Le Remède Page 2

  When we reached a building a few houses away, Gus turned to her. “Ladies first,” he said, chuckling under his breath. Still under his influence, she slowly crossed the threshold.

  I followed but was overcome by the delicious scent of fresh blood that permeated the air, intermingled with the acrid smell of decay. I looked around. The place was teeming with Kindred—and humans in various stages of life. And death. Several of his group had stopped mid-feed to stare at me and the girl. If I grabbed her and ran, I wouldn’t get far and she would die just the same. Gus unceremoniously handed over the girl to one of his followers. I watched her being led away. I was helpless, crushed beneath the weight of unexpected grief for this young girl I had just met and failed to protect.

  “Come, Vincent, we’ll find something more your type.”

  “Gus, I cannot. I must go.”

  Rage flared in his ice-blue eyes. He was clearly not accustomed to hearing “no.”

  “You will do no such thing.” He motioned to an older woman, who immediately hastened to his side. “Find Vincent something appropriate.”

  He patted me on the back, a faux friendly gesture. “Relax, Vincent, you are my guest.”

  A piercing scream set my teeth on edge.

  “It’s likely Elijah,” he said, as if that explained everything. “He insists fear enhances the taste, so he releases them from his control just before.”

  As I closed my eyes to erase the imagined scene, the older woman returned with a young girl, no more than twelve.

  “Go ahead, Vincent. You can’t deny what you are. Why even try? Look at her; she’s waiting for you. Just think of the magnificent release.”

  The blood scent surrounded me, as did the satisfied sounds of Kindred feasting on the soon-to-be-dead. Mongrel dogs let loose on a blood buffet. My feet took a step toward her, an inner force propelling me forward. She craned her neck and swept her dark hair to the side. I took another step closer. The artery in her neck was visibly pulsating just below the surface of her silken skin. My resolve was fading.

  The questions Gus had asked, I was now asking of myself. Why do I torture myself so? Why should I deny what I am? I receive no accolades for my self-control. My future will be just as dismal, whether or not I give in. I took the final step to close the space between us, ready to partake fully, when I heard another round of heartbreaking keening from the next room.

  I backed away and, reliving my own trauma at the hands of a Kindred, I ran in the direction of the sound, shouting, “Danielle!” As I stood in the doorway, I saw Elijah with his teeth sunk into her neck, roughly fondling her exposed breasts.

  One last scream and the light slowly left the eyes of our young barmaid, Fiona. Elijah let her limp body fall to the floor. He looked at me, blood dripping from his chin and I could have sworn I saw a hint of regret in his eyes.

  I had to escape this hellish place. Gus stood at the front door to block my way, but I shoved him aside and raced back to the East End, back to my hovel, back to where I could work to regain control and put the appalling episode behind me. I left for Berlin soon after. I couldn’t risk having another encounter with Gus.

  Ever.

  And yet here he is, sneering at me.

  “I see you’re still trying to be something you’re not,” he says.

  “This is who I am, Gus. Who I will be for all eternity.”

  He ignores my response and looks around the shop, assessing the place like a potential buyer. I monitor his every move as he walks around, hands on hips. His appearance is quite different from when we met—unkempt hair, ripped jeans, black Nikes, a T-shirt with what I believe is a band’s name, and a well-worn army jacket.

  To the untrained eye, he appears as nothing more than a good-looking fifteen-old-year boy, perhaps an aspiring model. He stops to peer into the refrigerated case, and I flinch as he opens the display, removes an American Beauty, snaps the long stem, and slips it into my lapel.

  Looking as youthfully smug as ever, he says, “Well, I was thinking we might do a bit of bartering.”

  “Bartering? For what exactly?”

  He smiles. I wonder how many witnessed that depraved look before taking their last breath.

  “I have something you want and I believe that you, my friend, can get me what I need.”

  I brace myself. “You should go.”

  He takes a half-step back. I could easily overpower him. I can almost feel myself grabbing him by the throat, lifting him off the ground, ripping out his heart, snapping his neck in two.

  “I remember your words, Vincent. ‘Underneath this skin is a human.’ It seemed masochistic to me, but who am I to judge?” He smiles again.

  “Either get to the point of why you are here or leave me.”

  “Don’t be hasty, Vincent,” he says, wagging his finger in my face. He removes a small inlaid wooden box from his jacket pocket and holds it in my line of vision as he slowly opens it to reveal a vial of dark liquid.

  “Contained in here is your deepest desire.”

  He’s making no sense. I want him to leave, to get out of my sight, to crawl back under whatever mossy rock he crawled out from.

  He looks as if he’s stifling a laugh. “I have the cure for what ails you.”

  “And what exactly is it you think ‘ails’ me?”

  He cocks his head and raises his eyebrows. “Why, your insatiable lust for human blood, of course.”

  I’m stunned. Gus can’t possibly be the one in possession of le reméde, the cure I had heard of, had been searching for, hoping for, been desperate for. In my travels to Paris, London, Berlin and beyond, I have futilely followed rumors, quizzing fellow Kindred to learn if such a thing really existed, but to no avail. I had come to accept that the existence of a cure was more fairy tale than fact.

  I take a closer look at the small glass vial he’s proudly displaying for me. He is the same controlling man/boy I met in London, only now instead of directing gruesome house parties, he’s a junior snake oil salesman pawning off his wares on the desperate.

  “You’ve got quite the imagination. I’ll give you that much.”

  Frowning, he snaps the box shut and stuffs it back in his pocket. “And you are quite the skeptic. Let me lay it out for you. This, Vincent, is a cure. One shot of this and poof! you’re just as you were before—human. Fragile.” His last word is whispered, infused with sinister glee.

  My chained fury at him for knowing my weakness and using it against me is threatening to break free.

  “So, why haven’t you taken it?”

  “Me? Why would I want to give up the power, the freedom, my eternal youth? No, I’ll pass on this particular opportunity. But, there are enough Kindred who, like you, can’t embrace what they have become. Though, I must say, you are the only one I’ve come across, with the degree of self-control you possess. Well, you and Nicholas. Just doesn’t seem worth all that effort.” He sighs dramatically. “Anyway, I’ve managed to live quite nicely off the proceeds.” He motions to the shop, “Even Kindred must find a way to pay the rent.”

  “Ah, so that’s it. You want money. I’m curious; how did you come up with this particular scam?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s no scam, Vincent. Just hear my offer—I will give you my last remaining dose and you can become what you’ve wanted for—how long? I ask only one thing in return.”

  Ah, therein lies the rub. I shake my head.

  “It takes ten thousand stamens of a rare black orchid to make a single dose. The stamens must undergo a simple, but extremely tedious extraction process. Toss in a couple of other essential ingredients and voila, it’s ready for another one to be added back to the human race.”

  “And what is it you think I can do for you and your little—enterprise?”

  “You, my friend, can help me find a source for this particular orchid. I couldn’t believe my luck when I discovered you owned a florist shop, of all things. But it’s not the ordinary black blooms you stock here. No, this is an ext
remely rare variety.”

  He’s spinning an overly complex tale, a surefire sign that he is lying. If such a thing existed, I would have discovered it by now.

  “Gus, I am not interested in your—proposition. I have a busy day ahead, so please leave me now.”

  He pulls out his phone. “I knew you wouldn’t be easily convinced, so I came prepared.”

  “Nothing you say is going to convince me.”

  He dials, continuing as if I’ve said nothing. With the phone pressed to his ear, he asks me, “Do you remember Elijah? Short, blond hair, had a taste for the blood of prepubescent girls?”

  As if I could forget his voracious appetite, forget the smell of blood, how tempted I was to partake. The young barmaid’s fate. Or the look in Elijah’s eyes.

  “That’s enough,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “You can come in now,” he says into the phone.

  Gus unlocks and opens the door. “Exhibit A, if you will.” And in walks—Elijah? He comes right up to me and shakes my hand. I hear his heartbeat, the flow of the blood through his veins, and I sense the warm mist of his breath.

  “Vincent. You look exactly the same.”

  Gone is the ghostly pale skin and shocking blue eyes of a Kindred. The crow’s feet around his dark brown eyes, the grooves in his forehead, the bits of gray sprouting around his temples, and the extra pounds around his middle. He has aged.

  Still grasping his warm hand in a lingering handshake, I can’t stop staring at the impossible vision before me. He places his other hand on top of mine.

  “I know it’s a shock. Gus always has one of his success stories tag along as part of his dog and pony show. Denial becomes impossible when the truth is shaking your hand.”

  I unclasp my hand from his, trying to process Elijah’s physicality, when Gus steps forward and pats Elijah on the back. “Give Vincent a moment to let it soak in.”

  “I… I can’t believe it.”

  “Vincent, I know how difficult this is to accept,” Elijah says. “I didn’t believe it at first either, until Gus brought another reverted Kindred as proof. Do you know Julian? Lives in Poughkeepsie now. Manages a French bakery and café. Think he’s on wife number three. Has five kids. He’s on Facebook. Look him up.”

  “Elijah, it’s really you? When…how…?”

  “I took the cure twenty-five years ago when I could no longer bear the burden of my deplorable acts, no longer stand the stench of death, no longer ignore the screams.”

  He hangs his head, before looking at me again. “I won’t lie; the physical transition was painful and adjustment difficult—your power is gone; your senses are dulled. Eating again was strange. It made me sick at first, but then so did the smell of blood. The need to sleep was frightening. It felt as if I died each night and then arose from the dead each morning. It was all quite disorienting.”

  I’m drunk on the possibilities. This is real and is being offered to me. My mind is racing, my thoughts spilling over.

  “And now?” I ask.

  “Life is good. I work hard, I take vacations, I celebrate holidays with my family.

  I married a beautiful woman, Kathryn, fifteen years ago and we have two children, a son and daughter. And I hope to have grandchildren one day.”

  Children. He has children. He has a life—the life I so desperately want.

  “Does she know?” I ask, disbelieving we’re even having this conversation.

  He pauses. “She knows enough.” He looks me in the eye. “I’ve never regretted my decision to take the cure. Not for a single moment. And I spend each day trying to atone for the horrid things I’ve done.”

  Gus roughly pushes Elijah out of the way and stands in front of me. “So, Vincent, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

  This is too much to take in. Can a “deal” with Gus really be so cut and dried? How can I possibly trust him?

  “I don’t know, Gus. I need to think about it.”

  His brow furrows and his eyes darken. “What’s there to think about? I’ve got what you want and you’ve can get me what I need.”

  “Yes and I need some time. Anyway, I don’t know if I can even get what you’re asking for.”

  He abruptly turns his back and walks to the door. “Well, my offer has an expiration date.”

  “Gus, wait; you never said how you found me.”

  He turns back to me, smiling. “I’ll be in touch.”

  And he’s gone.

  Nicholas appears from the back of the store, as I turn the sign to “Welcome!”

  “Who was that?”

  I shake my head and sit on the stool behind the counter. “You are not going to believe this.”

  I tell him about Gus, about Elijah, about the cure.

  “What a load of codswallop! Don’t tell me you really believe that shite?”

  “Nicholas, I knew Elijah as a Kindred. And now he’s—he’s human. I know what I saw.”

  I look at him as I offer him the greatest gift I could ever give him. “We can end this, Nicholas. We can start over. Live out our lives as God intended. He has only a single dose, but there will be more.”

  It’s Nicholas’ turn to shake his head. “Not for me, Vincent, old boy; I think I would blow my brains out. End it once and for all.” He sighs heavily. “I know I make light of our situation, but if I were to become human again, the full weight of everything I have done, all the lives I’ve taken, all the misery I have caused would certainly crush me.” He looks at me, a film of regret—and resignation—in his eyes. “I think I’ll take a pass.”

  I hear the tinkle of the bell above the door, signaling a customer, and I wonder—will I be sorry if I enter this “arrangement” with Gus? But I’m already sorry. Sorry that he is the one dangling this carrot. Sorry that Nicholas has said “no.” Sorry that it has taken me almost two centuries to find the cure.

  ****

  At the end of the day, my mind is reeling from Gus’ offer and Nicholas’ refusal, as I set out for Lizzie Borden’s Bar, the “hunting ground” that Nicholas and I have frequented of late. I know tonight will be no different than any of the other countless nights that have come before. But for now, for tonight, I’ll settle for any warm female body to satisfy my craving and stave off the loneliness, if even for a moment, that grows exponentially with each passing decade. I push my feelings aside and head uptown to quiet the growing chorus of need in my head.

  Chapter 2

  Andie

  I open the heavy wood and brass doors of Lizzie Borden’s, and as I step in, I’m greeted by the familiar scent of beer and stale peanuts. The jazz tunes playing in the background are all but drowned out by the din of voices rising and falling. I spot Mackenna sitting at the bar, a stool next to her unoccupied except for her suitcase-sized purse acting as a “reserved” sign.

  It’s crowded for a Thursday and I’m sure she’s had to stand her ground to protect that piece of valuable real estate—Mack’s specialty. She flashes a bright smile, bounces on the barstool as she motions for me to hurry up. She’s about to burst to find out if I am now gainfully employed. I wave back, weave my way through the happy-hour crowd and take my seat.

  I haven’t even had a chance to set my purse on the bar when she blurts out, “So? How’d it go?”

  “Hang on,” I say, trying to rein in her enthusiasm and not feed Mack’s tendency to squeal like a middle-school cheerleader when she gets excited. “I’ve got a follow-up interview Monday morning and­—”

  “That’s aaawesome!” she sings, as she reaches out and hugs me with one arm and waves to the bartender with the other. She downs the rest of her drink. “Two glasses of champagne, barkeep.”

  “Mack, no. I don’t want to jinx it. Let’s wait to toast my success when, and if, it’s official. If I get this job, I promise, we’ll order a magnum of champagne. Or two. My treat,” I say, both hands in the air, my fingers crossed.

  “Okay, for now let’s just say we’re toasting the one-hundredth time
you’ve forgotten your keys,” she says, as she jingles them in my face and I snatch them from her hand.

  I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve left my keys in plain view on the table in the entryway, locking myself out of our apartment. Since we moved into the neighborhood a couple of months ago, Lizzie Borden’s has become our rendezvous for the handover.

  ****

  When we moved to New York three years ago, I had hoped we’d both snag jobs right away and, while I knew we wouldn’t be hanging at the best restaurants or the trendiest (read most expensive) clubs, we’d make enough money to pay the rent, dig up some cheap eats, and make our own fun.

  Leaving Iowa for New York hadn’t been easy. It was like diving into the deep end before learning to swim. But, I thought if I could take that first butterfly stroke…I just knew I had to get away from the deep wounds of my past.

  When you’re fourteen, chattering from excitement in the backseat because you’re the lead in the school play, and instead of bathing in the spotlight, you wake up in a cold hospital bed—alone in the world, well, you learn to distrust permanence.

  In the time it took for an idiot to run a red light, my life was fractured, my parents gone, my heart ripped out by the roots.

  I convinced myself that if I grabbed life by the balls, made the move to New York, I could call the shots. Screw fate. I would be the one in control from now on, and I craved that control like some people crave chocolate.

  But then I met David. It was a beautiful spring day in New York. The sounds of the city wafted into the foyer and up the stairs as Mack and I moved into our first tiny fifth floor walkup, the scent of curry, cumin, cloves and the pungent scent of something I couldn’t yet identify, filled the stairwell.

  I was making yet another trip from the U-Haul double parked on the street below and trudging up the stairs, my arms overloaded with boxes, my knees wobbling from weariness, sweat trickling down my back, when I heard a deep, husky voice, “Need help with that?” His warm skin brushed against mine as he relieved me of my burden. He smiled. “David. I live on the sixth floor.”

  “Hi. Andie. We’re moving in on the fifth.” I looked up the stairs. Mack was leaning over the banister, smiling as she gave me the thumbs up.