Wednesday, August 23, 2017

A Night in the Life of David Turov Part 1

A Night in the (Un)Life of
David Turov

A Vampire the Masquerade Short Story
Part 1: Landing

The voice doesn't so much crackle over the intercom, as it does purr. For the amount of money my "associates" spend on such extravagances, nothing should ever crackle.
"This is your captain speaking. We are on final approach to Ashford International Airport. The local time is 9:27 pm, and the temperature is a cool fifty-seven degrees. We have light clouds, but nothing that will hamper our landing. We'll be touching down in about ten minutes. On behalf of Monarch Charters, I and the staff would like to thank you for your continued patronage. Welcome home, everybody."
I continue to look out the window, watching the lights of Ashford shine like amber gems upon a black velvet cloth to the west. Behind me, I can hear my associates begin packing up their belongings. I hear them cutting up, joking. No cares in the world.
"I think they'll let me fly the plane," I hear Archon say. Without looking, I can hear that smile, the devil-may-care smirk that he carries so often. "I flew a Cessna in my film, 'Mumbai Renegade.' That's got to count for something, right?"
"Wait a minute," interjects Klein. His youthful tone betrays a hint unsuredness. "Was it you flying the plane, or did they have someone else flying and they just filmed you in the cockpit, you know... ACTING?"
"Well, potato, tomato... I know what the controls look like. Have you seen me drive? I got this!" I hear Archon stand to make his way towards the cockpit, and I wonder briefly if I'm about to be killed by forces far beyond my control. I sigh. I shift my gaze from the city lights to the reflection of Archon in my window. He's tall, but not overly so. Ash blond hair, swept back from his face, ever present sunglasses covering his eyes, making him look like a Californian surfer, albeit a surfer who's about to try to pilot an aircraft he's never flown before. I see his jaw set in determination, his smirk widening into a full smile. Yes. We're all going to die now.
"Not meaning to take away from your fun, good sir," I hear Hank's southern drawl snake its way from near the back of the cabin. "However, I do believe that we have time for one more hand." I hear the playing cards shuffle , and I can imagine the one hand shuffle  he's performing. "I mean, unless of course you're scared of losing. Again."
I watch as Archon's reflection turns towards the back of the cabin. His eyebrow raises, questioning. "What're we betting? You've already got all my loose cash." Hank chuckles good naturedly, and I finally turn around in my seat, looking over my right shoulder to watch the exhange.
Hank is a slight man, though on the taller side. His brown hair hangs loosely about his face, framing his angular features. Thin lips smile beneath a handlebar mustache. He continues his card shuffle with one hand as he adjusts his Stetson with the other. His suit coat is lying on the arm of the chair next to him, and the shoulder holster he wears serves to accentuate his thin frame.
"There are more things to bet with than just mere money, sir," he soothes. "Besides, what are you worried about? You're starting to get really good at this game!" Hank beams, as if a thought has struck him. "I know! How about if I win... I get to borrow that nice car of yours for a week?"
"Hell no, no one touches her but me! You'd only insult her with your lack of fine motor control."
Hank's smile turns predatory, as he causes the Ace of Hearts and the King of Spades to chase one another around the deck he's holding in his left hand. "Alright... two days... and if you win, I'll procure a helicopter for you to do with as you please. I'll even bungie out of it with you, if you'd like."
"You're not touching my- wait, bungie jump out of a helicopter?"
"It's a bit much for my fair heart, to be sure. But I do so like that Charger of yours... she and I would look so good together for a few days. But I understand if you're too squeamish about losing..." Hank lets the sentence trail off.
"Oh, it's on like Donkey Kong!" Archon moves swiftly to the back, his too white smile wide and hungry for the challenge. He sits across from Hank, and I realize that Hank's reward for saving all of our lives will be to probably wrap Archon's vehicle around a tree. Another problem for another day.
I lean back in the leather seat, for a moment allowing myself to be comforted by its embrace. I close my eyes, and begin my mental preperations for what lay in wait in Ashford.
"Are you okay? You're not... airsick, are you?"
I can't help myself. My eyes open at the sound of the angelic voice, and I see that Elizabeth has quietly sat herself down in the seat across from me. It's all I can do to keep my breath from catching in my throat as I gaze impassively at her beauty.  I think I give something away, because I see her faint smile widen just briefly. She brushes a strand of brown hair from her face, and it's an effort to figure out which look is better on her. I close my eyes and quickly center myself. I open them again, and try the impassive stare again. Perhaps this time it takes, or perhaps she's good natured enough to let the slip pass. Not for the first time, I wonder how such a lovely person ended up with monsters such as we.
"No, I believe we're all beyond getting airsick, don't you think?" I say, allowing my accent to push through a little. The fewer performances I'm engaged in, the easier the remaining ones will be. "I'm just trying to calculate my to-do list for after we land."
She nods, then asks, "Is there anything you need help with?" She truly means it, and I'm saddened by how genuinely kind she is. I try not to think of the heartache we'll all feel when we inevitably break her. If not our group, then our society, which does not pride itself on unselfish acts. I shake my head.
"Everything I need to do can be done on my own. There is nothing strenuous, just many trivial tasks. Meetings. Arrangements for future meetings and dealings. Things like that. But I appreciate your offer. Spasiba." She reaches out and pats my knee, and even knowing what she is, I feel that electric thrill at her brief touch. I bite the tip of my tongue and blink at her.
"Well, the offer's open, if you need it," she replies. I can hear a touch of her native Louisianna tickle her words. "But now that you remind me, I've got to say I'm not looking forward to my own meetings. My producer's been blowing up my texts, wanting to know when I'm coming in to record the new single, but I've just been so busy. I guess now that we're back from England..." Her soft voice trails off, almost childlike, as her gaze is drawn to her wrist. She turns her arm over, revealing an angry set of fresh scars, like lightning bolts racing from the palm of her hand, up whe inside of her arm, spreading and fading just past her elbow. She looks at them, her soft mouth slightly agape in fascination.
"Elizabeth," I say softly, leaning close to her, lowering my voice so that hopefully only she can hear.  Her gaze jumps from her arm to me, almost as if I've startled her. "I don't make this offer lightly...or to anyone else here. But... " Now it's my turn to stare at the scars for a moment, angry and fresh, but oddly entancing in their way. "But... if you want, I can help you get rid of those. I can-"
"No!" She interjects, a little too loudly. She looks about and smiles at the rest of the group looking at her, giving the bearest shake of her head. She turns back to me, lowering her voice consipiratorially. "No," she continues, more sure. "I think... I want to keep them. I want them as a reminder of what happened."
"What happened was that you waved a long piece of metal above your head in the middle of Stonehenge during  a thunderstorm and got struck by lightning!" I hiss, marveling at the insanity of the statement even as I utter it.
"I know," she beams. She reaches up and pats my cheek with the hand in question, then leans towards me to whisper in my ear. "Isn't it amazing?" Her breath tickles the edge of my ear, and I feel myself go weak at the sensation. Unaware, she stands and walks towards the front of the cabin, where Tony and the rest of the group is. I let out a long, nearly silent, shuddering breath at her departure.
Footsteps shwish across the carpeting of the cabin floor. I look to my right and see Seth approaching. He's staring at me curiously, as if performing a visual diagnostic on the scene he'd just witnessed. He motions to the chair that Elizabeth just vacated.
"Mogyu ya sidet'?" His Russian is Israeli accented, and I find the combination to be soothing at the moment. I nod, motioning to the seat as well.
"Da, konechno." Of all the group, Seth, with his bookworm ways set in a soldier's body, is probably most akin to myself in manner. We have both kept secrets as a profession, he and I, as well as uncovered others' secrets. Our time in Pamplona and Barcelona saw the start of what might end up being an interesting friendship, if one of us doesn't have to kill the other. Time will tell. Seth's cough interrupts my musings, and I'm aware that he knows that my mind has wandered momentarily. If he knows where my thoughts wandered to, he's being professionally courteous, for which I'm grateful. He unbuttons the jacket of his charcoal suit and sits in front of me, his greenish eyes boring into me. With his eyes and the determined stare, along with his military short hair, he reminds me of a sniper instructor I knew once, long ago.
"Is everything okay?" Seth switches back to English, where his accent is less pronounced. "You and Elizabeth had an exhange." I stifle a smile at Seth's bluntness. It's a quality I've come to respect in him, these straightforward comments, as opposed to the double talk and lies that prevail in our society..
"Yes, tvarich, everything is fine. She was just recounting her time at Stonehenge." Not a lie, though not the whole truth. It appears to be good enough for Seth, who nods his head, his stare easing slightly.
"You were in better spirits when we were in Europe," Seth says. "As we get closer to home, you are more pensive. Why is this?" He tilts his head to the side slightly, lmost in a birldike manner, as he regards me, watching for my tells as I answer. Seth had been an Israeli spy for too long not to have picked up on the tells of those who dealt with him constantly. It's a useful habit that is not abandoned just because one is no longer in the life. I shrug.
"Ashford isn't home for me." I reply to him, matching his bluntness with a rare moment of candor on my part. "It's a place I ended up after Enzo and I left Los Angeles. He still goes back ocassionally, his mother still lives there. For me though? There's nothing there. I thought perhaps Ashford could be home, but my reasons for those thoughts are, well, gone now." My gaze drifts back to the window, to the lights of Ashford, and as if on cue the private jet we're in starts to bank towards it. In moments, I can no longer see Ashford's lights, the only view for now being available only in the cockpit.
"You're refering to the old woman who died at the hospital?" Again, Seth's bluntness, though this time less appreciated. The months old memory it invokes is too raw. I look over at him and see him staring at me, unblinking, his head slightly canted in the other direction. A too damned curious, too damned deadly bird. I stare at him. He stares at me. Slowly, I nod. Once. He continues to stare, waiting for more information.
"Anya and I were close several lifetimes ago." I explain. "Back in the Soviet Union. We were Romani Ruska, Russian gypsies. During the war we became separated, because of the Nazis..." I ponder for a moment, trying to figure out how best to continue. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Seth nod ever so slightly in sympathy. His collar was open, and I could barely see the Star of David that he constantly wore around his neck. I continue. "By the time I found out she'd survived the war, I was in Los Angeles. I discovered that Anya was ill, had moved here to be treated by the oncologists at Ashford Memorial. The rest.." I utter a short, bitter bark of a laugh. "The rest is trivialities."
I lean back in my seat, eyes to the darkness beyond the window. Light pollution from the city is causing the stars to fade from view. I find that to be a fitting metaphor. Seth shifts in his seat as he chooses his next words.
"If the memories are too painful for you, why don't you leave? Go back to Los Angeles?" It's an equation for him, I see. Enzo would parse it as a simple 'if not/then' programming statement, an argument he and I have had before. I shake my head.
"Events under the current regime have placed certain obligations about my neck," I tell him. Again, this is truth, but not complete. I see his eyes narrow, the analyst seeking more data. "In protecting myself and Enzo, I had to make certain deals with certain individuals, make sure I was standing on a strong side."
"Mr. Winter and his entourage." I nod.
"In my haste, I believe I may have misstepped a bit, misjudged the situation. He's difficult to read, he doesn't think the way we do. I'm finding the situation to be... more complicated than anticipated."
"Again, why not just leave?" Another shake of my head.
"Seth, one does not simply run from the attention of a thousand year old vampire, does one?" My grin is both amused and ironic as I say this. After a moment of judging my mood, he follows suit, and we both begin to chuckle. I think he understands that for all the heartache, all the danger.... there is a shadowy game at play, and individuals like he and I have a deep rooted desire to play that game.
The sharp tapping of metal on glass grabs our attention, and we turn to see Vincent the front of the cabin, well appointed in one of his custom suits, tapping the side of a champagne flute with a small silver pen knife. He turns his head to Klein, peering out at him from behind smoked lenses, his face the model of Dorian Grey eternity. He nods to Klein, who lifts a silver serving platter before him, an unmarked green wine bottle resting in the center.
Klein then looks back to Vincent, who gives him another brief nod, that of a teacher encouraging a willful student. Klein's boyish face clenches in concentration, his blond locks obscuring his eyes from view. As we watch, seven more champagne flutes appear from nothingness around the bottle, similar to the flute that Vincent holds, though not exact replicas. These are not quite as elegant, not as refined. The glasswear solidifies, and Klein gives a grunt of final effort, his head snapping backward from the intensity of the act. For a moment, the sclera of his eyes are flushed crimson with the magic he's invoked, then his eyes are clear again as he flashes everyone his goofy teenager smile, basking in the light applause we offer. Such a young boy, I think, to have been a killer for as long as many of those gathered in this group.
"We're going to be landing in a moment," Vincent states, his clear voice ringing through the cabin, demanding attention. "I thought it would be fitting that that we celebrate our return to Ashford, and the successful conclusion of our trip abroad," this he says with a nod to Elizabeth, who beams gratefully at the entire ensemble, "with a toast." He gestures towards the wine bottle, and the cork lodged in its neck begins to twist and pull its way free.
As the cork drops to the platter next to the bottle, the bottle itself raises from the surface, tilting and pouring careful, measured amounts into each flute. Dark, thick crimson liquid spills into each glass, slightly transluscent in the glow given off by the cabin lights. The strong scent of iron quickly engulfs the cabin, and I watch as my asosciates widen their eyes with anticipation. The last of the flutes is filled, and the bottle glides towards Vincent, who holds out his own glass to be filled. With an almost casual gesture, Vincent mentally commands the glassware and bottle to float out amongst the rest of the group.
Surgical implements danced through the air before me, the light from the dim bulb overhead reflecting on their corners and sharp edges. My blood dripped from these as they floated in front of me, and the doctor stares at me curiously, greenish blue eyes taking in my wounds as his implements float to the table. "Sehr eigentarig," he exclaims softly in his oddly accented German. "Das ist eigentarig."
The glasses find themselves in the hands of our assembly. Archon, looking dejected, plucks his from the air before him, as Hank stands next to him making cooing, "vroom vroom" noises and deftly slides his hand around the incoming beverage. Klein sets the serving tray aside and takes a glass hovering in the air next to him, his face full of pride at his part in Vincent's little group building ritual. Elizabeth gently takes her flute with delicate fingers, eyes ablaze with with success and plans for the future. Seth pulls his glass from the air, sniffing at the contents within, and then nodding his approavel. My own glass floats in front of me, and after a moment's hesistation I take it and hold it numbly, automatically. The bottle floats towards Tony, who's standing near the cabin door, leather jacket and slicked back hair making him appear every bit the mafia enforcer. He wraps his large hand around the body of the bottle, giving it a light swirl to judge how much liquid is left within, He, too, gives it an expirimental sniff.
The last glass floats to Sophi, who is as always standing near Vincent. In a rare moment of relaxation, her hajib is down, and the color of the liquid in the clear flute is almost lost in front of the darkness of her skin. Articulate fingers lightly grip the sides of the flute, and her eyes scan across the room at everyone. For a moment, her eyes rest on me, and a wave of emtion slams into me like an almost palpable force. She gives me her sad, slight smile, knowing what I'm feeling, before returning her gaze to Vincent. I clench my jaw, reminding myself that what I'm feeling isn't true, that it's an illusion, an empty and hollow thing. I harden my heart. I do not want to feel this.
Tony watches the whole exchange with vague interest. Even as he sees me notice him, he continues to watch, to file away my reaction in that steel trap brain of his. Another keeper of secrets, that one. A hoarder of information. A pain in my ass.
"We've faced more than a few obstacles in our time abroad," Vincent says to the assembly. His mixture of Italian and French accents gives a musical, lilting quality to his words. "We've faced and overcome these obstacles. As a team. We must be constantly reminded that we are far stronger together, that we have the power to face whatever upcoming trials and obstacles so long as we remember that we're a team." He pauses for effect, looking around at everyone. He conveniantly ignores Tony's slight roll of the eyes. "We forged a bond literally in the blood of our enemies while we were in England. It is a bond that will serve to keep us stronger than we would be seperately." This time, his words cause a ripple of unease in the group, couple with no small amount of guilt. I see Sophi's gaze harden slightly at Vincent, a momentary flash of anger that quickly fades.
Not for the first time, I calculate what it would take to kill Vincent. How much time it would take. What my chances of survival would be. How his group would react. Whether they'd kill me. How Sophi would feel about it. How angry she'd be with me, after making me promise. Would her anger be a fair price to pay for...
"I believe the unity of purpose we are developing will push us to better things," Vincent continues. "I truly feel that as we grow into ourselves, there will be no challenge that, given time and planning, we cannot overcome. We will be strong together. We will face our challenges together. And together, we will not be vanquished." He raises his glass. "Salut!"
Everyone eagerly drinks at the liquid in the glasswear. I hesitate for just a moment, then raise the flute to my lips. I set my jaw and harden my stomach as I tilt back, the warm, salty blood slicking its way past my lips and down the back of my throat. I try to pass off the small shudder that passes through me as one of ecstasy.
As we drink, we all feel the light bump of the jet's landing gear touching down on the tarmac of the airstrip. A small cheer rises up from my associates, and I note Vincent's timing between speech, drink, and landing. Effective.
Not once during all of this are we told to raise tray tables or return to our seats. For the amount of money my "associates" spend on such extravagances, nothing should ever crackle.

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