The Meridian Gamble (21 page)

And I wonder if he’s been lying to
me. I wonder if the vampires have lobotomized them, and they’re just breathing
corpses with no mental abilities who are there to produce blood. I wonder if
they’re going to do the same to the beautiful Luminos spy I ratted out?

“Those are … who are they? People
who give up a month of their lives?”

“It varies … some of them are
people we’ve acquired. Coma patients from Third World countries whose families
made deals. Made funeral arrangements, while we spirited away the bodies in the
middle of the night. Others are the ones who’ve signed contracts with us to
give up a bit of their lives.”

It all sounds too simple, somehow.

“And what else?”

“The Luminos. This is what we do
with our enemies, when we track them down.”

It’s too much, my head starts to
spin. The horrors of this night just won’t end. I turn away from Adam, unable
to take it all in. But he won’t stop. He won’t stop filling my mind with
vampire secrets.

“It’s an ideal solution. Blood is
difficult to store, to keep for more than a few months, even when it’s frozen.
But we can keep a human alive in the tanks for 10 years, maybe more, so that we
have a constant, fresh supply. And it’s the best way to deal with our enemies.
The Luminos come back endlessly. And if we kill them, they’ll only return all
the faster. But this way we can hold them and keep them from gaining
information to use against us, from developing their little plots.”

“And instead of killing you, they
sustain your lives …”

“Trying to kill us,” he says. And
in the semi-darkness, I think I can see him smile. “It’s the most ironic fate
we can plan for our enemies. Saga came up with this scheme, actually.”

“What?”

“Well, not the tanks. The
technology wasn’t there at the time. But she came up with the idea of holding
our foes, instead of killing them. Using them as a source for fresh blood. And
it was a brilliant idea, something I’m surprised the vampire nation hadn’t come
up with sooner. And as you can see, we’ve improved upon the concept in the
modern era.”

His words horrify me, and I hate
him for telling me this, for showing me this place. Or at least, this is the
closest I’ve come to feeling hatred for him. And as I look at the tanks, I
begin to get nauseous.

My eyes are becoming more and more
adjusted to the semi-darkness, and I can see the faces more clearly, an
African-American man who’s eyelids seem to hang in their sockets, whose mouth
is sucking on the breathing apparatus the way a baby sucks on a pacifier. And
an older woman, with blonde and grey hair. I hate to think I had a hand in
damning these people to their sad fate.

This is it. This is a glimpse into
the horrors of my vampire life that I don’t want to look back on, the wall of
emotion that blocks me from peering into the past. And though I don’t think of
myself as selfish or diabolical, I realize now that part of me exists. Because
I don’t really care about the people floating in the torture chamber, so much
as I fear for my own safety.

“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t ever let
this happen to me. Promise me you’ll never allow me to end up in one of those
tanks.”

“Of course, I won’t.”

“Say it. Promise me.” And I
practically bark the words. I’m surprised by the force in my own voice.

“I promise. I swear I will never
allow this to be your fate.”

“Thank you,” I say.

And it helps to comfort me, a bit.
Because I trust Adam. Even now, I know he’s showing me this for a reason,
because he wants me to know the truth and what we’re up against. But being here
gives me a sense of impending doom. I feel claustrophobic. I feel like the
building is about to cave in on me, and all I want is to be somewhere above
ground.

Adam’s eyes are on me, watching my
reactions. I can see the strong angles of his cheekbones against the light of
the chamber, which glints against the waves of his hair. I can smell the heady
mixture of the scent of his body, combined with a light cologne which is both
masculine and enticing.

And I’m not sure if it’s the thrill
of danger, or his simple animal magnetism, but I feel the sudden urge to pull
him close. I slide my hands under his jacket, and Adam wraps his arms around my
shoulders.

“You hate me now, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. Nothing could make me
hate you.”

“Nothing?”

“No. I came back for you. I don’t
know how I know it, but I do.”

He kisses me, as hungrily as you
would think a vampire would bite into someone’s neck. And I can’t help but to
react to him just as strongly. Within seconds, my hands are under his shirt,
caressing his back muscles, as they begin to strain. And his are wandering. One
fingers the waist of my slacks, and unbuttons them. And his palm finds its way
beneath my panties.

And it’s wrong, so wrong, but I’m
soon unbuttoning his jeans. Adam peels off the rest of my clothing, which falls
to the ground. And before I know it, he lifts me, and pins me against the wall.

I see them, inside the chamber. The
two vampire attendants. And I hope they’re not watching us. I close my eyes,
not wanting to look at them, and bury my face in Adam’s neck.

And I drink in
the sweet sensation of feeling him take me once more.

We’re upstairs in his bed. Somehow,
we’ve made it here, and shared in the bliss of making love once again, after
debasing ourselves in the vampire basement. Adam helped me find my clothes and
slid them on in the darkness, only to rip them off again the second we got to
his room.

And it’s even better than on the
Astral Plane, making love with him here. Because I know that he’s real, and
that I’m not imagining the chemical combustion of our touch. But it’s something
more than that, at least for me. Lying in bed with Adam is almost better than
making love, because our bodies fit together so perfectly. His arm feels like
it was meant to be wrapped around my naked form, I seem to fit, nestled against
his chest. And despite the dangers around me, I never want to leave this place.

And it kills me, but I shift a bit,
pulling away. And I lean up against the headboard of his scary bed. I try not
to look at the creatures, writhing in their attempt to escape his bedposts.
Adam looks at me with a questioning expression on his face.

“What’s the matter? Was it that
bad?”

“I think you know it wasn’t bad for
me,” I say. “I feel like I know what happiness is now.”

“I know what you mean.”

I turn away from him, staring off,
contemplating.

“Adam, I need to remember. It’s
time. I need to delve into whatever strange memories are locked away in my
brain. I can feel them there, at the edge of my consciousness, like they’re
waiting to break free. And I can’t avoid it anymore. It’s too dangerous to keep
ignoring what’s in there.”

“Then let’s do it. I told you I
would help you.”

“Really? How?”

Adam gets up from the bed, and
walks over to the desk in his room. And I get the same thrill I always do,
seeing him naked. He rummages around for a moment, and comes back with a piece
of paper and a pen. He sits by me and starts to draw. I’m confused, thinking at
first that he’s going to make me a picture of Saga. But instead, it’s a quick
sketch that only takes seconds to create.

Adam hands me the paper, and on it
is a simple figure made up of a circle with six triangles around it that look
like flames or rays of light emitting from the sphere. It’s a child-like symbol
of the sun, and it instantly feels familiar.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s a tool the Luminos use. To
trigger their memories. We’re not sure how it works, even after all this time.
But it’s almost genetically tied in to their race, and helps them to tap into
their past.”

“I know this thing, somehow. I’d
swear I used to draw it as a child. But then, all kids draw the sun.”

“Of course you know it. Saga was
forced to stare at it her whole life. Sometimes, they put it on their stores or
buildings, to signal one another to their presence. But now it’s a more covert
thing, hidden in their designs. They’ve realized we’ve caught on to them and
have to be more discreet. But I know for a fact that it’s still a part of their
lives.”

And how does he know these facts?
From torturing the Luminos he catches, before putting them in the tanks? But I
can’t think about that now. And for all I know, it might be Saga who taught him
his interrogation methods.

“So what do I do? Just stare at
this?”

“Exactly. Just stare at it and open
your mind, just like before, when we went to the Astral Plane. In fact, if you
want to go to our special place first, we can try it from there.”

“This is strange enough as it is.
Let me try it here first.”

But I’m nervous to do so. Yet, the
only thing that makes me more nervous is ignoring Saga’s life. I close my eyes,
and try to clear my mind. But I open them again, to stare at the little sun on
the paper.

It’s hypnotic, somehow. Eternal,
like the Luminos. And the little circle in the middle reminds me of the tunnel
of light I went through to reach the Astral Plane. In fact, it’s almost odd,
but I feel like I can see energy building around it, forming the tunnel.

And it happens again, before I can
resist. Even though my eyes are open, I can see the circular gateway forming in
my mind. And before I can fight the urge, it begins to tug at me, more strongly
than ever before.

I want to resist it, but I can’t. I
have to see the mystery of my past. I have to know what’s there. And I know
exactly what I need to do. I let myself go, releasing myself into its grasp.

And I scream, as the energy yanks
me away, hurtling me to God only knows where.

I long for something different from
this routine. Anything that is a change, if only for one day.

We eat the same thing for breakfast
every morning; a poached egg over toast with a bit of broiled mackerel or some
sausage, scrambled eggs and the mush that our cook calls oatmeal. And the
oatmeal must always be eaten first, even though it is my least favorite dish on
the table, as it remains only vaguely palatable while warm. Heaven help the
poor soul who might try to consume a bowl of the horrid mush when it becomes
cold, which is a nearly insurmountable task.

But at least it’s lovely here in
the small dining room, the setting for our morning meal. It feels less confined
than the larger one, where we eat dinner and entertain guests, perhaps because
there are no windows in that space. And here, the sun shines through the lace
curtains in an appealing way as it peeks over the horizon.

Father insists that we eat
breakfast at the brink of dawn. He says it builds character to start one’s day
early, though none of us quite understand how this ritual can possibly affect
our temperament. It is something we just accept, or pretend to accept,
silently. Personally, I am of the opinion that Father simply uses it as an
excuse to get to the office early, to begin his duties as a captain of
industry, but I will never know for certain. It would be impolite for me to ask
such a thing. Yet, even now, he pours over some ledger from his position at the
end of the table.

And it occurs to me that he has
been studying his books quite a bit, of late.

Looking at Father with his brow
knitted in concern, I begin to worry. I wonder if perhaps the responsibilities
of steering the company are weighing too heavily on him. His appearance has
changed in a way that I have never seen before; he is not the same strong
Father I have known all my life, but rather, seems tired and frail. His
reddish-brown hair has grown especially white lately, most notably at the ends
of his beard. And the skin of his cheeks and neck hangs just a bit sadly, in a
way that seems more pressed by fatigue than old age. He has always been our
pillar of strength, but I cannot help but to wonder if we have all leaned on
him too heavily.

Or am I mistaken? Could this all be
the overwrought worries of my vivid imagination? I look around the table to see
if any of the others notice what I am seeing. But for the rest of them, it
would seem that nothing has changed.

Mother sits at the end of the
table, working on her needlepoint. The Twins, Hope and Charity, sit near her,
playing some game with invisible pieces that only small children can
understand. I call them my angels as they have an almost glow about them at
times, especially Hope, yet it is ironic that I see them in this way, as they
can be quite mischievous. And when they become too boisterous, as young
children are wont to do, one of Mother’s stern glares quickly quiets them.

My other sisters, Marjorie and
Madeline, sit across from me, and I can see them passing a note back and forth,
hoping Mother won’t notice. They both have long brown hair, which is a
signature trait of the women in our family. Madeline is younger than me, 14,
and Marjorie is older, at an age where she is being presented to the world as a
young woman ready for marriage. And my parents will have no problem finding a
husband for her, as my sister is quite beautiful. Already the most handsome
sons from the best families in London hover around her, hoping to curry her
favor. And it is obvious that she lives for the attention.

“When I had tea with Emily at the
Lawlor’s home this week, her brother Gregory stopped in for a moment, to say
hello. Wasn’t that quite lovely of him, Madeline?”

“Mr. Lawlor seems like a most
accommodating gentleman,” our younger sister Madeline says, failing to stifle a
giggle.

“And isn’t the note Emily sent,
thanking me for coming by, so absolutely charming?”

Marjorie passes the note back to
Madeline, and the two giggle again, like the Twins. And it is obvious that the
letter is from Gregory Lawlor, and not his sister Emily.