Читать книгу Kiss Of Darkness - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 7

In the shadows, PowerPoint flashed a new image on the screen. The ancient lecture hall was filled, and Bryan MacAllistair was amazed that the many students gathered here from around the world had listened to him thus far in rapt silence. He was nearing the end of his lecture, only a few more points to make.

“This is an eighteenth-century sketch of Katherine, Countess Valor, considered one of the greatest beauties of her time. She was charged with crimes so vile that the court records were sealed. Later, they were lost to a fire. Was she a real monster, or herself a victim of evil? Like Countess Bathory, she was a member of the aristocracy, and one of the many women to find riches as a mistress in the court of Louis XIV. History records a cult within his own house, members of his royal court who became involved in witchcraft. The lady in question is actually the focus of another lecture, but she has a connection to this area. She was condemned for witchcraft and murder but, miraculously, made an escape. Some say she turned to smoke and escaped between the bars of the Bastille. At the time, witch hunters could still make a living, and the price on her head was so high that she was hunted across the continent. The accepted belief was that she had made a pact with a demon, perhaps even Satan himself, in the guise of a fiend known as the Master. The Master, the legends say, is an anglicized form of an ancient Babylonian evil, a being sprung from the womb of the lamia, one of the very earliest vampire myths, a woman who sucked the life from infants. It’s said that Katherine escaped here, to Transylvania, where the Master had gained a foothold, seeking his help, his power.

“But perhaps this creature had become infuriated with her previous disregard of his power in her own pursuits, for he did not come to her aid when she reached these fog-shrouded mountains. The witch hunters found her here. She had run hard and fast, but with no followers, she had no guard to watch over her as she slept. The witch hunters came upon her, and they immediately axed her beautiful neck. The story goes that there was a hideous outcry from her deadly lips, and she spilled more blood than might have filled the veins of a dozen good women. Not satisfied that the removal of her head would keep her evil at bay, they chopped her into pieces, then burned those pieces in an inferno they kept going for thirteen days and thirteen nights, thirteen being the number of members in a coven, the number of diners at the ill-fated last supper, when Christ was betrayed. At any rate, there was little doubt she was dead when her pursuers finished with her.

“Did she in life really consume the blood of countless virgins in order to perform magic not only for the nobility but for the king himself? Or was she the victim of jealous rumor, and did time itself create the monster? That is the question we all must answer for ourselves.”

He waved to the crowd of spring-break students who had filled the old guildhall and headed down from the podium. As he walked, he was met with a thunder of applause. He hurried down the aisle, anxious to escape. Ostensibly, he had come to teach; he was actually on the trail of the monster.

When he’d found out he was coming to Transylvania, he’d promised his friend, Robert Walker, dean of history at the local university, that he would give a speech. But he’d had to sandwich it in between his commitments and now he was running late.

He had done a lot of traveling lately, he reflected, watching what seemed to be the awakening of an ancient evil.

He left the guildhall behind and reached the large village square. And there, despite his haste, he paused and looked up. The sky seemed to be roiling. There was a moon, not a full moon, but a crescent. It gave scant light, and even that was extinguished when the clouds moved over it.

There was a hint of red in the moon’s glow, and even in the shadows when that glow was gone. He didn’t like the night. He’d spent most of his life traveling, studying the evils one man did to another in the name of belief.

He picked up his pace, eager to reach his hotel.

In the lobby, he paused, feeling the sense that something…someone…was there. He turned around. Nothing. No one. It didn’t matter. He’d received enough of a warning when he’d been in London. He knew what he was facing.

“Professor, your key,” the young man behind the desk said.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Again, he looked around the lobby.

Then he reminded himself that he was out of time, and he hurried up the stairs.

Jessica sipped her wine, staring at the fire burning in the grate. The flames fascinated her, rising, falling, lapping at the ancient stone of the hearth. Gold, red, even a touch of blue…

“Don’t you agree, Miss Fraser? That society itself has created so many of the difficulties our children face? Society and the modern world, with its bombs and wars?”

She stared across at the sturdy German professor who had spoken to her. They had been talking about dealing with teenage angst. She blinked, realizing she didn’t have the least idea what he had said in the last few minutes. That morning, she had given her speech. She had been asked to speak about teenage fantasies, and setting troubled youth on the right path. The German had been quizzing her endlessly, it seemed, apparently quite taken by her ideas.

She had to get out.

Why? she taunted herself. Why was she so eager to escape into the night when she was suddenly afraid of shadows?

Confront your fears. It was one of her own doctrines.

“A very difficult time, yes,” she agreed, and rose, smiling. Watching the fire had been like an opiate. She felt positively serene.

Surrounded by…normalcy.

“Excuse me, will you? It’s a bit late, and I’m feeling a bit jet-lagged suddenly. Good night.”

The desperate urge to escape—even to hide—was on her again. She had to force herself not to run out of the restaurant.

She looked at her watch, disturbed to see it had grown later than she had expected. She started briskly walking across the square to her hotel.

Confront your fears. She had done so, hadn’t she? She would do so.

In the middle of the square, she found herself pausing. She looked up at the sky and shuddered. The night was red.

She heard something and swung around. Her breath eased from her lungs. It was just an old couple, hand in hand, out for a stroll. She turned and started walking again. Her nape grew cold. Ice cold. It felt as if the darkness was following her. Looming ever closer…just a breath away. She spun around. The square was empty. She quickened her pace, trying to be calm, logical, attempting not to give in to sheer insanity and run.

Light blazed from her hotel. She was almost running as she neared the entry.

A man was exiting, arm in arm with an attractive woman. They were laughing. Lights shone behind them. Jessica recognized the man; he was an American movie idol. She gave no sign she recognized him, but thanked him as he held the door, then hurried in.

The shadows were gone. The darkness was gone. She let out a breath, shaking her head. She was letting her imagination get the better of her. She strode to the desk, smiling as she asked for her key, the old-fashioned kind that was always kept by the concierge. He gave her the key, along with a note.

She read the message left by the college student she had run into earlier, a deep frown creasing her forehead. She looked at the stately concierge, with his graying hair and upright stance. “Where is the police station?”

She felt it again. There, in the bright light of the lobby. Felt it. The darkness, so black, and yet….

Red.

It was time for her to act.

Literally.

“Oh, my God!” Mary said. “That must be her, the dominatrix the Hungarians were talking about.”

Jeremy stared at the woman. She couldn’t be missed, and not only because of the black leather mask hiding her eyes. Her hair was pitch black, her skin fair. She was wearing black leather pants that clung to her form, showing little, but somehow emphasizing the perfection of her hips and thighs. When he forced his eyes upward, he saw she was also clad in a sheer black blouse over high, full breasts—he had to look twice to realize she was wearing a skin-toned top beneath the blouse. She was completely and decently clad, but the outfit still had an erotic appeal. In this case, more was less. He tried to stop staring. The sight of her was kicking his libido into overdrive. It was a strange feeling.

But then, strange feelings had been coming on ever since Mary had first talked to him about the party that afternoon.

She had been thrilled all during the ride in the black carriage, drawn by two black horses, that had taken them deep into the woods. The carriage had felt like something out of an old-time horror film, as had the ride through the fog-drenched trees. Nancy, a cute redhead, also in the journalism school, had been every bit as excited. She had stared out the window every few seconds, saying, “Can you believe this?”

She said it again now as they stood there, just inside the entry.

“Can you believe this?”

Mary nudged her. “Nancy, don’t gawk. We’ll look totally out of place.”

Jeremy was fairly certain they didn’t look as if they belonged to begin with. The girls had dressed in miniskirts and boots, but it was cold out, so they were also wearing tights and sweaters and heavy coats. He was in his usual tourist garb, jeans and a sweater. But here…

People were in every manner of dress. And undress. Several wore traditional vampire capes, but they weren’t in the majority. A few of the women were topless. One, a redhead of about thirty, was naked. She wore nothing but a belly-button ring and a silver belt. An extremely well built black man strode by, and he, too, was in the buff, except for a flapping loincloth. A few of the men smoking and drinking at the bar wore coats—at least some people in the place recognized the fact it was cold out.

And, to be fair, there were a number of men and women in very ordinary clothing. The kind that actually covered their bodies completely. As he watched, a middle-aged man at the bar adjusted his fake fangs.

“Where’s the girl who invited you?” Jeremy asked.

Mary shook her head. “I don’t see her. It’s a big place. She must be somewhere.” She led them toward the crowd by the bar.

“Americans,” the woman in black leather said, suddenly materializing in front of them. Strangely, Jeremy got the idea that she wasn’t particularly pleased. A look passed across her face in a fraction of a second that made him shiver.

Then it was gone. As if it had never been.

“Americans,” she repeated. “You were invited?”

Her English was heavily accented. She rose, walking toward them. She was strikingly beautiful, with perfect features, dark eyes. He wondered if in real life she might be a model.

Actually, she didn’t walk. She sauntered, every move entirely languid and sensual, her eyes filled with an amused confidence that both set a fire in Jeremy’s gut and also a warning. She eyed Nancy and Mary with a smile, then turned her attention to Jeremy, sliding a hand down his arm. Again, he was strangely excited, and yet…he didn’t feel she found him particularly exciting. In fact, it was almost as if she were putting on a performance. But for whom?

Of course, her whole life was probably an act, if she was indeed the dominatrix, as Mary believed.

“A woman I met in town invited me. She told me to bring friends,” Mary explained quickly, then introduced the three of them. Jeremy noticed that the woman didn’t introduce herself in return.

Again something indefinable passed through the dominatrix’s eyes, so quickly that he decided he might have imagined it.

Must have imagined it.

She went on with that same sensual amusement, as if she were educating the totally innocent—which, of course, in the circumstances, she was.

“Children, let me point out the playrooms. Beyond the bar, the movie room. We have a comprehensive selection of exceptional quality, men and women, women and women, men and men…whatever might appeal. Up the stone stairway…the pleasure rooms. Just beyond that, my personal domain. My dungeon. Visit me later, if you dare.” She smiled at Mary and Nancy. “Have you been bad?” she inquired in a throaty, teasing voice. “Do you need confession? We can arrange for that, too. But first, you must have a drink. The special tonight is a Bloody Mary. Mary…how darling, just like your name,” she said, eyeing Mary again. “Tonight, everything is on me.” She laughed softly. “We’ll find a form of payment. For now remain at the bar. Watch.” She stared at the three of them for a long moment. “I will tell you when it’s all right to move, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jeremy said, relieved. He had to admit, he was more than uneasy.

He was…scared.

She leaned close to them. “Always know the way out,” she said.

“Always know the way out,” Nancy repeated. Jeremy wondered if he had sounded almost mesmerized when he had spoken, the way Nancy did.

The dominatrix seemed pleased with the response and smiled again.

She exuded a sleek sensuality, along with something smoldering and fierce. She escorted them the rest of the way to the bar and spoke to the man behind it. “Drinks, please. Right away. For my American friends.”

The bartender was tall, lean, dark-eyed, perhaps in his early thirties. He nodded, then hurried to do her bidding.

They sat at the bar to wait for their drinks. Looking around, Jeremy thought it might have been almost any bar anywhere—except for the naked people and the masked woman. Next to them, two men were discussing something in French. At the end of the bar, a good-looking man speaking German was trying to pick up a pretty blonde.

He turned to say something to the dominatrix, but she was gone.

“This is so exciting.” Mary whispered.

“Yeah. A thrill a minute,” Jeremy murmured.

“Stop being such a weenie,” Mary told him.

“You know,” Nancy murmured, “we’re not going to learn much if we spend all night just hanging out at the bar. We need to look around.”

“That woman just told us to stay here,” Jeremy said firmly.

“She also said we should watch,” Nancy argued. “We’ll see more if we look around.”

“She said to stay at the bar,” Jeremy repeated firmly. “And to always know the way out.”

Mary giggled. “Maybe they’re worried about police raids.”

He had a sickly feeling the dominatrix had been worried about something far more serious.

“Look, Jeremy, that woman is gone, and we can’t just sit here all night,” Nancy said.

“We need to split up,” Mary added. “No one is going to talk to us if we stick together like the Three Musketeers.”

“We should stay together,” Jeremy warned uneasily.

Mary laughed softly. “You shouldn’t want us hanging on to you. Our hostess seemed to be pretty into you.”

Jeremy didn’t know why, but he had the feeling the dominatrix had quickly assessed him and found him too young and far too naive. He looked over the heads of the Frenchmen and saw that she was back at the bar. She was behaving casually, chatting with the bartender, speaking to people as they came and went from room to room, and yet…

She seemed to be watching.

For what?

“I don’t know about you two, but I’ve got to see the pleasure rooms,” Mary said, sliding off her bar stool.

“I’ll check out the movie room,” Nancy said.

“I don’t know about this,” Jeremy protested. “I can’t be with both of you.”

But they ignored him, already moving. He saw the dominatrix. She had noted their movements, and she didn’t seem pleased.

Jeremy immediately lost sight of Mary, who must have run up the stairs. He found Nancy hovering at the back of the movie room. He stopped where he was, taking the overstuffed couches and the haze in the air from cigarettes and pot. On a large screen, a porno flick played. Two women were seducing one man—and each other. As he watched, one woman held the other down while the man bared his teeth and bit into the immobilized woman’s neck. She seemed to go into instant throes of ecstasy. Blood lust apparently led to wild arousal.

Despite all the flesh on show, the movie didn’t begin to arouse him. He realized he was far too tense to feel anything other than an unsettling sense of alarm.

A girl rose from one of the couches and approached Nancy, taking her hand. Nancy followed her back and sat down.

Jeremy decided that Nancy could fend for herself. The woman who had approached her was slim and not more than five two. Nancy was giggling and over twenty-one. If she wanted to live on the wild side in pursuit of her craft—or using her craft as an excuse—it was completely her call.

He made his way to the stone stairway and hurried up.

They should have stayed together at the bar, as they’d been told, and just watched.

He reached a long hall lined with doors.

The hall itself seemed far longer than it could possibly be. Perhaps it was the dim lighting and the way the far end of the hall was almost completely dark, adding to the illusion that it went on forever.

On and on…as if in an impossibly long shot for a horror film.

Except this was real.

He told himself that he was only giving in to fear and letting his imagination run wild. Look. All he had to do was look.

No one was in the hallway. He had no idea which door Mary might have chosen.

As he stood there, he felt rather than saw a shadow. No, not a shadow, exactly, a sense of greater darkness. As if something large had cast a pall over the meager light offered by the candles that burned in medieval sconces every ten feet along the walls.

A lump formed in his throat. He was tempted to turn, run back down the stairs and out into the night. Of course, if he did, he had no idea of where he would actually wind up. They had been driven through a dense, fog-shrouded forest, and they hadn’t passed another living soul until they had reached this place, which, from the outside, had appeared to be nothing more than a ruin on a cliff. Yet the urge to run, escape, flee to any other place on earth, tore at him with an urgency that defied all logic.

He would not yield to it. Mary and Nancy were here, and while they were welcome to whatever pursuits they chose, he couldn’t abandon them to this…

“This danger,” he whispered aloud.

Because somehow he knew that his unease was justified. He felt a raw sense of instinctive panic taking hold in his gut.

The shadow was there, real, palpable, evil and malignant.

It was just a shadow, he tried to tell himself. A result of the candlelight, the intense darkness of the night…

“Where are all those psychologists when you need them?” he mocked himself out loud.

He felt the most intense desire to keep looking over his shoulder. There was something there. Something pursuing—no, stalking—him. Slowly, playing with him. He could feel it. Feel the danger, like a gazelle on an African plain suddenly aware that a lioness was silently slipping up behind it….

He spun around. He was alone in the hall.

It was simply the time and place, he told himself. He was in the land of legends, with a bunch of no-life idiots who liked to play at being vampires. It was silly; it was sad.

But fanatics could be dangerous.

And still he felt he was facing something that didn’t remotely resemble a human danger.

He turned back, staring at the doors.

And felt it again. There was a shadow, something…evil.

It was laughing at him, he thought. It knew his fear, thrived on it, and laughed….

They had to get out of there.

“Mary?” he called aloud—almost screaming it. He no longer cared what anyone thought, what ridiculous expectation the girls had for journalistic success. They had to get out.

“Mary?” he called again, and opened the first door.

It was simply too fascinating. Mary was pretty sure she was standing there in wide-eyed wonder. No matter how sophisticated she might have considered herself to be in her own world, she knew she must appear like a lamb in a forest here. Still, this was the kind of thing that made for a great story. People loved to share such wanton and carnal experiences—vicariously. They wanted to be shocked and appalled. They were curious, and satisfying their curiosity sold print. And she? She intended to sell. People were always intrigued by sex and violence. It was unlikely that she would be traveling to any major war zones, so that left sex.

Well, sex and fantasy. The vampire fantasy. It kind of made sense that some guys wanted to act like they were vampires, because vampires had power over women. And some women loved the idea of being taken, dominated….

There was certainly fantasy here, combined with masks…and sex….

First she had stumbled on an intimate ménage à trois. They hadn’t noticed her in the doorway at first, they had been so…involved. Then a husky voice had suggested she join in. Certain her face was a thousand shades of red, she had apologized and moved on.

Another door had led to an empty—but prepared—chamber. And chamber was the right word, not room. The space had been decorated to resemble an ancient dungeon, with shackles on the wall, and whips and chains laid out on a table, ready for use.

She had studied the place as dispassionately as she could, trying for journalistic objectivity, but then, uneasy, she had hurried on with a little shudder. Definitely not her scene.

The third room she found amusing. A very tall, well-muscled man was dressed in a very pink, very lacy nightie, heels and a garter belt. He was admiring himself in a mirror. She excused herself, trying not to laugh as she departed.

But she didn’t feel actually scared until she opened the fourth door.

There was no reason for her fear, really. The room was empty and almost completely dark. Where candles and lamps had burned elsewhere, the only light here spilled in from the hall. When she first opened the door, she saw nothing at all. Then it seemed as if a pair of eyes, fire-colored eyes, stared at her from the deep recesses of the room.

As the light filtered in and her eyes adjusted, she realized it was just a man, sitting alone in the dark. Again she excused herself and hurried on. But even as she closed the door, it seemed as if the darkness still cloaked itself around her. The hall hadn’t changed, and yet it had. It had darkened. As if a giant shadow…

Don’t be silly, she told herself. The candles in the wall sconces were just burning down.

But it seemed as if something chilling had settled in her bones. People. She needed to find people. It didn’t matter what they were doing. He-men dressing in pink lace and frills, writhing bodies involved in an orgy…anyone.

She opened the next door. There was soft light. Comfortable chairs. One wall seemed to consist entirely of a giant television screen. From somewhere, music was playing.

She walked in. “Hello?”

No answer. For a moment she felt faint. Dizziness seized her. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe it, but she was afraid she was going to black out.

She fought the feeling, wondering just how strong her Bloody Mary had been. She opened her eyes. Somehow, things seemed slightly askew, as if something had changed in the few seconds when her eyes had been shut.

The sense of fear was still gripping her heart.

Run. Go!

She found herself sitting down. The TV came on, and the scene was arresting. A beautiful woman sat at a dressing table. She was in an elegant silk gown, brushing her hair. The room appeared Victorian, though the dressing table had art nouveau elements. There was a large wardrobe with the same elegant wood carvings, and a four-poster bed. Drapes floated in, wafting on the breeze with the same surreal whisper as the brush made, stroking through the woman’s long pale-gold hair.

As Mary watched, a shadow seemed to materialize at the window.

She was afraid. Very afraid. She wanted to run.

And yet she could not. It was as if she had frozen in her chair.

Even as the shadow appeared at the window, she sensed another shadow rising behind her. She could feel the darkness, could feel the chill, the ice, whispering along her spine, as if arctic breath were teasing at her back.

There was nothing there, she insisted to herself.

It was evil, cold, a whisper in black and red….

Whispers didn’t have colors….

This one did. Black, like an abyss. But touched by something…crimson.

Like blood.

Get up, Mary. Run! she warned herself.

But she couldn’t. She could only stare at the screen. The shadow had drifted in through the flowing drapes and was gaining greater form. Materializing.

Her eyes widened. She wasn’t watching TV, she realized. No movie was playing. She was looking through a one-way mirror. The scene was in the next room, and it was really happening.

It had to be a parlor trick, a magician’s act. The shadow was becoming a man. Materializing from the mist, like a vision from every tale told about the evils found in the Carpathian Mountains of Transylvania. It couldn’t be real. It was an act, performed by employees of the private club, something done with smoke and mirrors. Not real.

She would not watch anymore.

But she couldn’t move.

Her limbs were far too heavy. And cold…she was so cold. The chill had traveled from her nape to her spine, from her spine to her limbs. She was frozen as surely as any ice sculpture, her eyes glued to the tableau unfolding before her.

The mist had become a man. Tall, dark, sensual, with burning eyes. Slowly, step by step, every movement filled with…hunger, he approached the beauty at the dressing table….

Mary thought she couldn’t get any colder. But still, the sense of darkness and a fetid whispered breath of cold behind her became stronger and stronger.

Then it was as if she became aware of herself again. She looked down, and a frown creased her forehead.

She looked up. She wasn’t staring at a scene taking place in the next room.

She was staring at a mirror.

Somehow she was the blonde at the dressing table.

And there was a man in black behind her, a man with burning, demonic eyes, with breath as fetid as the grave, as cold as death itself….

From somewhere, she heard her name being called, breaking the chains of ice that held her.

And as the shadow-man smiled and approached, teeth—fangs—gleaming she began to scream.

“You say you have no time tonight,” the Australian complained. “All right, I accept that, but just tell me when. I’m rich. I’ll pay you anything. When may I hire your services?”

The dominatrix was only half listening. She could already have damned the man for distracting her until she lost sight of the American and his blond companion. She gave him her full attention for a minute. “I’m sorry. I never know how long I’ll keep the club open in any one place. I don’t plan that far ahead.”

“But—” he began in protest. He was tall, rich, handsome. He could probably have his pick of dozens of women. He’d come for the excitement, the difference, the ever so slightly naughty, the out of the ordinary.

If only he knew how lucky he was not to receive her attentions.

“You’ll have to excuse me. I have an appointment,” she said, then turned and hurried toward the stairs.

Then she heard it, very faintly. The sound of a scream.

“Wait!” the man protested, following her.

No more time to be polite.

“I said, excuse me.” She gave him a hard shove, and he fell back, smiling. She shook her head. Apparently she’d just made the man’s night.

She turned and sailed up the stairs.

Nancy had begun to grow uncomfortable.

It was one thing to play at being sexually daring, quite another to feel she was trapped. And alone.

She’d taken a seat on the couch next to a petite, ever-delicate woman of around her own age. But the hand that held hers now might have been made of iron. They had chatted casually at first about the beauty of the countryside and, the way Americans loved to visit more than any other nationality, because they were such legend hounds, not to mention the kooks who thought they were vampires, and, worse, the ones who had convinced themselves they actually needed to drink blood.

The woman told her that she had spent many years living in Amsterdam, had visited the States frequently, and was particularly fond of a village in the Ukraine. Nancy realized, as they whispered and the porn flick played, that her second drink was making her exceptionally drowsy. She wanted to move, to escape a situation that was becoming uncomfortably intimate, but she didn’t seem to have the will or the ability to get up. It occurred to her, in the back of her mind, that the woman had never even mentioned her name.

She’d held Nancy’s hand, smoothed back her hair. Nothing too forward at first, and Nancy had thought she could get the woman to talk about this place and what went on here, information she could write about later. Did drugs flow freely? She hadn’t been offered any. Then again, what the second Bloody Mary was doing to her was more than a little frightening. Her companion began touching her more intimately, and she didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to stop her. The woman’s fingers lingered on her knee, crept up under her skirt. The soft, hot brush of her breath seemed to caress Nancy’s throat and her earlobes, yet when Nancy looked, she seemed to be inches away.

“I…I…I’m not gay,” Nancy whispered.

Her companion laughed softly. “You think you need to be gay to experiment and explore?”

Speaking seemed to take a tremendous effort. “It’s just not…not what…I need to leave now.”

“Don’t run away now. I can show you a good time you’ll remember until your dying breath. Pleasure so exquisite—”

“I have to go.”

“Very well. Go, then.”

The woman wasn’t touching her at all, Nancy realized. She could have risen. There was nothing on earth stopping her.

Except…

Except everything was too heavy. The room was too heavy. The darkness was too heavy.

Her limbs were like boulders.

Fingers teased her hair and throat. A touch so light, so seductive, that she couldn’t help responding to it.

She had to get out. Had to rise, had to run.

“There, on the screen,” her companion said. “Watch. My friend is in this one.”

Nancy stared at the movie.

They had gone from a sex tape to a very different scene, something both far more beautiful and far more disturbing. There was a woman, her every movement languid, elegant. Gossamer fabric floated around the woman. Her hair seemed to swish across the screen like silk. The film was provocative in a way that the simple thrusting and panting that had preceded it hadn’t been. Nancy couldn’t stand, couldn’t protest. She could only watch. She felt tears forming in her eyes and she was suddenly scared.

She thought she heard a whisper, but her companion wasn’t talking, only watching the screen.

Still, Nancy was sure she heard words.

Come, sweetheart. Show me your throat. Let me taste all that life rushing through your veins….

Nancy heard her companion moan softly and turned to find the woman looking at her, so at ease, so pleased.

Like a cat with the canary already between its paws.

“Watch, now.”

And she did, because she had no other choice. Her heart was beating so loudly that she could hear its thunder. Somehow she knew that the woman at her side could hear it, too.

“There.” The woman pointed, and Nancy stared.

There was something dark at the right-hand corner of the screen. A mist, red and black…darkening, becoming…something….

A man. A low-brimmed hat hid his features. He was tall. He walked slowly up behind the woman.

The woman turned. Mary.

A soft gasp escaped Nancy. She tried to form a protest.

“Yes,” her companion hissed. “Yes, soon…”

Mary turned.

Saw the man…and screamed.

On the screen, a door burst open. Jeremy. The man looked up, his face shadowed except for his eyes, which glowed like fire. And he had fangs.

The man was undisturbed by Jeremy’s presence. He strode toward him, laughing.

“Yes,” the woman beside Nancy hissed again.

Nancy turned, and her eyes widened in horror. The woman had changed. She had grown. Her eyes were glowing with a pure fire. And her teeth…were no longer teeth.

They were fangs.

Terrified, sure she was hallucinating, Nancy forced her eyes back to the screen.

The man had reached Jeremy, still laughing. He threw his arm out, his hand connecting with Jeremy’s face.

Jeremy went flying, slamming back against the doorframe.

Nancy’s eyes darted back to the woman. She saw the fire in her eyes, felt her own terror rise. Watched the fangs, dripping with anticipation.

And she could do nothing but weep in her soul. The woman’s touch, her eyes…it was as if Nancy had been stung by a paralyzing spider. She could not prevent her own demise. She could not even cry out, only hear herself scream in terror inside her head.

Then there was a shattering sound. As if someone had burst into Mary’s room through a window. The sound changed everything. Or maybe the arrival of whatever…whoever…had caused the that sound. Nancy felt something stirring in her, a sense of herself, of strength. She stared at the screen. There was someone else in that room now…a presence. Broad-shouldered, tall, dominating. A man, and something about his appearance…

What?

Changed everything. Evened the playing field. Gave her…hope.

He was wearing a large, low-brimmed hat and a floor-length leather trench coat, like an old railway frock coat. And he carried what appeared to be a longbow.

The man moved with the speed of lightning, stringing his bow in a blur.

He stood still for a moment, a bastion against the insanity.

“No,” gasped the woman at Nancy’s side. “No.” she repeated, a whine of protest and even of horror.

Nancy no longer had any idea what was real and what was not, but she, too, knew that everything had changed.

The man had burst not just through glass but through the spell that had been upon them, the miasma…

The evil.