The Color of Light (71 page)

He vaulted over the couch to the phone, dialed 911. Told them his address. Told them to hurry.

He grabbed a dishtowel from the kitchen, pressed it to the hole in her side. Were you supposed to press on a gunshot wound? He didn’t know.

“They’re coming, you little idiot,” he said.

She was gazing at him as if she wanted to take the memory of him into the next world. The flecks of green in her eyes sparkled like stars. Though he was trying to keep it to himself, he was frightened; she looked like she might pass out at any minute. His considerable experience with death told him she needed to stay awake.

He took her hand in both of his. “I never told you this…I first noticed you back in September. You didn’t see me. I was passing by your studio. There was a sliver of space between the curtain and your doorway. You were bending over, putting away the heaters. I had an uninterrupted view of your sweet bottom. And then you straightened up…and your hair tumbled down to your waist…” he smiled at her. “I created the student liaison committee and put Graciela on it just so I could ask her about you.”

She smiled drowsily at him. “What about you?” he prodded. “When did you know?”

Her eyes closed and opened, closed and opened. Closed. He was beginning to panic, when they flew open again. “That time on the pier,” she said. “I knew I loved you. In the middle of a crisis, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the Hudson. I knew.”

He bent over, rested his cheek on her forehead.

“What’s going to happen?”

“They’ll take you to the hospital,” he told her. “Fish out the nasty bits. Sew you up. Let you rest up a bit. Then you’ve got to get back to work on your thesis project. You’re behind, you know.”

“I know,” she said. Then, “Is it cold in here?”

Her voice was shaking. Now he noticed that she was shivering. Her skin was pale, clammy. He moved his thumb across her wrist. He could feel her pulse galloping as her heart worked harder to make up for the quantities of missing blood. Her lips were turning from pink to purple. She was exhibiting all the classical signs of shock.

He wrapped her in a blanket, pulled her close for warmth. Tessa’s sweet face, smiling up at him adoringly. Her eyelids were growing heavy.
Where are they, where are they, where are they?
“You’re going to be fine,” he said firmly.

“Mmmm,” she said. She loved the sound of his voice, like a lullaby. She wanted him to go on talking forever. “Tell me a story.”

“Hmmm, a story, a story…let’s see. Once upon a time there was this girl. Let’s call her, Little Red Riding Hood. Her mother packs her a basket to take to the Seven Dwarfs’ house, because one of the dwarfs isn’t feeling very well.”

“There aren’t any dwarfs in that story,” said Tessa.

“Well, there are in my story,” said Rafe. “Anyway. It’s getting near dark. The way to the Dwarfs’ house runs through the woods. ‘Just one thing,’ her mother tells her, as she leaves the confines of her cozy cottage. ‘Whatever you do, don’t stray off the path.’

“So Little Red Riding Hood skips off into the woods. The path is bright and clear. She trots along, making good time. However, soon enough, she slows down, starts looking around, noticing just how pretty it is in the woods.

“Then it happens. The most beautiful flowers she’s ever seen, growing just off the side of the path. ‘Just the thing to cheer up a sick dwarf,’ she tells herself. She stands there for another minute, just looking at those flowers, thinking about how nice they must smell, how much the dwarfs would like them. Finally, she comes to a decision. ‘Come on,’ she tells herself. ‘What harm can there be in one teeny-tiny step off the path?’

“So. She takes just one teeny-tiny little step off the path. And there, standing right in front of her, is the Big Bad Wolf. ‘What’s in your basket, little girl?’ he growls.”

“That’s a loaded question,” said Tessa.

“You are a very naughty girl.” he said sternly. “This is just your standard, G-rated fairy tale. Now, hush.” He continued. “She opens up her basket, and it’s full of, oh, all kinds of yummy things you people like to eat. But that’s not all; there’s paper, and paints, and brushes, and pencils, and everything else a girl might need to make great art.

‘I have to get these to the Seven Dwarfs,’ says Red. ‘Portia’s waiting for this tube of Naples yellow.’

‘Stay here in the woods with me,’ says the Wolf.

‘Why?’ says Red.

‘Because…’” and here, his voice grew shaky. “‘Because I’m in love with you,’ he says.”

Tessa smiled up at him, reached up to touch his cheek with cold fingertips. He leaned over, rested his forehead on hers. “Hang in there, sweet girl,” he whispered. “Stay with me.”

“Okay,” she said obediently. And closed her eyes.

Startled, he called her name, patted her cheeks, but it was useless; she had slipped away from him into unconsciousness. He strained to hear the
cry of an approaching ambulance siren, but the streets were strangely tranquil this morning.

He was already on his knees. He clasped his hands together, bowed his head and prayed.

Dear God. You know what I am. Your archbishop once told me that my purpose on this earth was to punish the wayward, the reckless, those who ask questions, the ones who stray. I don’t know if You hear the prayers of a creature like me, but I need Your help, Lord. I am wicked, and she is good. But here I stand healed, and here she lies, dying. I will do whatever You ask of me, give her up, if that is the price. Please, Lord. Give her another chance. Bring back my Tessa, who fills Your world with light.

He waited. The dear eyes stayed closed, the lashes long and black against pale cheeks.

Frantic, he clutched his forehead. He could lift her, run with her to the emergency room at nearby Beth Israel, but it was risky; he didn’t know where the bullet was lodged, if it was in one piece or many, it was possible he could do more damage by moving her.

He held her face, pressed his cheek to hers. Choked back a sob.
Tessa, don’t leave me here. I don’t want to walk through this world without you.

There was one last thing he could try.

If he could get her to drink his blood, she might still die, but she would return in a day or two as a vampire. She wouldn’t be the same; Tessa with an unquenchable thirst, Tessa with a pitiless hunger, Tessa without a soul, but he was desperate; he couldn’t bear to lose her.

He ran to the kitchen, rummaged through drawers till he found a knife. Kneeling at her side, he made a slash across his chest, over his heart. Blood welled up. A single drop spilled down his ribs. He lifted her into his lap, holding her as gently as he could. Then he turned her face towards his chest and leaned over her.

“What have you done to Crumpet?”
came an outraged voice from behind him.

Ram was in the doorway. He was glaring accusingly at Tessa’s limp body, the pool of blood on the carpet. His hands were curled into fists.

Taken by surprise, words tumbled out of him. “They told her at Magikal Childe, heart’s blood of a virgin…this morning there’s this crucial vote, future of the school. She kept telling me they needed me, they
needed me…drinking her blood was the only way.” Tears were stinging his eyes. “I wouldn’t do it, so the little idiot shot herself. I think she’s…” He choked, bent over her again. “I don’t have time for this. What are you doing here, anyway? Go away.”

“Anastasia said you were dying. I wanted to get to that pie safe before anybody else did.” He came closer. “Did you call 911?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“The President’s in town. He’s at the UN this morning. The whole East Side’s a parking lot.”

Ram came into the room. Narrowing his eyes, he saw the slash on Rafe’s chest, looked into Tessa’s pale face, realized immediately what he was about to do.

“Don’t,” he said, without hesitation. “Don’t do it.”

“I have to,” Rafe said. “I can’t live without her.”

“If that’s the only choice,” he said, his voice hushed with compassion, “turning her into one of us…then let her go.”

Rafe stared at him. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet, ran to the credenza. Opened and closed drawers until he found his wallet, stowed safely away after the students recovered it from his bloody clothing. He pulled out a card, stabbed numbers into the phone.

“Drohobych Import Export,” drawled the bored Russian voice.

“I have an emergency,” said Rafe hurriedly. “A civilian. I’ve already called 911, the ambulance can’t get through.”

She took down his information, then severed the connection. Rafe turned around to look at Ram. The doorbell rang.

Two men in blue jumpsuits were at the door; the one with black plastic glasses, and a second one Rafe didn’t recognize. In moments, they had moved her to a stretcher, hooked her up to a bag of clear liquid, bandaged the hole in her side, strapped an oxygen mask over her face.

“What happened here?” said the man with the black plastic frames, holding a pen and a clipboard.

“She shot herself,” said Rafe. “and then I…” he glanced at her, his voice faltered, he lost his train of thought. He didn’t recognize her anymore, tubes everywhere, her face covered by the mask. He swiped at his eyes. “Her name is Tessa Moss. She’s lost a lot of blood. Please, please help her.”

The man looked Rafe up and down, taking in the blood on his hands, the reddened eyes, the wedding band hanging from the chain around his neck, the slash across his chest. “Why don’t you come along in the ambulance,” he suggested.

Stashing the clipboard, he turned to his partner. On the count of three, they lifted the stretcher.

Ram put his hand on Rafe’s arm, stopping him.

“I’ll go,” he said hurriedly. “She did this so you could be at that meeting. It must be important. Get showered, change into one of your fabulous suits, slap on some cologne. And for God’s sake, get some product in your hair. No one’s going to listen to you looking like that. I’ll stay with Crumpet.”

Rafe yanked his arm away. “The
meeting?
Are you out of your
fucking mind?”

Ram had been gripping him very tightly; it left a mark. Surprised, he rubbed his bruised forearm, stared at the other man. Ram was Anastasia’s creature; he didn’t even know his last name. Ram, with his pierced tongue, his carefully sculpted goatee, his pencil thin sideburns, his yellow hair, his ridiculous ruffles and 1940s zoot suits. Ram, who was never serious about anything, was dead serious about this.

“You’re not the only one who cares about her, you know,” he said.

“You know what? Take the pie safe. Then
bugger off.”

“You’ll come later. After your meeting.”

The EMTs were waiting. Rafe cursed, then caved. Ram was right; she would want him to go to the sodding meeting.

Flexing and unflexing his fists, he looked at her. The life in her hair wouldn’t be confined; long, bright curls trailed off the sides of the stretcher, stirred by the breeze coming up the stairs.

“I
hate
you for this, you right ruddy bastard,” he said through gritted teeth. “If anything happens to her, and I’m not there, I’ll
kill
you.”

He accompanied them as far as the door, gripping the small white hand tightly all the way down the stairs. He watched as they slid her carefully into the back of the unmarked blue van, watched Ram fold himself in behind her, watched the man with the black plastic frames close the doors, shutting his darling girl away from his sight.

The van pulled away from the curb, heading towards Fifth Avenue. He waited until he couldn’t see it any more.

He turned around and bolted up the stairs. He had exactly one hour to shower, shave, dress, and get across town; one hour left in which to save the school.

15

I
t wasn’t going well. Though the board members, all thirty of them, had exclaimed over Ben’s
Gates of Hell,
though they had murmured in pleasure over Gracie’s prowess with a pencil and pretended they weren’t gawking at her bosomy beauty, though Portia had given a speech that was reasonable, resonant, and glowed with promise, though Clayton had told them some wonderful stories as he showed off his centaur, they remained unconvinced. Oh, they clapped, they oohed and ahhed, they smiled politely and nodded their heads, they were impressed by everything they saw, somebody offered to buy Clayton’s sculpture on the spot, even without a head, but fundamentally, they remained unconvinced.

First Whit spoke, then Blesser. There were charts, spreadsheets, an overhead projector, a PowerPoint presentation. Letters from various foundations to prove they were just waiting with bated breath for word that the Academy had added the twentieth century to its archaic curriculum.

Then it was Giselle’s turn. She argued eloquently for keeping the school classical, reminding them of the shivers up their spines they’d experienced the first time they’d walked into the Louvre or the Uffizi, or upon confronting Michelangelo’s
David
in the flesh. She was followed by the Chairman of the Department of Sculpture, the Chairman of the Drawing Department, and the Chairman of Anatomy, all of whom spoke in defense of keeping the school exactly as it was.

Initially, Whit had said no to the students’ request for equal time, but a man whose family had made a fortune in disposable diapers wanted to hear them out. By the time Clayton’s last story had rambled to a close, the room was growing restless. Just outside, the student body seethed, wanting
in, wanting a say in the matter, but Turner had posted guards at the door to the Cast Hall.

Giselle and Levon looked grimly at each other.

“How could he do this to us?” she wondered quietly. She meant Turner. She had given up on Rafe. “I never would have believed it. This school was his baby, too.”

They both heard it, the sound of a hundred voices joyfully raised at the same time, coming from the corridor outside. Then came the metallic squeal of a steel door, opening and closing. Levon felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. And smiled.

Rafe was striding down the aisle between the folding chairs, fedora in place, coattails billowing out behind him.