Path of the Vampire forum

The smooth marble lines of the sculpture coiled and wound in on themselves, a primal and bestial embrace frozen forever in milky chrysalis, with the woman's stylized head arching back, lips just about to part. Despite the cool permanence of the medium, Therese Lenoir fancied she could feel the statue pulsing with life, could almost see veins beneath the surface of icy stone skin. The curving masterpiece begged to be touched and she felt a flighty desire to indulge it, which she only forced back through a respect for the artist and her own lack of gloves.

"What do you think?"

"I think it's remarkable," Therese said, turning to face the person who had asked the question. "The obvious surrealism is offset by the influence of ancient Eastern techniques, but the key is the simplicity of the execution, all one continuous movement."

"I'm glad you like it," the man smiled and extended a hand. "I'm Edgar Rossi. I am the sculptor."

"I know," she replied. "I could tell by the crinkles around your eyes when you disagreed with me."

"Not disagreed, no. Once art is put on display, no meaning the artist intended is more important than that which is found in the mind of the audience," said Rossi.

Therese's smile opened and she laughed, a free, light sound at odds with the cool, almost diamond precision of the look in her pale eyes. "I quite agree," she said, stepping closer to the artist. She moved to lay a hand on his arm and she thought she could feel his pulse quicken beneath her fingers. So. This could be the beginning of an interesting evening. Much more interesting than she had anticipated when she accepted Cherilyn's offer of attending that evening's art auction and charity dinner.

She looked up into dark eyes, prepared to say something charming and elusive, and paused. From the corner of her vision, a peripheral ghost of movement flicked across her consciousness. A form, familiar. A face, more so. Someone she had not seen for... how long had it been?

Therese turned, half-certain that when she did, it would have been a trick of her eyes, the odd movement of light upon a mirror, perhaps. But it wasn't. He was there, looking very much the same as he had on the last occasion they had met, which had been months - years?

She could remember the taste of the espresso and creme de menthe aperatif, could remember the exact shade of lipstick she had worn staining the white porcelain cup. She could remember the asymmetry of Lily's head cocking to the side as their conversation heated from friendly disagreement to the kind of passionate interplay one could only truly trust with a good friend. She remembered that Lily's husband, unlike the then-boyfriend flanking Therese, didn't seem uncomfortable at all with the tense turn of the conversation, as if he could sense a lack of danger.

But she couldn't remember how the evening had ended. She could remember that was the last time she had seen Lily, though. Lily or Lily's husband, until today. Until across a crowded room and all those other cliches caught up with them.

And now, the slight electric undercurrent of danger hissed around the interstices, played at the edge of her mind. Now, she brushed that feeling aside as easily as she brushed off the man who had intrigued her only seconds before.

"Excuse me," she said, executing a slick three-quarter turn that would not have raised an eyebrow in a dance contest, and headed in the direction of the ghost in the crowd.

"Arthur!" she called, her practiced voice effortlessly cutting through the din.

Charities often sought Peter’s patronage. Not because Peter himself was an upstanding citizen whom everyone in town knew, but mainly because of the businesses that he ran. The Animal Rescue didn’t make much money. The shelter was home mainly to stray dogs and cats—pets that had been abandoned. There were a few wild animals that sometimes got injured due to the city’s tendrils encroaching upon their habitat, or generally due to the cruelty of humanity. Peter kept a few vets on staff, and ran a volunteer program for those who wanted to come and administer basic care to the animals—cuddlers, he called them. Preparing the timid creatures for life in human company.

Peter also curated and edited an historical journal. It was this publication that added credence and prestige to his charitable work at the animal shelter; it heightened him as a man of historical understanding. On the side, he also sourced and refurbished rare and antiquated books. And why not? When doing historical research, tomes were often uncovered. And what else could he do with them? He had always been in the habit of rescuing books, too, as much as he was in the habit of rescuing animals.

The latter business was the reason why Peter was attending the auction. He had been approached months ago about the annual charity auction; the organiser had wanted to know whether Peter had anything he’d be willing to donate, and there happened to be a book in Peter’s vast collection that he knew would fetch a nice price, and which he could live without—so long as it was going toward a good cause.

The book was a 1931 edition of Ovid’s Metamorphosis. The etchings inside were all done by Pablo Picasso. The quality of the tome was excellent, given its age – hardcover, gilt edges, one of only one-hundred-and-twenty-five published editions.

Given that Peter was a control freak of the worst kind, he wasn’t happy packing the book up and sending it via courier. He wanted to deliver it in person, which he had done so the week before. There was a vague curiosity about who might buy the tome, too—he assumed they’d take good care of it, as he assumed it would be sold for a mint.

He stood by himself with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his grey slacks, admiring a painting hanging on a wall. The nature of it was dark – mainly greys and charcoals, deep black around the edges. In the middle was a figure, stark white and curled in an upright foetal position, its hands clasped behind its bony back. No face was in sight. Peter’s head canted to the side. Posturing? Submission? Or despair? Maybe all three. It struck a chord inside.

He wasn’t lost enough to immediately turn at the sound of his name, called clear and bell-like through the hubbub of voices, of low instrumental music, and the chink of wine glasses. It took a split second for him to realise it was the wrong name. Oh, so wrong! He should not have turned around. He should have pretended that he wasn’t who they thought…

… but as soon as he saw her, he knew there’d be no way to persuade her that she had the wrong man. Therese Lenoir. The breath rushed from his lungs. For the other half of that split second, the room spun. A chill fled over his skin as he was mercilessly dunked into the past. A past he’d tried to forget. He was no longer Arthur Pembroke. He was Peter Parkman, and it had to remain that way for security reasons. For another second he was frozen, stuck. And then suddenly, like a click of the fingers or the flicker of a light, the world rushed back in on him, roaring in his ears with one insistent demand: run.

Quickly, he turned away. He turned, and he started walking. The crowd parted for him as he slithered through them, turning sideways to squeeze between a large-bosomed woman dressed in bright florals, and a tall, wiry, grey-haired old man. Along the length of the wall, before ducking through a door into a quieter room. But it was a room with only one entrance. Only one exit. Surely, if he tried to get out he would run right in to Therese. There was no way to avoid it; he would have to confront her.

And so he ensconced his tall body into the quietest corner of the room. He paced the small corner like a caged lemur, his eyes wide and his shoulders hunched. And waited for the inevitable.

While Therese's vanity might supersede her sense of danger upon occasion, it did not generally stop her from thinking. Now, as she continued to glide across the room in the direction of her old friend, the wheels turned in her head, but the gears refused to click into place.

He had seen her, there was no doubt about that. He had seen her, and his eyes had shown a glint of recognition, and yet he had walked away - almost fled - without returning her greeting. He might have been retiring to Lily, in order to inform his wife that Therese was here so they could all reunite, but if that were the case, the rudeness inherent in not saying hello first and explaining all that would have been unlike Arthur. And as much as it might assuage her ego to believe it, Therese had seen the look in his eyes and she knew very well that was not the case.

The sharp stiletto heels of her high fawn-colored boots, shaped and buttoned in an homage to more sensible Victorian footwear, clicked rhythmically on the hardwood floors as she slid gracefully between art aficionados or around little knots of people engaged in conversation that ranged from the deep and poetic to the casually inane.
She stopped just outside of the room he had retreated into, considering other reasons for the odd movement on his part. A line from A Midsummer Night's Dream flitted easily through her head and elicited a self-mocking half-smile. There would be no erring Puck nor interfering Fairy King at the heart of this, though. This would be more complicated. A secret, perhaps? A surprise?

The polite thing to do would probably be to wait here, to find another conversation and hope that Arthur changed his mind and said hello further down the line, when his business was finished. Curiosity would hardly allow for politesse in this situation, however. Therese smoothed the champagne-gold silk of her dress so that the panels beaded with amber and violet lay straight, instead of twisting a little on the bias cut as they were wont to do. Then she took a deep breath and followed Arthur into the small room.

As she opened the door she was immediately struck by three facts: One) there was no way out of this room other than the doorway that outlined her petite form. Two) Arthur's posture and body language, both like predator and prey at once, reminded her of a defender in a cage match, and the idea of transposing that idea on to the man she remembered was discomfiting enough to make her consider turning and leaving at that very moment. But then there was Three) His eyes. His eyes were the eyes that she remembered, except that they were older. Deeper. Brighter. They possessed a hint of something she had never witnessed before, something both alien and hypnotic.

She closed the door silently and took three steps further into the room, still far from his pacing figure. Softly she said, "What is it, Arthur? What's the matter?"

Therese felt, rather than saw, the movement that propelled him toward her, maneuvering him through adjacent space as if there was no distance between. She drew in a breath and before even she could release that breath he was there, his hand over her mouth even as words poured from him in a nervous muddle. She had never before been quite as aware of his height as she was now, as he towered over her, muttering words that made no sense to her in a distracted tone.

She could have tried to disengage, could even have tried to run. The crowd was her ally there, and anonymity the easier prerogative of the petite. If she were asked, on the next night, what single emotion it was that drove her onward, even as the Arthur who was "not Arthur any more," relaxed into a nervousness that she found just as disturbing as his earlier speed, if much more compelling in its vulnerability, she would not be able to answer with a certainty. Curiosity was a factor, definitely. Perversity, to continue when so many would have allowed him his secrets, or even have feared to be alone with someone acting so unlike the way the other person remembered them. Compassion was in there, as well. He seemed almost frightened now, almost lost.

Eventually, if pressed, she would admit that none of those was the reason. It was a puzzle that would have gnawed at her, pressing in on her until she felt no way out. She needed to solve the riddle of Arthur, how he was acting, what he had said. She needed to know what had happened in Toronto, and what was happening now.

She twisted her face up in a knot of put-on confusion - not her best move, but it should fool anyone still watching. "You're not... oh. I'm sorry, I thought... But no - his eyes were... he had..." She swayed a little, letting her weight shift to the edge of her heels as if she had had a few too many glasses of champagne, and forced her eyes out of focus. "Oops!" she said brightly as she hauled herself upright.

Impulsively, she twisted a hand into the crook of his right arm, easy enough with his hands in his pockets. She did not spare a glance for the others in the room who might have noticed something amiss. "You know something?" she offered conspiratorially. "I think I need some air."

Once they had begun moving, Therese said, very quietly under her breath, "There is a private balcony on the third floor, off of one of the VIP conference rooms. Or we could take a walk in the moonlight. Cherilyn assured me there would be fireworks this evening, and the bridge is always a nice place to watch them."

Every once in a while as they walked she would lean just a little on his arm, to keep up the charade, but he could feel the lightness of her grip, a fleeting snowflake of a touch, as if any moment she could spin away in a wind and be gone. She wondered if he would be relieved if she did. She wondered if this was entirely safe.

The thought sent a shiver through her, interest mixed with adrenaline.

As they hurried along, Therese felt her quickening pulse respond not only to the electric edge of her nerves, but also to the exertion required in attempting to keep pace with her much taller companion. While the high-heeled boots gave her an extra few inches of height, they did not elongate the length of her stride, and she found herself having to half-skip in an awkward lurch at places to keep up.

Feeling eyes upon them, she appraised through heavy-lidded eyes a few expressions of interest, some of mild concern or amusement. Most of those who regarded them turned back away immediately, drawn back into some conversation or other of more interest than an intoxicated woman and her irritated escort.

His outburst regarding the bridge startled her, making her stop moving and stare up at his face, trying to read between the lines and the shadows of his eyes for some sign of what was causing all this agitation. She watched him forcibly return to a semblance of control and found herself wondering what drove that, as well.

It struck Therese that while she knew she herself could have escaped and while she had even used that knowledge (or at least that belief) to bolster her courage when she might otherwise have given in to her own lie and said she did not know the man who stood beside her, the same held true for Arthur. He must have felt he owed her some sort of explanation, she reasoned, or he could simply have pretended she was drunk or crazy, or both.

She let herself be dragged up the stairs with no protest, even when she fell further and further behind as his ground-eating strides made it impossible for her even to keep hold of his arm. "Right at the landing," she cautioned from a few feet behind. "I have the key somewhere."

Here, away from the press of bodies, the crowd's collective gaze, Therese found her composure harder to hold on to, and therefore found it that much more important to keep it. She climbed the last few steps on her own power, dug through her purse, past the pepper spray and collapsible baton, past a pack of cigarettes and a tube of lipstick, to the keys that inevitably found their way to the absolute bottom. She withdrew them all in a handful, discarded her home keys and car keys and unlocked the conference room door.

"After you," she ushered him forward with a facetious bow.

This meeting, for all that it had taken place over a grand total of at most fifteen minutes, had already proved a roller coaster of emotions and doubts for Therese. Looking at Arthur and the way that his anxiety wore him, slipped over the ragged veneer of the man she had believed she had known, she could tell that it was worse for him. Part of her felt a swelling surge of protective instinct as she watched him, torn, linger in the hall before the conference room door. That part of her wanted to tell him never mind, it was all right, to go back to the party, to forget he'd seen her. She would be out of town in a few days any way, back on the road, perhaps never to so darken his pure features with fear again.

But there was another side to Therese, a less innocent side, a side more difficult to show in polite society. This cold iceberg of a maiden, who enjoyed the power she seemed to have over this man, bobbed slowly to the surface, playing on the curiosity of the other Therese, forcing her to consider the wisdom in leaving the mystery unsolved.

The two women, who were really one woman, watched as he crossed to the balcony, drinking in the cool air, visibly attempting to get his head straight. She closed the door and followed him, giving him a little distance by resting her back against the cold rail to his right. This movement also flanked him nicely, but she chose not to consider that into her calculations of her own actions.

She watched and finally, after seconds that filled with tension, rising between them like steam, it struck her. What was wrong with this picture - well, one of the many things that was wrong. Where was Lily? He wouldn't have come here without here. This was much more one of Lily's things than one of Arthur's, the way Therese remembered it. She and Lily had that in common - they both liked a good party. So, where was she?

Quietly, in a tone that tried its best not to be confrontational or judgmental, she asked. "Where is she? You're not - you're not here with someone else?"

Therese had a rather cliched "European" approach to affairs. They were really nobody's business except for the three or four people involved. She had never been in a serious enough relationship to consider her extra-curricular activities "cheating" but that didn't put on any sort of moral high ground. She only asked the question in the hopes that, if that was what was eating at Arthur, he would relax a little to have it out in the open.