Casa Dracula 3 - The Bride Of Casa Dracula (9 page)

As dreams went, that was a doozy. “Thanks for the warning, Don Pedro. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, I am sending some recordings of my seminars to you. You will find them invaluable as you write my memoir.”

“I appreciate your thinking of me.”

What a loco peanut. His silly dream lingered in my mind though; perhaps my vanity was insulted by the comparison to a flying rodent. It was even worse than being called a pickle.

Putting his nonsense aside, I visited a renowned botanical garden and was delighted to find some varieties of plants that I’d never seen before. While I was in the Shakespeare garden, I watched a photographer taking pictures of a bride in a sumptuous wedding gown as she posed by a rose-covered arbor. Her mother and friends fussed around her and they were all laughing and happy.

My mother Regina and I would never share such an intimate moment. But I did have friends who cared about me and I needed to buy them presents. So I made a pilgrimage to Nancy’s favorite department store and admired the intriguing window displays before entering the enormous building.

The ebony-and-white staircase that swirled upward through the open well of the store was dizzying, as were the shining glass counters and the mirrors. I went to the directory, thinking that I might visit the bridal salon, when my phone rang.

“Mil, it’s Nance. Where are you?”

I told her and she said, “Don’t you dare look at wedding dresses with Toodles! She’ll exert her ghastly preppy influence and make you buy a princess A-line dress that would be horrific on you.”

“I’m not with Toodles. She’s got the flu. What gifts should I get my friends?”

“Beautiful scarves are the perfect gift. They pack well, accentuate any ensemble, fit everyone, and they’re timeless. One good accessory forgives a multitude of fashion sins.”

“Any tips?”

“Cashmere or wool for the gentlemen, and silk for the ladies. Get mine in sea-foam to accentuate my eyes.” She waxed idyllic about scarves while I found my way to men’s accessories.

“So why did you call, Nancita?” I said as I pulled out a slate gray cashmere scarf for Oswald. I grabbed a cinnamon brown merino one for Sam and a malachite green one for Gabriel. The prices were shocking, but these men had always been generous with me.

“The invitations arrived. They’re gorgeous, the color of homemade vanilla ice cream with most-excellent scrolly black writing. You need to address them by hand. How’s your cursive script?”

“Fabulous. Did you know that I can copy any writing sample?”

“Forging is such a useful talent. I want to see you as soon as you get back. We have so much to do. Must run. Smooches!” she said and ended the call.

I realized that I didn’t have a gift for my host, Ian. I picked up espresso brown deerskin gloves that seemed right for him. In the women’s accessory department, I found scarves for my girlfriends and a gossamer silvery summer shawl for Edna.

It was a long walk to the Council’s house, but I wasn’t especially anxious to get there. I saw a lot of people walking their dogs. I hoped the flowers on Daisy’s grave hadn’t wilted.

When Ms. Smith answered the door to the house, she said, “Lord Ian is in the library. Let me show you the way.”

don’t vamp so close to me

I an was standing and talking on the phone as I entered. I drifted to the other end of the long wood-paneled room to give him privacy. The books, mostly histories and biographies, were in several languages, and I tried to make out the titles as I ran my finger along the spines.

Then I saw a row of books written in the awful alphabet that was used in ancient vampire texts. I drew my hand away from them.

“Did you enjoy your day, Young Lady?”

Ian was standing right behind me. His dark eyes caught mine, and I said, “You could have told me that Pally was the restaurant owner.”

He grinned. “We didn’t have much time to talk last night. We didn’t even discuss your meeting with the Rules Committee.”

There were only inches between us. I turned back to the books and took a step away as I pretended to read a title. “I descended into the vampires’ subterranean lair like Persephone into Hades. The jackass who called himself Mr. Nixon wants me to swear my eternal fidelity to the vampire nation by taking an Oath of Loyalty. This wasn’t part of the agreement that Sam reviewed.”

“So you ate your pomegranate seed, but now you are not content to be queen of the underworld?” Ian asked.

“They weren’t asking me to be their queen. They were asking me to renounce my American citizenship. Besides, I don’t agree that it is better to reign in hell than serve in heaven,” I said.

“I can’t imagine you happily serving anywhere.”

“Let us return to the topic of los vampiros,” I said. “Sam is going to be irked that they brought me out here, coach airfare by the way, and slapped on this outrageous request for a loyalty oath.”

“Did they ask for anything else?”

I was sure that his administrative toady, Mrs. Smith, had told him about the celibacy requirement.

“Nothing else,” I said. “But as I was leaving, I thought I heard someone in distress down there, a voice crying out.”

He shrugged, “Possibly one of the denizens of the subway, but they can’t intrude on our catacombs from their tunnels.”

“That’s what Nixon said. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Ilena’s on her way to Geneva.”

So I was alone with him. “A modeling job?”

“Not this time. She also works in international finances, advising on private sector development.”

“She’s a model and a financier?”

“Yes.”

“Of course she is.” Many of the vamps were overachievers, so it figured their longtime allies were as well. “She seems very, uhm, practical.”

“And quite stunning, don’t you think? I’m terribly fond of her.”

“I’m so glad that you’ve found someone who suits your lifestyle.” I wasn’t entirely successful in keeping the sarcasm out of my voice. “Jet-setting, bon vivanting, soirees, international orgies, all that.”

“You’ve summed up my existence in its totality.” He was smiling, but not amused. “You’re probably much happier isolated in the country.”

Before I could stop myself I said, “My dog died, Ian. Daisy died.” I hated the thought of her out there in the field alone. The pain rose again, at the base of my throat, and I put my hand there.

“Oh, my dear girl,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

I swiped at my eyes.

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me. Then he placed his hand in the center of my chest, the part that held the pain. His warmth infused me, taking the edges off the pain. I didn’t know if Ian was playing some vampire parlor trick on me or, worse, if I was responding to his comfort.

He took his hand off me and moved toward the library table. “Would you like to go out? Indulge in a little bon vivanting?”

I nodded.

“I have some business to take care of first.”

“That’s fine. I’ll just get ready,” I said.

I went up to the guest room and took a long shower, sampling the interesting bath products. When I was living on my own and broke, I’d use a bar of soap until it was a sliver so thin I couldn’t hold it any longer. I’d melt the slivers together to make a lumpy new bar, a trick my abuelita had taught me.

A rose silk dress was the prettiest thing I’d brought, and Ilena’s so-called compliment still stung. I slipped it on over my prettiest panties, bra, and slip. Staring in the foggy mirror, I agreed with Pally’s assessment. I wasn’t a chubby pickle-I was a succulent babe. I blow-dried my hair so that it fell smoothly over my shoulders, and used a rosy lip gloss and an extra coat of mascara.

I slid my feet into high-heeled slingbacks, which gave me four additional inches of height, if not the freakish height of a model.

I picked a pretty shawl for the evening chill and went downstairs. Ian was waiting for me in the living room. He stood as I came in. He’d changed into an elegant black suit and a snowy white shirt. His hair was still damp and he smelled of that marvelous cologne.

“Young Lady, you look lovely. Shall we?”

It suddenly felt like a date. We exchanged good-byes with Ms. Smith and went to the car out front. The driver opened the door for us and we got in. I asked, “So when does Ilena return?”

“Soon, or I shall meet up with her,” Ian said. “I thought we might start at an artist’s reception.”

The reception was held in a converted warehouse on the waterfront. The late afternoon light filled the loft and I felt amazingly cosmopolitan when I ran into an F.U. acquaintance who was a friend of the painter.

The room got crowded and the conversation grew louder as people tried to talk over the music. As the sky darkened, I got that rush I always got at night in a city, anticipating all the possibilities. The people who came out at night were more exciting, more adventurous, more glamorous.

Then Ian and I went to a cocktail party in a stunning white and mirrored penthouse apartment. The host was a well-known author and when Ian told him that I was a writer, he asked, “What are you working on now?”

“A commissioned project based on ethnobotany and folklore, two of my interests. I’ve also written novellas paying homage to the writing of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. They’re about the monsters that lie within us.”

“Sounds interesting. Have your agent send me a copy.”

Before I could tell him that my agent had dumped me, the author got pulled away by a guest. No matter. I would send him a copy of Uno, Dos, Terror! and he would see that I was a serious writer.

As guests moved on to the next social engagement, Ian said, “Are you hungry? Do you still like to dance?”

“Yes to both questions.”

“There’s a place I’ve heard about,” he said. He called his driver to bring the car up and we went out to meet it.

The driver took us through a run-down neighborhood of brick houses and farther on to an area with boarded-up buildings and broken windows. Ian asked the driver to stop and said, “We can walk the rest of the way.”

We stepped out of the car, and Ian took my arm and led me through a dirty littered alley. I became aware of delicious aromas and the faint sound of salsa music when a sturdy mixed-race young Latino came down the alley toward us. He was so busy talking on his phone that he bumped into Ian.

In a second, Ian had grabbed the kid and slammed him up against a wall, lifting him so high the kid’s feet couldn’t touch the ground.

“Ian! It was just a bump,” I said as the kid was rapidly objecting, apologizing, and cursing in English and Spanish. He was about twenty, dressed in knockoff designer jeans, a T-shirt, and a cheap leather jacket.

Ian reached into the kid’s jacket and pulled out a wallet. “I believe this is mine,” he said, still holding the kid up against the wall.

“Ian Ducharme, let that boy down!”

Ian released the kid, who dropped heavily to the ground and immediately tried to run off.

My arm shot out and I grabbed the back of the kid’s jacket, wrenching him backward. “Uno momento, por favor,” I told him.

“What do you plan to do with him?” Ian asked. “Call the police and wait for hours? Why don’t we just drain him of blood and leave his lifeless corpse in a Dumpster?”

“Ha ha and ha, Ian.” The kid was twisting and struggling to escape and I told him, “Behave or I’ll rip your leg off and use it to beat some manners into you. What’s your name?”

“Frankie,” he said dejectedly as I dragged him along toward the delicious aromas. “You’re strong for a chick.”

“Crazy strong, emphasis on the crazy,” I said. “I’m Milagro and this is Ian.”

“Where we going?”

“There’s a Cuban restaurant here,” Ian said, which set Frankie off into another struggle to escape.

While I tussled with Frankie until he was convinced that I was both serious and stronger than he, Ian watched and chuckled.

“Aren’t you going to help?” I snapped at him.

“Yes. Frankie, don’t muss the young lady’s dress. It’s a favorite of mine.”

The alley opened to another alley and I saw the restaurant. The rich aromas and throbbing music came from a small, jungle green wooden building without even any signage. We went inside and the small cramped tables were filled with people eating meals off paper plates. A fortyish woman in an apron shouted, “Frankie! Where you been? Get back outside.”

“Yeah, mami,” he said. Turning to us, he said, “I gotta get back to work.”

I was so surprised that I let him go, but we followed him through the restaurant and out the back door. The backyard was illuminated by strings of colored Christmas lights. On a small platform, a sizzling hot band played tropical rhythms. Several couples, as supple and gorgeous as leopards, danced on the patio. At the back of the yard was a roaster made from cement blocks, and on a plywood table, a roast pig was being carved by a tiny man. Frankie went to the man and took over his duties.

We sat at the only empty table, and Frankie’s mother came to us. There was something very familiar about the chubby, exasperated woman. “You want the special? Something to drink?”

Ian told her to bring us whatever she thought we’d enjoy.

She was surprisingly incurious about our relationship with her son, but when she returned with two heaping plates of food, she said, “Frankie break into your car or something? Dinner’s on the house and he’ll pay you back whatever he owes.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” Ian said. “We saw him on the street and asked for directions. He was kind enough to help us.”

She said, “Really? Huh!” and then, “Okay, then I’ll run a tab for you.”

We drank fruity punch made with red wine and rum and ate tender, citrus-marinated roast pork with mojo, arroz, and fried plátanos. As I listened to the blast of the trumpets and the beat of the timbale, I had to admit that Oswald’s mother and Nancy weren’t so very wrong about me: I would love to have a wedding in a place like this, a place that fed all my senses.

Ian said, “Shall we?” He led me into the crowd of dancers and took me in his arms. I reveled in the delicious warmth and the tingle that came from the places where our skin touched. I wondered what that sensation would feel like on other parts of my body, a thought I shouldn’t be having.