Under Darkness Part 1

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Under Darkness.

By Savannah Russe.

To Susan J. Collini

"A faithful friend is a strong defense, and he that hath found such an one hath found a treasure."

-Ecclesiasticus 6:14

Introduction.

A vampire is as a vampire does.

My mother didn't tell me that. I figured it out all by myself. Of course, it took me more than four hundred years.

I have pa.s.sed for human for all these centuries. But upon close inspection (note my fangs, my translucent white skin, my overreaction to garlic), it is evident I am not.

Besides the obvious, let me explain what my being a vampire means.

I cannot die unless I get a stake in the heart (the preferred method of those who hate us), am exposed to the sun, or am shot in a soft and vulnerable place with a bullet made of silver. I shudder to think of it.

I must drink blood, preferably human, but animal will do.

I am, by my nature, addicted to immorality, pursuing pleasure in every form-no matter how much I try to be chaste. And I do try-to be chaste, that is. I fail miserably every time.

I live among millions of people in the greatest city in the world, but I will always be an outsider. I can never fit in.

Now you can understand why I have the proverbial s...o...b..ll's chance in h.e.l.l of making any committed, long-term, man-woman relationship work.

I keep trying at that too. Because more than anything else I need forgiveness, redemption, and, oh, yes, true love.

I live in darkness, but I do believe, deep in my heart, that I can find light.

Without further ado, let me introduce myself. I am a vampire through and through. But I am one who is paying it forward-trying to rack up some good karma. I have gotten myself a name, rank, serial number-and a government job. I am Agent Daphne Urban, American spy.

Chapter 1.

"He that lives upon hope dies fasting. "-Benjamin Franklin

The footsteps-slow and measured, heavy and determined-hit the pavement behind me with the steady rhythm of a funeral drum. The sound alone told me they belonged to a man of considerable size and consequence. I didn't have to look back. I knew he meant trouble.

At half past three a.m., night covered Manhattan like a shroud. A fast, hard June shower had just ended, leaving the stone buildings black with rain. As I pa.s.sed, their windows stared at me with blank, empty eyes. Until the arrival of the man, only the occasional swish of a Yellow Cab's tires on the wet streets had broken the hush of the late hour. The cool air felt as sharp as a knife blade when I inhaled deeply, and I kept walking, my dog, Jade, on a leash at my side.

Glancing down I saw Jade's body tense, her tail going straight, her ears up. The footsteps became quicker, got closer. To anyone watching I appeared to be an ordinary young woman, taller than most and thin as death. Perhaps, as I strolled alone on the empty city streets, a mugger or a rapist had targeted me as easy prey.

That thought fled as quickly as it came. Who was I kidding? Sane people invariably drew back from me, giving me a wide berth. Some ancient instinct struck dread in their very bones, telling them that I was someone-no, not someone, but something something-to avoid. As for the crazies of New York City, even they weren't that stupid: My huge malamute, looking more like a wolf than a dog, kept them away.

That meant the odds were 101 out of 99 that my stalker was a vampire hunter. If I didn't do something quickly, I was about to die.

West End Avenue intersected with my block about two hundred feet ahead of me. I broke into a run, Jade keeping up with my stride. I reached the corner, turned sharply, hugged the granite wall of an apartment building, and stopped. I turned, crouched, and quickly released Jade's chain. I readied myself to attack.

I never got the chance. The moment the man pa.s.sed the wall of the building and appeared, Jade sprang so fast, her body became a blur of snarling rage. With a growl that made my blood run cold she knocked him flat, her teeth sinking deeply into his forearm. He swore loudly. The polished wooden stake he clutched in his ham hock of a hand arced up, catching the light of a streetlamp before spinning and falling into the street with a clatter.

My mind became a haze of red anger with no thought. Irrational and reacting, I raced after the lethally sharp implement, meaning to use it as a weapon of my own. I grabbed it from the asphalt. My long fingers tightened around its smoothness. I raised it high above my head and charged toward my a.s.sailant, seeing him clearly for the first time.

Fighting to push Jade off and struggling to stand, the hunter was a fearsome sight. Clad entirely in black, he was broad and solid. With no visible neck, his head appeared to sit directly on his body, so thick were the muscles of his shoulders. He had a wrestler's build and an a.s.sa.s.sin's face, flat and dull and cruel. A thick silver chain was wrapped diagonally like a bandolier across his wide chest. Three more stakes hung from it.

The sight of the stakes drove me toward madness. Throughout my centuries on this earth, too many of my friends had felt the piercing agony such an instrument delivers. And as a stake is driven into a vampire's heart, from the vampire's lips comes a last terrible scream-a heartrending, animal cry of pure terror. Then comes the fierce, horrible burning: the withering of flesh and bones crumbling to dust until nothing but a fine, dry ash remains.

These memories fueled my rage. My own b.e.s.t.i.a.l nature took control of my soul. My mouth widened to show the terrible whiteness of my pointed incisors. I think I was screaming as I leaped forward, intending to drive the glistening point into the hunter's slablike face. But as I struck he twisted away, and the stake grazed his cheek, leaving an angry streak of red. Shaking Jade from his arm at last, he gained his feet. My dog flew at his legs, her barks and snarls wild with fury. He ran then, but in the moment before he moved his dark eyes sought mine, and I felt their hatred.

I did not give chase. My chest heaving, my brain spinning, I stopped. I called Jade back and she returned to me, her mouth smeared with blood. I found her leash on the sidewalk and snapped it on. I still held the smooth, long wooden stake in my hand as my dog and I retraced my steps and headed home.

As I pushed my way through the gla.s.s doors into the lobby of my apartment building, I spotted Mickey, the doorman, asleep in a wooden chair. The New York Post New York Post lay spread on his lap; his hanging head bobbed up and down with his snores like a davening Jew at temple. lay spread on his lap; his hanging head bobbed up and down with his snores like a davening Jew at temple.

So much for security. I felt annoyed, and I walked over and gave a leg of his chair a kick.

"Huh?" he said, lifting his head, his eyelids fluttering. "Wha... ?" he muttered as his gaze fastened at knee level of my faded jeans. He tipped his chin up for his barely open eyes to take in my black tank top until he focused on my face and my eyes, which held no warmth. "Miss Urban? Wha' you want? Your dry cleaning?" His breath smelled of beer.

"You were asleep again, Mickey!" I gave the chair another kick out of pique. My voice sounded shrill even to my own ears.

Giving his head a shake, he stuck out a rubbery lower lip and said, "No way, Miss Urban. No way. Just resting my eyes."

I snorted. "Yeah, right. Listen, this is important. Has anybody been around asking about me? A big guy? Maybe earlier tonight?"

Mickey's bleary eyes got wider, and he stared at the long wooden stake in my hand. Suddenly he got it. "No," he said, and lumbered to his feet. "The Brits after you again, Miss Urban?"

Mickey's brain was scrambled eggs from drink, but he was a tough old guy. He had made up his mind I was working undercover for the IRA after taking a beating on my behalf a few months back. He wasn't that far off. I was a spy, but for a top-secret American intelligence organization, a deep-black operation called the Darkwings that was so hush-hush that even I didn't know which agency had hired me. I was one of the original three Darkwings; now there were five of us in this ant.i.terrorist group, vampires one and all.

My completely nocturnal existence alone would have been enough to raise questions about my ident.i.ty. I also received deliveries from a blood bank every week. Strange men and women showed up to find me at all hours of the night: They were furtive visitors who ran the gamut from a New York City police detective to a Mafia hit man.

Privy to some of the shadiest aspects of my life, the world-weary doorman had come up with an explanation for me that sat a lot better in his scheme of things than the truth would have. He could envision my being a spy, but a blood-drinking vampire who looked to be in her mid-twenties but was over four hundred years old? No way. So if my recent love affair with the proudly Irish St. Julien Fitzmaurice, who had often taken the time to listen to the doorman's stories and to discuss the troubles of Northern Ireland, convinced Mickey I was a Provo, that was cool.

I also would never forget that Mickey had put himself in harm's way for me. My voice was softer when I answered his question about whether I was in deep doo-doo once again. "To tell the truth, I don't know," I said. "Watch your back, okay?"

Fully awake now and ready for action, he shot back, "Don't you worry about me. I worked in Dublin, but I grew up in Ulster, y'know."

"I know, Mick, and a fine young lad you must have been," I said with a gentle smile. "Who's on days this week?"

"McDougal. I'll fill him in. We got you covered, Miss Urban," he a.s.sured me.

"Thanks, I appreciate it." I tugged on Jade's leash and moved toward the elevator, my step lively but a heaviness weighing down my heart. I hoped my double life didn't get Mickey or somebody else in my building killed one day. I pushed the number of my floor, and as the door slid shut I thought, Evil thwarted doesn't go away. It just waits for a more opportune time Evil thwarted doesn't go away. It just waits for a more opportune time.

Chapter 2.

"There is the greatest practical benefit in making a few failures early in life,"-Thomas Henry Huxley, On Medical Education On Medical Education.

At dusk the next evening I stirred awake, the faint rustling of unseen wings attending my arousal from sleep and the nightmares that troubled it. The air in my crypt smelled stale, the atmosphere humid even in this hidden room behind the bookcases in the hallway of my apartment. I sat up in my coffin and peered out into the surrounding darkness, which held not a glimmer of light. This is the mirror of my soul This is the mirror of my soul I thought, and suddenly became aware that I was in a really p.i.s.sy mood. I thought, and suddenly became aware that I was in a really p.i.s.sy mood.

I climbed out of the satin interior, which, although perfumed, retained the distinct earthy smell of the Transylvanian dirt that lay beneath the mattress. I stood naked, flexed my back, stretched my thin arms high above my head, and decided I needed a surefire mood lifter: fresh-brewed black coffee followed by some serious shopping therapy.

Where to shop? I thought. Saks Fifth Avenue, which to me was a creaky old lady of a store anyway, was open only until eight. The much hipper Bloomingdale's at Fifty-ninth and Lex stayed open until ten every weeknight. Those were my kind of hours.

In truth, my favorite shopping mecca was Neiman Marcus, but the chain's best store was at the Houston, Texas, Galleria. Since I had nothing whatsoever penciled in on my social calendar (what would it read if I actually had one? Type O blood at midnight! A tryst for anonymous s.e.x at tool Searching for true love at three!) Type O blood at midnight! A tryst for anonymous s.e.x at tool Searching for true love at three!), I briefly entertained the idea of a red-eye flight, then nixed it. Airline cutbacks and lack of customer service coupled with oppressive yet ineffective security procedures had taken the fun out of commercial flying.

These days when I went airborne, it was usually under my own power. Since I transformed into a huge vampire bat in order to fly, I had to be highly selective about the times and places I lifted off into the wild blue yonder. Once, exhilarated by the moonlight and inattentive to what floated below as I flew along the Atlantic coast, I sent the QE2 QE2 cruise ship into emergency status. Pa.s.sengers strolling the upper decks had spotted me and panicked. They had the ship doctors convinced that someone had slipped a hallucinogenic into the champagne-c.o.c.ktail fountain. cruise ship into emergency status. Pa.s.sengers strolling the upper decks had spotted me and panicked. They had the ship doctors convinced that someone had slipped a hallucinogenic into the champagne-c.o.c.ktail fountain.

Despite the risks of discovery, I would never forgo flying. Flight in my vampire-bat form, that phantasmagoric breaking free from the bonds of earth, became a Zen experience, as close to nirvana as I was ever likely to get.

No, I just lied about the route to nirvana. I knew full well that there was another path. Why did I lie? The long life that I have lived, filled with disguises, subterfuges, and the hiding of my vampire nature, meant I lied a lot, to both myself and others. And I was lying to myself now, driven by my shame, for I aspired to be as chaste and moral as a nun.

However, the other path to satori, nirvana, or bliss-call it whatever you wished-was prolonged, uninhibited, completely satisfying tantric s.e.x with the right man.

And if I dared to confess it, I knew exactly who that "right man" was-for s.e.x, anyway. For a sustained relationship he had turned out to be Mr. Wrong: Darius della Chiesa, that gorgeous hunk of macho male who was also a lying, double-crossing, cheating SOB. A few months ago he stole my heart-and then what? He stomped on it and left me flattened, my soul steamrolled into a shadow of its former self.

Suddenly my c.r.a.ppy mood returned in full force. I slammed through the secret door from my crypt into my apartment, where tall windows revealed the perfect purple of a New York City early-summer twilight. I stopped at the hall mirror. My long, dark hair hung lankly around my pale face. My shoulders were stooped. My eyes had lost their twinkle. I looked washed-out. A night of shopping? h.e.l.l, I needed something more drastic: a total makeover. Maybe it would alleviate the depression that had dogged me since the Darkwings' last mission.

Having come down from the adrenaline high that sustained me when I was on active duty, and currently drifting between relationships, I once again found life to be without purpose or direction. Worse, a combination of boredom and s.e.xual frustration had left me more and more haunted by memories of Darius.

What the h.e.l.l was the matter with me! I scolded myself. I had been within days of marrying former Secret Service agent Julien St. Fitzmaurice, my post-Darius rebound romance. Fitz had actually proposed, made a commitment, been open and honest. He would have given up being human to become a vampire like me.

Did I bite him? Hmmmm, yes, but not enough to make him undead. Instead I called the wedding off and sent him packing-literally. Now he was on the run. My mother, no romantic, wanted him killed. Her motto is: "Dead men tell no tales"-and Fitz knew too much about the vampires of New York.

Instead of mooning about over the loss of that truly good guy, I was thinking, Darius, Darius, Darius Darius, Darius, Darius. His blue eyes. His strong hands. His laugh, his charm, his pa.s.sion. Even though I knew he was currently on tour in Germany with his hot new rock band, Darius DC and the Vampire Project, I found myself watching people on the streets with the illogical hope I'd see him walking toward me. When I closed my eyes at night I was back in his arms. We had been fighting like cats and dogs when he left, but all I remembered was that we made love like animals-wild, crazy, and no-holds-barred.

Boy, I better get a grip. I needed to get Darius out of my system. Maybe a colonic cleansing would help. I walked into the kitchen, absentmindedly giving Jade's head a pat as she pulled herself out of her doggy bed and tagged along next to me, ready to be fed. From the bedroom where I did not sleep but kept my clothes I heard the squeaking of Gunther, my white rat. My pets' needs were simple: eat and drink, p.o.o.p and pee, sleep and play. I wished mine were so elementary.

A few minutes later I sat at my kitchen island, grasping a coffee mug in one hand, sipping the black coffee, and turning the pages of this morning's New York Times New York Times with the other. Scanning the news stories, I got a chuckle from a Metro Briefing piece about a man in Connecticut who pleaded guilty to blowing up portable toilets in three towns. with the other. Scanning the news stories, I got a chuckle from a Metro Briefing piece about a man in Connecticut who pleaded guilty to blowing up portable toilets in three towns.

He threw himself on the mercy of the court and said a prescription drug he had been taking made him think the privies were spying on him.

I also laughed at the stupid criminal in Alabama who had donned a ski mask before carrying out a home invasion and yelling at an elderly man, "Give me all your money and valuables. And, Paw-Paw, I mean it!" His grandfather called the police to tell them his grandson had robbed him of fifty bucks.

I was about to turn to the Arts section to start the crossword puzzle when I noticed another innocuous news story buried in the back pages of the first section:

On Monday, June 5, the Intrepid Sea, Air & s.p.a.ce Museum will leave its home berth at Pier Eighty-six at Twelfth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street in Manhattan to be towed to Newport, Virginia, for an $8 million renovation. The ship will be repainted and undergo a complete exterior refurbishment. New areas of the interior, including the anchor chain room, general berthing quarters, and the machine shop, will be made accessible to the public for the first time. The museum complex will reopen in the fall.

Although the great World War II aircraft carrier Intrepid Intrepid had been docked a short cab ride from my apartment, I had never taken the time to visit it. I had seen Michelangelo's had been docked a short cab ride from my apartment, I had never taken the time to visit it. I had seen Michelangelo's David David in Florence, the Colosseum in Rome, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and Big Ben in London, but like most people I had ignored the history in my own backyard. in Florence, the Colosseum in Rome, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and Big Ben in London, but like most people I had ignored the history in my own backyard.

The thought flicked through my brain, Well, guess I won't see the Well, guess I won't see the Intrepid Intrepid this summer this summer, just when my cell phone started ringing. I let it play my current ring tone, the theme song from The Sopranos The Sopranos TV series, while I located the crossword puzzle; then I lazily reached over and flipped on my phone. I figured it was my BFF, Benny Polycarp, calling with news of a sample sale or something equally as urgent. TV series, while I located the crossword puzzle; then I lazily reached over and flipped on my phone. I figured it was my BFF, Benny Polycarp, calling with news of a sample sale or something equally as urgent.

I figured right. It was my fellow Darkwing, a pretty, buxom blond vampire from Branson, Missouri, of all unlikely places. Her cheery voice gave me a "hey and a holler," as she'd say, and then burbled on about her rocky affair with a vampire named Martin.

Benny's relationships tended to have an expiration date shorter than that of a gallon of milk. They soured quickly and left a bad taste in one's mouth. I half listened while I worked on the crossword and murmured agreement whenever it was appropriate.

"Benny," I finally said when I could get a word in edgewise. "What's the name of the hot new hairdresser you use?"

"You mean Nick? The guy from that TLC television show What Not to Wear What Not to Wear!"

"Yeah, him. Do you think I can get an appointment fast?"

"Not a chance. He's got a waiting list a mile long. Some of his a.s.sistants are real good, though."

"I don't know. This is a big thing for me. I've had my hair long for what? Four hundred years? If I get it restyled, I need to love it."

"Maybe you should just get a trim," she suggested. I could hear running water. Since she didn't cook, she wasn't doing dishes. I guessed she was about to take a bath.

"A trim won't cut it," I said, snickering at my own wit. "I have to do something drastic. I've been going nuts lately. I don't know what's the matter with me. I can't seem to shake these blues."

"Sugar, it's understandable." She talked loudly above the gurgling water in the background. "I mean, Fitz was gor-gee-o-sis, and you were practically walking down the aisle when you told him to run for his life. Who would have thought any of us would find a guy willing to spend eternity with the same woman? It can't be easy to have given him up. Anybody would be b.u.mmed."

I had to bite my tongue. Actually it had been a lot easier to give up Fitz than I would have thought. I loved the guy, but I wasn't in love in love with him. In fact, just days before accepting his engagement ring I had cheated on him with somebody else-and the very thought of who that had been still embarra.s.sed the h.e.l.l out of me. with him. In fact, just days before accepting his engagement ring I had cheated on him with somebody else-and the very thought of who that had been still embarra.s.sed the h.e.l.l out of me.