She tucked her head against his neck and looked down. She saw the inscription on the grave’s marker – right under the etched drawing of a heart with a single droplet of blood.

Here lies Arthur Perry, Beloved husband, father, friend.

It was her father’s grave. A chill of recognition ran through her as her horse stopped short. She felt the odd sensation of being thrown forward by the horse digging in its forefeet. She hadn’t anticipated that the steed would refuse. He hadn’t with the others. The momentum gained from the horse’s velocity propelled her over the head of the horse and into the air. She tumbled forward trying desperately to keep from falling onto her father’s grave.

She somersaulted in a graceful, balletic manner over the top of the plot. She saw in horror and alarm that it was open. The grave had been dug, but never filled. Even worse was the prospect that it had been unearthed for the most pernicious of intents. Miranda was confused and alive with reasons all the while aware of the huge soulless wound directly beneath her. She didn’t want to fall into it; she was too young to be buried alive.

She raised her head in time to see the horse galloping away into the distance. It was seeking shelter from the quickening storm. She screamed for it to come back, but it was far too relieved to give up its precious freedom for what was her certain fate. It crossed underneath the gallowed man that tick-tocked like a clock being wound by the gale force winds. Backwards she plunged, the ends of her bow streaming upwards in a trailing upward scream. Steadily descending into the pit’s rotted heart, all the while hearing the horse’s easy gait carrying it swiftly and surely away. She looked up to the blackened sky ringing out thunderous applause at her predicament; the lightning unrelenting in its brilliance. The way to heaven was clear, but she silently wondered when the first shovel of dirt would hit her smooth, white skin. The sides of the grave slid past her rapidly. Her arms were spread out – her fingers collecting dirt as she desperately tried to prevent the fall. Her nails scratched and dragged along the dull, listless dirt – her efforts proving fruitless in delaying her certain destiny of hitting bottom. She landed heavily onto her back … right into her father’s open arms. She saw the arms that had been encased in a soiled shroud reach around her. They tightly restrained her in an unearthly embrace. The sound of the shovel from above reached her ears as a spadeful of loose soil fell unencumbered onto her terrified face and into her mouth, opened wide in a scream.

“
Noooo!” she yelled as she opened her eyes. She found herself looking into the concerned face of the stranger sitting next to her.

“
Are you alright?” he asked pensively – obviously unaccustomed to interrupting someone’s dream.

She ran her hand through her hair embarrassed to have been caught looking like a fool. She looked out onto the ocean and then into his eyes wondering what she should say.

“
Yes, I think so. I am so sorry.”

It wasn’t the answer she wanted to say, but she didn’t know this man. He wasn’t a friend nor was he a confidante. She wanted to admit the truth and say no. She wanted to say that although it was a dream, she was still deeply troubled and upset by it, but she could never do that. She had too much pride and had been raised too well to confide her problems to complete strangers.

She wondered where on earth that dream had come from. It must be the culmination of the horrible events and the recent talk with Reginald. She would have to make sure to pay him back for all the shadowy hyperbole about coffins and suicides that were really homicides doled out by a vengeful killer. She half-closed her eyes, sheepishly looking around in obsequious shame, “Was I making very much noise?”

“
No,” he replied giving a soft, but firm shake of his head. He relaxed back into his seat keeping his grey eyes trained on Miranda. “Not so anyone would notice, anyway. Your secret is safe with me, Mademoiselle.”

“
Thank goodness for that. I think I owe it to be proactive. You see, I always request an honorable traveling companion when I make my flight reservation.”

The stranger smiled showing his smooth white teeth. Miranda found his smile quite pleasant. In fact, he himself was quite pleasant. He had even features and a slightly majestic quality. That plus a strong face accentuated by high-slanted cheekbones and slightly wide flattened nose gave him a somewhat leonian look. All he needed was a black mane around his thick neck and above his broad shoulders to make the look complete.