The Color of Light (68 page)

The storefront was nondescript.
Magikal Childe,
the sign said in medieval script. The display window featured a dusty signed copy of
Lord of the Rings,
Viking runes inscribed on ivory tablets spilling out of a wine-colored velvet bag, a crystal gazing ball, a kitschy cut-glass dragon, a mug with a wizard’s face on it.

Tessa pushed open the door, passed a bulletin board hung with flyers
. Wiccan picnic scheduled for April 11 at Strawberry Fields. Rain date, April 18,
said one.
New Necromancy Group forming,
said another.
If interested, call Todd at 718-867-5309 after 5 p.m. No Weirdos!

Harker was already inside, conferring with a balding man in round rimless glasses behind the counter. Tessa made her way through the rabbit warren of glass display cases filled with jeweled skulls and magic wands.

The walls were painted black and lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, a very high ceiling, also painted black. Crowding the shelves were
wide-mouthed apothecary jars, exhibiting various quantities of many-colored powders. A rolling ladder stood ready to assist with the items on the higher shelves.

Some sounded harmless; white sage, yarrow, chamomile, lavender, hibiscus, frankincense and myrrh. Then there were the others, labeled
Croatian Mugwort, Carpathian Wormwood, Bat’s Head Root, Midnight Mandrake Root, Cat’s Eye, Calf Hoof, St. John’s Wort.
Passing a half-empty jar with a metal scoop inside, Tessa saw that it contained dried newts.

“Arnie, you remember Tessa,” Harker was saying to the middle-aged man behind the counter.

“Sure, I remember,” he said. “Vampire situation. Man, look at all that hair! Are you sure you’re not Wiccan?”

“Orthodox Jew, actually,” said Harker.

“No way,” said Arnie, perking up. “My grandparents were orthodox. Anyway. How’d the vampire thing go for you?”

“The hex worked,” she said. “He couldn’t come in.”

“Cool,” he said.

“That’s kind of why we’re here,” said Harker. “We’ve got a sick vampire.”

“Really,” said Arnie. “And you came here instead of taking him to, say, a doctor?”

“I don’t think a doctor can do much for him,” said Harker. “He’s, well, you know, undead.”

Arnie had a particular expression, one he reserved for dilettantes and weepy college girls, and he was directing it towards them now. “There are a lot of people in New York who call themselves vampires. How do you know he’s for real?”

“Harker said you have a lot of books on the occult,” said Tessa. “Look up ‘The Angel of Healing.’”

Arnie disappeared into the back, returned with a large and dusty volume bound in stained brown leather. He cracked it open, ran a bony forefinger down a long column of words while muttering to himself.

Suddenly he stopped, tilted his head. The light reflected off his glasses, turning them opaque. “The Angel of Healing? You’re kidding. He’s your vampire?” She nodded. His eyebrows shot up. He looked back down at the book. “Wow.”

“What’s it say?”

He put his finger on the text, read out loud. “Angel of Healing. Born Raphael Sinclair, UK, 1909. Active since 1939. Known to have operated in Auschwitz, Poland, from 1943-1944. Possibly resurfaced in Marrakech in 1945. Last known whereabouts, New York City.”

“Whoa,” said Harker. Even his tattoos paled a little.

He put the book down. “The same Raphael Sinclair who’s always on Page Six?”

“That’s him.”

“Huh,” said Arnie. “Just goes to show you. You never know. Sick, how?”

Glancing at Tessa, Harker related the details. Arnie frowned. “Hm. Let me ask Laurie.”

Laurie was a girl with a plain oval face and long brown hair, not the sort of person you’d associate with a store catering to the occult. She was presently with a customer, scooping powders out of jars and shaking them into small plastic bags. When she was finished, she joined them in the back, holding a ledger.

“You know, I mixed up something for a guy earlier this week,” she said. “He said he was having some kind of vampire trouble. I offered him a stake, but he wasn’t interested.”

The words struck at Tessa’s heart. “What was in it?” she said.

“Ex-Lax,” said Laurie. “Also, tincture of wormwood. It’s not harmful to humans, aids in the digestion, actually, but it’s deadly to vampires.”

Harker frowned. “How would you get a vampire to drink a solution of Ex-Lax and wormwood?”

“Well,” said Laurie. “I guess you could slip it into his drink while he wasn’t looking.”

Arnie bent a scornful look at her. “What, like when you’re standing next to him at the bar at CBGB’s?” He turned to the art students. “You get some pretty girl to drink it. And then you get your vampire to drink from the pretty girl.”

“What did this guy look like?”

The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. Short. Tubby. Losing his hair. I couldn’t pick him out in a lineup.”

“Well, that only describes half the men in New York City,” said Arnie. “Including me.”

“Is there any cure?” Tessa said quickly. “An antidote?”

Arnie rolled the ladder to a shelf high above the counter. Climbing to the top, he reached into a bookcase, pulled out a book with a red leather cover. He thumbed through the yellowing pages, then ran his forefinger along a paragraph printed in tiny type. And stopped.

“You really care for this vampire?” he said to her, pushing his glasses down the bridge of his nose and looking at her.

“Yes,” said Tessa fervently.

“Then go home,” said Arnie. “Spend some time with him.”

“What do you mean?” she said wildly. “What does it say?”

“It says,” he said, “that the only cure for a vampire poisoned with wormwood is the heart’s blood of a virgin.”

He shut the book with a bang. Dust rose from its yellow pages. “Heart’s blood of a dragon, I can get,” he said. “But where are you going to find a virgin in New York City?”

“Oh, good, you’re back,” said Portia. She looked exhausted. Three blots of blood the size of a quarter stained her blue chambray shirtfront. “He was asking for you.”

Tessa threw her bag and coat down on a chair, went to him.

He lay on his back, his eyes closed. His hands were outside the blankets, waxy and still. At Tessa’s approach, he struggled to sit up, and failed. She gave him some water; he drank it gratefully, only to retch it back up a few minutes later. He lay back on the pillow, drained. Turning his head to look out the window took everything he had.

“What day is it?”

“Thursday,” she said. “The big vote is tomorrow morning. Eight sharp.”

He nodded, but his mind was elsewhere.

“Look,” she said firmly. “You’ve got to get better. Turner has been letting all the teachers go and replacing them with April’s friends. We need you to address the assembly. They’ll listen to you. You’re our only hope.”

“All right,” he said, to make her happy, but it was clear to both of them that he would be dead by morning.

She sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to notice that even this slight motion made him wince. “I have news. There’s a cure.”

“Oh,” he said, curiously disinterested. ”What is it?”

“It’s me,” she said. “Heart’s blood of a virgin.”

“Heart’s blood of a virgin? What does that mean?” he said, puzzled.

“Um…I don’t know, exactly. But it’s our only chance.”

“No,” he said. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“You have to,” she said. “We have to try.”

“No!”
he thundered, and began to cough. He doubled over with the force of it, helpless against the explosions that convulsed his body.

“Okay,” she said, frightened. There were flecks of blood on his lips. “Never mind. It was just an idea. Rest, now.”

His lovely, almond-shaped eyes stayed closed until it passed. When they opened again, she was amazed to see that they had changed; the shifting colors, the opaline opacity, were gone. The irises had returned to an ordinary human gray.

And something else. The covers. They were moving up and down.

Unbelieving, Tessa leaned over, rested her head on his chest. Heard the steady
thump thump thump
of a beating heart.

“Rafe,” she whispered urgently, wanting to tell him. “Rafe…” But his eyes were closed, shut off from the world.

The students had built a fire in the giant fireplace, settled themselves around a comfortable leather couch and a matching set of club chairs from the 1930s. They fell silent at her approach.

“Is he any better?” said Portia.

“He’s breathing,” she said grimly, throwing herself into a chair. “He has a heartbeat. Probably not a good sign.”

“What did they say at Magikal Childe?” said Graham. “And, as an aside, I can’t believe I just asked you that.”

Tessa heaved a sigh. “Heart’s blood of a virgin.”

They stared at her.

“What the hell does that mean?” said Ben.

“I think we all know what it means,” said Graham.

“I don’t know about this,” said Clayton uneasily. “What if it means
all
of your blood?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said dully. “He already said no.”

“Hello,” said David incredulously. “Why are we even considering this? Medical advice from Magikal Childe, for God’s sake. It’s
insane.
You don’t even know if it’ll work.”

He gripped Tessa by the elbows. She had the impression that he wished he could shake some sense into her. “Did you ever think that maybe this is just the way it’s supposed to go? I know you have feelings for him, Tess. We all do. But let’s just look at this for a minute. He’s done some pretty god-awful things in his life. Maybe this is just his time.”

Ben leaned forward. His face radiated pity. “Tess,” he said gently. “He’s gone downhill since you left. He can’t keep a sip of water down. Every move is agony. He wants to go, Tess. He’s ready.”

“So we just give up on him?” she said desperately. “What about the school? I thought he was our only hope.”

“So, we lose the vote,” said Graham. “We’ll start our own school. The Sinclair School of Art.”

“Yeah,” said Gracie. “This time, no one can take it away from us.”

“You’re looking at the faculty,” said Clayton.

“We’re the lucky ones,” said Ben. “He’s already given us all the skills we need.”

She stared at them long and hard; and then she covered her face with her hands, her shoulders curved inwards and shook with grief. Ben put one of his big sculptor’s arms around her, held it there.

A log whooshed into ash. In the long, heavy silence that followed, Gracie yawned, then glanced guiltily at the clock. Tessa noticed the time.

“It’s late,” she said. “Go home. All of you. You must be exhausted. I’ll call you when…I’ll call you if anything changes.”

The students looked at each other.

“I’ll stay,” said Portia.

“No, I’ll stay.” David said, and rose to his feet.

Tessa raised her head and looked at him. Her look was not unkind, and it was not without gratitude. Though no words were spoken, the
meaning was clear. His hands dropped to his sides, and he took a step back.

Now she straightened up, squared her shoulders. Her voice rang with a raw, determined authority. “It’s three a.m. The vote is tomorrow morning. Rafe may not be able to speak for us, but you can, Portia, you’ve been speaking to these people all your life. And you, David. You want to be a teacher? Teach
them.
Ben. Dazzle them with your
Gates of Hell.
You’re going to be the next Rodin. Gracie, you draw like an angel. Bring your
Ages of Woman.
And wear your shortest skirt. Graham. They’re going to love your St. Sebastian. It doesn’t get more classical than that. Clayton, show them your centaur. It’s a showstopper, even without a head.”

She looked at each of them in turn. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her voice was calm and strong. “Each one of you has it within yourself to save this school. So, go home. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a hell of a day.”

There were murmured protests, but in the end, they respected her wishes. As they filed out, Portia hung back to hand her a thick, cream-colored envelope.

“He was up for a little while when you were gone,” she said. “He asked me to take this out of his desk. He wanted you to have it.”

Tessa smiled brightly, stood on her tiptoes to give her friend a hug. She held on tight, then stepped back, releasing her.

“Call me if you need anything,” said Portia. “Anything at all.” And then she joined the others at the bottom of the flight of stone steps.

Later, they would recall how she looked as she stood under the portico, dressed only in jeans and a camisole, a small brave figure waving at them as they turned down Fifth Avenue, the whorls of her hair tossing in the March wind.

Tessa closed the well-oiled door, walked alone through the entryway. The art students had been thorough; with the lights lowered, she could barely see the pattern of bloodstains on the wall.

It was quiet; the only sounds she could hear were the tick of a long-case clock on the stairs and the boom of her boots across the empty floor.

She drew a chair up next to the couch. In the envelope, she found the deed to the house, blue-backed books for several bank accounts in several different countries. She flipped through them. Unintentionally corroborating the impossible facts of his saga, the dates spanned a period of fifty-four years. She shook out several keys, inscribed with the names and numbers of various banks, the entry to safe deposit boxes scattered between here and Switzerland.

The last thing she drew out was a letter, folded in three. She turned it over in her hands. It was written on heavy, cream-colored stationery, his monogram, the S twined through the R like a snake, watermarked into the paper.

My sweet Tessa,
it said at the top, in his graceful old-fashioned longhand.
This is the rest of the story. I cannot bear to let the words pass my lips. Still, I find I cannot hide from the pain, can no longer run from the truth, nor can I live with the burden of my guilt any longer. Someday, I hope you may find it in your heart to understand. I do not hope for forgiveness.

Experiencing an oncoming wash of dread, she refolded it, put it in her lap. She gazed at his face on the pillow, his skin the color of candle wax. So helpless. So harmless. She stroked his long fingers. They were as cold as the frost on the windowpane.