The Color of Light (67 page)

“Maybe it’s open,” said Gracie.

Ben pushed the handle of the wrought iron gate. It clicked open at his touch. Turning around, he raised his eyebrows.

“Try the door,” Portia called up to him.

He put his hand on the doorknob; the heavy wooden door swung open.

They saw him take a step forward, calling out, “Mr. Sinclair?” And then he stopped cold, involuntarily putting his hand to his mouth.

“What?” said Portia. “What is it?”

Ben turned slowly around. Looked directly at Tessa.

“Tessa,” he said. “Stay there. I don’t think you want to see this.”

She bolted up the stairs.

The lights were off; something dark stained the walls in great brown fan patterns. There was a pungent odor, like the rank stink given off by a package of hamburger she had left too long in the back of the refrigerator once.

David found the light switch and turned it on. There was a collective gasp. The pattern writhing across the walls was painted in blood.

Only Tessa moved, picking her way through the long entryway, avoiding the pools of gore checkering the marble floor. She noted the blood drying on the chairs grouped before the fireplace, blood spotting the lampshades, freckling the petals of the flowers in a vase. Glancing up, she saw that there was blood on the ceiling. “Oh, God,” someone was repeating behind her. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

At the far end of the room, before the curved double stairs, a heap of bloodied clothing lay near the pedestal of the sculptured angel.

“Don’t, Tessa,” said Ben.

“Please, Tess,” said David, catching her arm. “Come back outside. Let’s just call the police.”

Tessa shook herself free, moved deeper into the hall. As she drew closer to it, the heap of clothing began to assume the shape of a man. She stopped. At her feet was a gray fedora, upside down in a crimson puddle. Her heart began to knock painfully against her chest.

Rafe lay curled in a fetal position on the floor, painted in blood from his head down to his shoes. His eyes were closed. He had obviously been there for some time.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, a sob, a prayer, as she went down on her knees.

He was cold to the touch. Taking hold of his arms, she turned him on his back. Gently, she stroked the hair off his forehead. It was stiff with congealed blood.

“Come away, Tessa,” said Portia, touching her on the shoulder.

She opened his coat, his jacket, looking for she knew not what, a stake, a wound, anything that would explain the carnage around her. But she
could find nothing amiss; she cradled his head in her lap, took his face in her hands, and kissed the cold lips.

He stirred, mumbled something, turned on his side. She drew back in shock. A clear red liquid dribbled out of the side of his mouth, and then he rolled over and retched, splattering her with gore.

His eyes flickered open, focused on her. She tried to wipe his face with a corner of her shirt.

“What happened?” she asked urgently. “Who did this to you?”

“Tessa?” he said. He blinked once, twice, and then his eyes slowly closed again. “Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God.”

The sculptors carried him up the stairs, Ben taking his arms, Clayton his legs. They laid him gently in the guestroom bathtub on the main floor. As the old fashioned claw-footed tub filled with warm water, they undressed him, using scissors to cut off his shirt, his trousers, looking for telltale wounds, signs of a struggle. Finding none, they withdrew, leaving her alone with him.

As she washed him, the clear greenish water turned a brackish red. Blood had seeped everywhere; into his armpits, the hair on his chest, in his eyelashes, between his toes. At the sight of the star-shaped scar over his heart, the hand holding the washcloth faltered. Once or twice his eyes cracked open, and he smiled at her like a sleepy child before falling unconscious again.

They lifted him out, dried him off, put him in bed. He was as pale as the sheets he lay on. Instead of burning with fever, like an ordinary human being, his temperature plummeted, grew colder.

He must have been in pain; he moaned in his sleep. He couldn’t bear to have clothing touching his skin. After he ripped pajamas from his body for a third time, they gave up trying to dress him. In his dream, the shadowy child and his compatriots had their teeth in him, and they were tearing him to pieces.

The art students tiptoed around them. Tessa didn’t stir from his bedside, her eyes fixed on him as if she could will his recovery, pressing his cold fingers between both of her hands. Occasionally, she would lean forward to touch his face; he would open his eyes to reassure himself that she was really there.

Portia came in, put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you take a minute to clean yourself up a bit,” she said softly.

Tessa glanced uncomprehendingly at her shirt. She looked like an extra from
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

In the bathroom, she pulled her sweater up over her head. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she leaned closer. The scared little girl who had crawled out of bed at noon to peer fearfully through the venetian blinds had vanished. In the crucible of the past few hours, some element in her had changed, hardened. That girl was gone.

At the sound of her footsteps, his eyes flew open. She took his hand, conjured up a smile. “You’re looking better. How do you feel?”

“I think I’m dying.”

Her bravado crumpled. It was a moment before she could speak again. “All those things I said to you…”

He shook his head, impatient with her apology. A shock of pain accompanied his movements. He shut his eyes until it passed.

“Where did you go after you left my apartment?”

“Anastasia’s office. Almost sent her flying through those great bloody windows. She set the whole thing up, you know; she wanted you to see me like that.”

“She thinks we should be more honest with each other.”

“She did say something to that effect.”

Shakily, he pushed himself up, bending over the side of the bed. She held the bucket for him. When he was done, he fell back onto the pillows.

“I went home. Someone was waiting for me. I thought it was you.” He closed his eyes. “First-year student. Allison something.”

Tessa frowned. “What did she want?”

“She hates her life. She wants to be a vampire.”

“What did you do?”

He opened his eyes, looked directly at her. “I bit her,” he said. “And then I came to my senses and put her in a taxi.”

Tessa sighed, put a weary hand to her forehead. His hand crept over the blankets, seeking hers. She took it, laced her fingers through his. They were as cold as ice.

“Go home, Tessa.” His voice was growing thin, beginning to fail. “Haven’t you heard? You’ll be better off without me.”

“My place,” she said, “Is here. With you.” Her words crackled with fierce energy. “We need you. I need you. Your
school
needs you.”

He turned his face to the wall. “It’s not my school anymore,” he breathed, and then his eyelids fluttered closed again.

Tessa slumped down on one of the Stickley couches in the Great Room. “How is he?” Portia said.

“He’s dying.” she replied.

“We should be dialing 911,” said David.

“And tell them what?” Graham drawled. “Send an ambulance quick, we have a sick vampire?”

Goosebumps prickled up and down Tessa’s arms, raced along her spine. Anastasia swept through the doorway, magisterial in the orange silk domino she had worn to April’s gallery opening.

Ignoring the art students gaping at her from the couch, she addressed Tessa. “What has happened to our Raphael?” she said, whipping off the dark glasses.

She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. It didn’t matter, anyhow; Anastasia had tasted the measure of her fear before she’d walked through the door. Tessa saw her steel herself, straighten her shoulders; with a rustle of fine fabric, she glided past her into the guest room, volumes of silk ballooning out behind her.

“How are you,
mon ami?”
she said brightly, bending over him.

At the sound of her voice, his eyes sprang open. “I’ve been better,” he replied, with a trace of boyish pugnacity.

“Get well soon,” she warned him. “Or Ram will rob you blind. He has an eye on your pie safe.”

“That poser,” he mumbled. His eyes closed again.

Dropping the light-hearted facade, she turned to Tessa. “Who did this to him?” she said. In her expression was anger blended with curiosity.

“We don’t know,” she replied.

Anastasia bent over and kissed the point where his hair met his forehead, held his face in her black-gloved hands, pressed her cheek against his.
“Bon
nuit, mon petit artiste,”
she heard her murmur as she stroked the hair back from his forehead. “I hope they are kind to you, wherever you are going.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” said Tessa flatly, her arms folded defiantly over her chest.

Anastasia focused her attention on her now, drawing closer. With the hood framing her dramatic face, she had never seemed taller or more imposing. The flames in her eyes leapt and churned. “So. Now you have seen what he really is. And you still love him.”

“Yes,” she said. “Now I know what he struggles with, every day. If anything, I love him more.”

She pursed her dragon-red lips. “Well! Who would have thought. You seemed like such an ordinary sort of girl. I thought for sure you would run from it. I don’t suppose you are coming back to work.”

Tessa shook her head no. Anastasia shrugged, one Gallic lift of the shoulders.
“Bonne chance,
then,
ma petite jeune fille.
If you ever need anything, you know where to find us.” With a flutter of orange silk, she was gone.

She found the artists in the kitchen. They were going through the cabinets, the refrigerator, searching for something to eat. Graham had discovered that there were only two items in the refrigerator, a carton of Tropicana that had just passed the sell-by date and a desiccated lime. So far, Clayton was the big winner, with a box of Carr’s water crackers; then Gracie hit the jackpot, finding an unopened package of Chips Ahoy in a drawer.

“Say, is she a
—
” Graham left the end of the sentence dangling.

“Yes.” Tessa said shortly.

“We’ve been cleaning up the entryway,” said Ben, sounding distant, removed. “We filled ten of those big black leaf-and-garden bags with bloody paper towels. Bounty really is the quicker picker upper.”

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” said Harker. “And I’ve worked in a slaughterhouse.” As he rolled another one of his cigarettes. Tessa could see that his hands were shaking.

“Who would hate him enough to do this?” Portia wondered.

“A lot of people, I’ll bet,” said David.

“Angry ex-girlfriend?” suggested Gracie.

“Vampire hunters?” Clayton guessed.

“Someone who really doesn’t want him at that meeting,” said Graham.

Tessa shook her head wearily, massaged her forehead. Every time she closed her eyes, pictures flashed on the back of her retina, pictures she’d rather forget. Rafe, poised over Poppy behind the restaurant. Rafe, his fangs bared, crushing her to the pavement. Rafe, drenched in blood, motionless beneath the white marble angel. Rafe, his arms open wide, begging for another chance.

Harker prowled through the Great Room, looking for something, opening and closing the highly polished cabinet doors. Hidden inside a handsome Arts and Crafts hutch, he found a state-of-the art stereo system.

He punched a few buttons. The house seemed to levitate off its foundations; their hearts reverberated with the ominous cartwheeling synthesizer chords of Pink Floyd’s
Comfortably Numb,
pounding through the speakers.

“Hey,” said Harker. “He’s been listening to my mix tape.”

They all felt it at once, an electric sizzle in the air. Rafe was standing in the entryway, wearing only a pair of striped pajama bottoms. His eyes had gone that frightening hue, like scratched glass, burning, feverish.

“What are you doing out here?” he shouted, his voice raspy and raw. “Get back into the cellar!
They’ll see you!”

He bounded towards her, moving like a jungle cat; they had never in their lives seen anyone move that fast. Launching himself through the air, he tackled her to the ground before Ben and Clayton were able to get to their feet. Crouching over her, he stared at them with frightened, smoky eyes; and then he passed out.

They decided to move him to a couch in the Great Room. He seemed to be more comfortable there, nearer to them, to the artifacts of his life. The light bothered him; they dimmed the chandeliers and the Tiffany lamps while Tessa shielded his eyes with her hand. Shadows danced. Gloom gathered in every corner.

“What the hell was that,” said Ben.

“Okay, I believe,” said David.

Preoccupied with tucking the covers around his shivering body, Tessa heard nothing but the rattle of Rafe’s chattering teeth.

“There’s gotta be something we can do,” Clayton struck his knee with a meaty fist. “This can’t be the way it all goes down.”

“Hey,” said Harker. “How about Magikal Childe? Katie says her boss has millions of books on the occult, a whole library. There’s got to be something there about sick vampires.”

“They can’t possibly be open this late,” said David.

Harker shrugged his thin shoulders. “Katie says they keep crazy hours. A lot of their clientele is only up at night.”

“I’m out,” said Clayton. “I’m not going anywhere that caters to the dark arts after midnight. I admit it. I’m just flat-out scared.”

“I’ll go,” said Harker. “I gotta get rocking, anyway. Death Monkeys got a late gig at CBGB’s.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Portia. “Tessa, you stay here in case Rafe wakes up.”

“No, ” said Tessa. “I can’t sit still. If there’s anything we can do, I want to be the first to know.”

She pulled on her coat, slung her knapsack over her shoulder. At the door, she looked wistfully back at the others. She was afraid of what she might find when she returned.

“Don’t worry,” said Portia, reading her thoughts. “I know where to find you if there’s any change. Now
go.”