Kiss Of Darkness

Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do need a real vacation, she thought. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind.

She almost laughed aloud at the idea of a vacation when she was feeling this terrible need to hurry, to get ahead of something….

Of someone?

Too bad. There was nothing she could do about it now. The plane would leave the next day, and she would be on it.

Jessica couldn’t sleep. She lay on her bed, strangely aware of time passing.

In the middle of the night, she walked outside to her balcony, which faced the street. She loved her house, and it was sheer luck that she’d been able to buy it. Amazingly, the winds and flooding from hurricane Katrina that had devastated so much of the parish had done very little damage to the Quarter or her house. The house was quite large, and she was able to keep it because, with Stacey’s help, she ran it as a very selective bed-and-breakfast. Her practice, which she ran out of the house, was a good one; in psychology, she had found the perfect vocation. And, on the side, she designed one-of-a-kind costumes for various Mardi Gras krewes.

From a distance, she could very faintly hear the sounds of music and laughter, carried on the breeze from the French Quarter.

She looked at the sky again. Absurdly, it appeared as if there was a hint of red in the night air. A hint of red that seemed to grow stronger as she watched and the darkness seemed to take almost physical form around her.

“Ridiculous,” she told herself.

She imagined herself with a shrink. “I don’t actually see the dark…I feel it.”

For a moment, a chill seized her as the darkness seemed to loom, like a hint, a warning. A deep red darkness…

It made her feel as if she was being hunted. Stalked.

She stepped back into her room, locking the balcony doors, trying to fight the feeling.

But she was oddly afraid. As she hadn’t been in ages.

She stayed awake, staring at the sky, certain the darkness was turning a still deeper red as she watched.

Her friends had felt it, too, she thought. That was why they’ve been so nervous about her trip.

This was ridiculous, she told herself. When the conference had been announced, it had immediately intrigued her. And now she was committed to speak. She had to go, and that was that, even though her initial excitement was gone.

What the hell had changed? she wondered. Or was it all in her mind?

Suddenly, she felt dizzy. The world before her seemed to shift and change. She was no longer in her bedroom but outside, staring up at a high ridge, and atop the ridge stood a man. He was exceptionally tall, a cape billowing around him in the breeze.

And he was the epitome of evil.

Evil that was stalking her. An ancient evil that lurked somewhere in a strange and distant memory that couldn’t be.

The Master.

The name flashed unbidden to her mind. She banished it immediately.

The vision faded. She was home again, in her own room, the peace and beauty barely disturbed by distant sounds from the street, the scent of magnolia blossoms heavy on the air.

She was losing her mind, she told herself impatiently. She needed some sleep.

The next day, alighting in Romania, she felt a chill the minute her feet touched the ground.

A disembodied voice announced arrivals and departures in a multitude of languages. The bright lights of the airport were all around her.

Yet she felt as if the world had darkened behind her, as if a shadow were following her. As she walked toward Customs, she stopped, swinging around, certain that footsteps right behind her were closing in on her. Panic almost overwhelmed her. She was convinced she was being followed, that she could feel hot breath—fetid breath—at her nape. Chills shivered up her spine.

She thought she heard her name whispered by a deep, mocking voice.

But when she turned, there was no one near her. Busy people, bored, anxious, were hurrying through the airport. No one seemed interested in her at all.

It was night again before she reached her final destination. And there, in the exquisite historic hotel, she felt the darkness again as she walked to her room.

She locked the door securely behind her, then waited, afraid, watching the door, wanting to believe she had worked with one too many an antisocial paranoid and their fears had simply rubbed off on her.

Nothing.

She turned away.

Then there was a sound, a clicking, as if someone were trying the door. And again, the whisper in her mind of her name. And something more.

Laughter.

You can’t hide. Wherever you go, I will find you….

“Are you coming with us?” Mary demanded, her expression seductive as she sat on the edge of Jeremy’s bed at the former seventeenth-century monastery, now a youth hostel, where they were staying. “I can’t believe I got the invite. Some girl on the street just came up to me and started talking. It’s a private club. There’s not even a sign on the door. She says people will be there from all over Europe. It’s in the ruins of some old cathedral. There was a Hungarian couple in the cafе, and they said it’s almost impossible to get into the local club scene, especially the “castle” vampire parties. But I got an invitation. And get this. They supposedly brought in a famous dominatrix to be the hostess. Celebrities even come to Transylvania to show up at these parties. I guarantee you, it’s the coolest thing we’ll do all year.”

Mary was gorgeous, an energetic pixie with brilliant blue eyes and a cascade of wheat blond hair. Jeremy was old enough, however, to know that going out with him hadn’t suddenly become the focus of her life. She wanted to get into this club, but she was scared, and she wanted friends with her.

In high school, he might have dropped everything to do what she wanted. Though he’d never been a first-string player, he’d made his way onto the football team just because she was a cheerleader. He’d learned the guitar because she loved musicians. He’d never set out to be one of the in-crowd, but somehow, in his quest for her approval, he’d become one. He’d kept his own brand of morality, though, and that had somehow made him more desirable—to all the girls but Mary.

He had to admit, he’d chosen to attend Tulane, in New Orleans, largely because of her. But he was past that. He was twenty-two, ready to graduate—with honors—and either accept a decent job offer, or head off to grad school. He had gained four inches since his eighteenth birthday, and time spent in the college gym had actually given him shoulders and a chest. He was serious and studious, something Mary had always teased him about, but something other girls seemed to appreciate. Once, he had worshiped Mary, now he saw her from a clearer perspective, but he still loved her, just more realistically, so he’d agreed to join her on this trip for their last spring break. Still, this wasn’t exactly like visiting England, or even France or Italy.

This was Transylvania. They had started in Bucharest, explored Walachia before heading into Sighisoara and dining in the ancient home—now a restaurant—where Vlad Tepes, the man who’d become known as Dracula, had been born. They had strolled medieval towns, visited dozens of churches, heard about history and architecture. Their guides had all spoken English. The Romanians were no fools. Americans were willing to spend lots of money to travel, to feel a part of myth and mystery—and buy souvenirs.

There were twenty students in their group, and luckily everyone got on well. Even better, they had crossed paths with an international convention of psychologists a few days earlier, and one of them was Jessica Fraser, who he’d met when she’d given a lecture at school. She had spent her free afternoon with them, and even claimed to remember meeting him. He had to admit, he’d developed a little bit of a crush on her. In fact, compared to her, Mary had started to seem kind of shallow and not at all interesting.

He had an uneasy feeling about this invitation of hers, too. He’d heard a little about the kind of parties she was talking about. Rumor had it that on top of the usual bondage scene, they were run by a group of people who actually believed that they were vampires.

“Mary, I don’t like it.”

“Don’t be a wuss, Jeremy. I’m a journalism major. Think what I can do with this story.”

Mary’s idea of journalism had landed them in several uncomfortable situations already. For about six months, he’d had an out, because he’d gotten into a serious relationship with a pretty English major. But she’d left the school when her mother got sick, and never returned. They had called each other every night for a while. Then the calls had become fewer and fewer. Even their e-mails had dwindled, until they’d finally drifted completely apart.

So here he was in Transylvania, and here was Mary, ready to use him again. No, that wasn’t fair, he told himself. She’d always been a good friend.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

She laughed. “Oh, Jeremy. Come on. You’ve been mourning Melissa too long. What’s the matter? Are you afraid you might get laid?”