She must have gone to sleep. When she woke up, she was still sitting up, her neck stiff from the odd angle at which she had tilted it against the wall. The empty tray was beside her on the cot; she leaned over to put it on the floor and immediately regretted it when it made her head spin. “Damn,” she muttered and stretched out on the cot, trying to will away the throb behind her temples.
But sleep refused to come and join her in the relative comfort of her prone position. Fuelled by the steak and juice, her body had recovered the strength it had lost with her blood. That realization led inevitably to the memory of what she had done earlier. In the dim light, Ardeth peered at her hand with uneasy curiosity. The lines on her fingers had already begun to heal and the marks on her wrist were no more than pinpricks.
It had been sheer madness to put her hand into that cell. Even injured, the vampire had been quite capable of holding her there until he had drained every drop of her blood. But he hadn’t. Rozokov had waited until she offered, then been careful not to hurt her. She remembered Suzy’s savaged throat and fingered the marks on her wrist again. No, it didn’t hurt, she thought unwillingly. There were a few moments when she had even enjoyed it. Maybe she was suffering from a variation of Stockholm Syndrome, with her loyalty being transferred to her . . . your what? your killer? rather than her captors.
Whatever the reasons, there was no denying that she had moved beyond her initial blind fear of the vampire. Knowing his name, knowing that he must once have passed as a successful businessman meant that his savage, withdrawn state could not be normal, that his madness could be only temporary. Of course, sane, he could turn out to live up to the evil reputation of his fictional counterparts. But perhaps if she could further penetrate his shell, she could persuade him that they were both captives and that she could help him.
Help him what? Escape? Why not? Ardeth thought, staring at the ceiling. She’d come up with a hundred desperate and totally impossible plans during the endless hours of the previous days. All of them were so improbable that she had unconsciously abandoned them to the fruitless, but much easier, longing for rescue, for the deus ex machina that would somehow get her out of this tragedy. But with the vampire’s help, were her plans still so impossible? She added Rozokov to the scenarios and ran a couple through her mind. It did not help much. None of her captors were careless around her, let alone around Rozokov. They did not venture within range of the vampire without being well armed with the cattle prod or ultrasound. But he’d been passive and withdrawn for so long, perhaps that was all they expected of him. Perhaps if he were sane, and Wilkens dropped his guard for just a moment.
Ardeth sighed and closed her eyes, daunted by the sheer impossibility of it. Even if Rozokov were sane, even if he could be persuaded to attack them and not her, even if one of the guards were careless, would she know the opportunity when it presented itself and would she be able to take advantage of it? Would she have the nerve to risk what little safety she had left? The paralysis that seemed to grip her returned. She felt herself teetering on the edge of despair, felt the heat of tears behind her eyes. She dragged herself back to her original line of thought. Escape or no, she had to try to convince the vampire that she had value beyond nourishment.
Ardeth rolled onto her stomach and looked at Rozokov. He had resumed his customary position, sitting on the cot, arms on knees, staring at the floor. His face was so still it looked like the carven image of some alien deity, unknowing, merciless. Her fear of him came nosing back into her mind, to feather a chill down her spine.
What the hell, she thought at last. What else did she have to lose? At least talking to him would give her something to do.
She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and stood up, teetering there uncertainly for a moment, doubts flaring, then she moved over to the bars before she lost her nerve. She sat on the floor a foot or two from the edge of the cell, within Rozokov’s line of sight if he lifted his head.
“Rozokov.” There was no reaction. “I know you can hear me. You can hide from them . . . I know that’s what you’re doing. But you don’t have to hide from me.” She paused, waiting, but he didn’t move. “All right, you don’t have to talk. I suppose it’s been a while since you have. All you have to do is listen. My name, in case you’ve forgotten again, is Ardeth Alexander. . . .” So she talked. She told him about herself, her thesis, Sara, Tony’s death, her suspicions about Armitage, Con’s murder, her kidnapping. “So here we are. How many were there before me, I wonder?” The question was rhetorical only; she no longer expected a reaction from him.
“I do not know.” His voice was quiet and calm. He did not look up.
“How many movies did they make you do?”
After a moment, “Two.”
“They made me watch.” He nodded slowly.
“It was quick this time.”
“They made you do it. I know that.”
“No choice. Her heartbeat . . . the blood . . .” His head went back, eyes closed, and she saw his fingers clench into fists. Ardeth tensed, ready to scramble back from the bars. He drew a deep shuddering breath and opened his eyes. “I had to.” She knew that he was not thinking of the cattle prods and the ultrasound. He’ll “have to” do it to you too, she thought in despair, but dared not to lose the tentative hold she had on his awareness.
“Why do they want you? What are they planning to do?” she asked. Surely no one who had a vampire would simply make snuff movies with him. The grey hair stirred and settled as he shook his head. “Have they ever said who pays them? Who wanted you?” The line of inquiry held no interest for him, and she sensed his waning attention. “Are you better now, after what Roias did?”
For the first time in the conversation, he looked at her. “Yes.”
“Does he do that often?”
“Enough.” She thought he heard an edge of bitter humour in his voice.
“Rozokov, what’s my name?” His head turned and the cool, grey eyes met her squarely.
“Your name is Ardeth Alexander.” She felt like laughing. He had heard, really heard, the long monologue of her life. “Why did you do it?” he asked suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Give me your blood.”
“Oh,” she paused, debating what to say. “You’re as much a captive here as I am. And, they’d have made me do it sooner or later. At least this way, I had some control over it.” She shrugged and met his gaze. “I felt sorry for you.”
He regarded her for a moment with a faint air of bewilderment. “Felt sorry for me,” he murmured at last and closed his eyes. A sudden weight dragged lines of pain and weariness into his face.
“Rozokov,” she began.
“Let me be!” he snarled suddenly, rising to turn on her with eyes bright with anguish and anger. The ferocity in his voice was like a blow, tumbling her back to sprawl in awkward fear well away from the bars. Rozokov stepped forward to grip the bars, knuckles whiter than the ashen strands of hair shadowing the feverish gaze. He can’t be that strong, she thought in sudden terror. Not enough to bend the bars, to tear down the walls of iron that suddenly seemed more like protection than prison. “Let me be,” he repeated, the words ground out between clenched teeth, then he spun away from the edge of the cell and began to pace.
You see, you can’t trust him, you can’t ever stop being afraid of him, the voice inside her warned and her pounding heart and shaking limbs offered no argument. Ardeth slid carefully back to her cot, to curl up in a fetal ball beneath the blanket. At last, she fell asleep to the harsh lullaby sound of the clattering chain.
It was getting easier to sleep most of the day, Ardeth discovered. She spent the third day of her captivity in a restless doze, waking only to eat and, dreading that she would have to do it while Rozokov was awake, relieving herself.
She tried to tell time by her meals, though she suspected they were brought whenever it was convenient, and not because the hour bore any resemblance to conventional mealtime. Sometimes the vampire was awake when it arrived; tonight, he was still stretched in a thin, tense line along his cot.
After eating, Ardeth rinsed her mouth out with water and spat into the unoccupied cell beside her. Her mouth tasted sour and when she ran her hands over her hair, it felt lank and dirty. What I wouldn’t give for a nice long hot shower, she thought, and eyed the jug of water. If she was willing to spend a thirsty night, there might be enough water to wash the worst of the dirt away.
It was worth it, she decided, and tipped some water into her hands, scrubbing at her face and throat. Then she crouched and bent her head, pouring as much water as she dared over her hair. Without soap, she could do no more than squeeze the cold water through the tangled strands, but her spirit rose just from the illusion of cleanliness.
That done, she contemplated the water’s lowered level, then shot one quick glance over her shoulder at the sleeping vampire. What the hell, Ardeth thought, and unbuttoned her shirt. With the rest of the water, she washed her arms, torso and shoulders, wishing she had the nerve to shed her bra as well.
Shivering in the chill air, but reluctant to cover her freshly clean skin with the dirty fabric of her shirt, she sat combing out her hair with her fingers. She was engrossed in untangling one stubborn knot when she heard a faint sound behind her. She turned and found Rozokov propped on one elbow on his cot, watching her.
Ardeth froze, hands still fanning her hair over her shoulders. His eyes were shadowed by the ragged fall of his fair, but she thought she saw a spark of red there. For a moment, she sat still, hands in her damp hair, the column from her chest to groin suddenly tight and aching. Then she dragged her gaze from his and reached for her shirt. Her fingers were shaking as the fastened the buttons and she took a deep breath to ease the acid residue of fear from her limbs.
Some of her equilibrium restored, she smoother back her hair once more and stood up. “So you’re awake,” she said and turned to face him. “Are you talking to me again?” He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and sat up, eyes drifting away from her. “You may as well, you know. We’re stuck with each other down here and I, for one, would rather talk, even to an unresponsive lump, than sit here and watch the walls sweat.” She settled onto the floor in the place she had sat the previous night. “If you don’t talk to me, I might be forced to give you my dissertation.” You’re babbling, she thought, but still the sound of her own voice gave her some comfort.
“What year is it?” Rozokov asked suddenly, without looking at her.
“Year? Oh, it’s 1991. What year was it . . . the last time that you remember?”
“1898. It was 1898 . . . in the summer.”
“It’s April now, the 8th, I guess. Then you were in that building for more than ninety years.”
“Ninety years,” he repeated softly. “Longer than I thought.”
“What were you doing in there?”
“Someone suspected me. They were too close . . . there was no time to escape.” He paused, disbelief still lingering in his expression. “Ninety years. That does explain some things.” His voice seemed stronger now, she noticed, and his sentences more complete.
“What things?”
“The machines, the men, those ‘movies.’ You.”
“Me?” Ardeth echoed in surprise, then laughed, envisioning the refined ladylike women he must remember, well-bred denizens of Toronto the Good. “There have been a lot of changes in the world.”
“Tell me,” he urged suddenly, shifting to look at her.
“Tell you what?”
“Everything that has happened. Everything I have missed.” Ardeth thought of the long hours ahead, of the darkness waiting beyond the circle of light above her, waiting beyond the few days she could see into the future.
All right. It’ll probably be more interesting for you than my dissertation anyway.”
She was attempting to explain the sixties counterculture movement when there was a sound form behind the door at the top of the stairs. Before she realized it, she had scrambled back to her cot. A glance at Rozokov revealed that he had dropped into his customary position.
Ardeth tucked her legs up under her on the cot and leaned back against the wall, watching the door from beneath half-lowered lids. A sudden shaft of brightness heralded the descent of Roias and Peterson.
“Rise and shine, Your Highness,” Roias called his customary mocking greeting. “It’s dinner time.” He crossed the room to unlock the door to Ardeth’s cell. “What do you say, Peterson? I think the Count must be pretty hungry by now. Shall we just take the bitch and toss her in?” Peterson didn’t answer; he wasn’t expected to. Roias’s attack was as leisurely as the vampire’s had been swift—he knew his prey wasn’t going anywhere. He sauntered casually over to Ardeth’s cot, giving her plenty of time to wonder what he had in mind. “Should we do that, eh, Alexander?” His hand closed on her arm, hauled her easily to her feet. “Just toss you in and let His Highness have a little party? I wonder how long he’d make you last.” He squeezed her upper arm experimentally and she gritted her teeth against her wince of pain. “You’ve still got a little flesh on your bones. I bet he could make you last all night.”
He’s bluffing, Ardeth thought. He just wants to make me suffer first. Surely he couldn’t afford to let Rozokov have her so soon. That’s what you thought last night, the voice in her head mocked. She tried not to think about what would happen if Roias really did put her in with the vampire.
He swung her around to face the other cell and held her tight against his chest. “Oh, come on, Your Highness. I know you want it. You wanted it last night,” Roias taunted, drawling out the words to make the most of the mocking double entendre. “Just have a look at what I’ve got over here for you.” His hand, tangled in Ardeth’s hair, jerked her head back so hard she couldn’t stop her gasp. She couldn’t see Rozokov any more, could only stare helplessly at the ceiling as Roias kept her head tilted back.
The chain clattered suddenly and Roias began to laugh. Pain spiked through Ardeth’s scalp and neck as he gave one savage tug on her hair, then she found herself released from his grasp and hurled forward to stumble helplessly into the bars. She caught them to steady herself, sparks scattering behind her eyes as her forehead hit the metal.
Then her head cleared and the vampire filled her vision. He was very close, the feral smile bright with icy fangs, eyes seeming to swim with blood. There was nothing there of the sad, weary creature who had asked her to tell him of the world. She’d cried before she realized it trying to back away from the bars. Hard hands on her shoulders pressed her inexorably forward.
Rozokov’s fingers closed over hers and slowly pried loose her grip on the bars. He drew her arm towards him. Ardeth bit her lip against the pain in her hand, in the body forced against the cold metal, and most of all, against the desire to beg him to stop, to betray everything to spare herself this sudden, shocking assault.
If you do, then Roias wins, she told herself and felt a rush of hatred so potent it dizzied her, even as it closed her throat against her cry of pain.
She heard Roias’s low laughter in her ears as Rozokov turned her arm, baring her wrist. But though his grip on her arm was cruelly tight, the mouth that settled on her vein was gentle, almost caressing.
The seal on her lips broke only once. Ardeth prayed that Roias thought it was a sound of pain.
When Roias ordered him to stop, Rozokov held Ardeth’s wrist for a moment longer, then dropped it so quickly her arm fell lifelessly to her side, banging painfully on the crossbar. He turned his back on both of them.
Roias’s grip shifted to her shoulders and he spun her around, jamming her back against the bars. His face was very close, cold dead eyes holding hers. “Wasn’t that fun, Alexander? Didn’t you like it?”
Ardeth closed her eyes against his and shook her head. It was more than a denial to him—it was a denial to herself of the moment of white-hot pleasure that had pierced her, sharper than vampire’s teeth, at the feel of Rozokov’s mouth on her skin.
“Well, I liked it. I’m going to miss the Count here when he moves on to bigger and better things,” Roias said with a laugh, stepping away from her.
Ardeth’s knees buckled and she almost fell, but caught herself on the bars. “Yeah,” continued Roias conversationally, “His Highness here’s been a bundle of laughs—a lucrative bundle of laughs at that. Works cheap too.” He grinned at her. “Just feed him the leading lady.” He was still laughing as he locked the door and led Peterson back up the stairs. “’Night, children.”
Ardeth closed her eyes and held on to the bars until she heard the last echoes of the slamming door fade. She felt as though she might shatter if she moved, or that the floor might open and swallow her into a blackness that was fearfully inviting.
“I regret if I hurt you. I tried not to . . .” a quiet voice said, too close behind her, and she found the strength to turn around, still clinging to the bars. Rozokov stood a foot away, hands spread a little at his eyes, palms upturned. There was no madness in his eyes now, only a cold and ancient sorrow.
“I thought you were . . .” she stopped, groping for the words.
“Mad for your blood? Not wholly mad, not this time. But I needed it, and they needed your fear.”
“You didn’t hurt me. Not nearly as much as Roias did.” She acknowledged the ache on her scalp, the bruises from her impact with the bars.
“I knew your name. I did not know the others.” There was a terrible distance in his voice, a momentary movement back towards the bright, sheltering heat of madness. “It was easier that way.” She realized then the reason for his anger the night before. He knew her name and her sympathy for him—and he knew he would have to take her blood anyway. Even in her sudden surge of hope she felt an edge of sadness; the price of his sanity was the pain of the knowledge. But the very fact that he cared at all, that ruthless slaughter was not his normal means of survival, meant that perhaps her half-conscious, desperate plan could work.
He was drifting away, she realized, hovering between the sorrow of awareness and the tempting balm of mental and moral oblivion. “Let me see, where were we? Oh yeah, the sixties. They landed the first manned spacecraft on the moon in 1969, did I tell you that?” she said quickly, forcing herself to yield up her grip on the bars.
Rozokov looked up at her in surprise, bewilderment then memory passing like shadows beneath the ice in his eyes. “No,” he said at last, “you had not told me that.”
Ardeth eased herself to the floor, crossed her legs to hide her shaking knees, and began to talk. After a moment, Rozokov settled onto his cot and leaned back against the wall to listen.