A Keeper's Truth (5 page)

We all
laugh.

“You’re
one nasty looking mermaid,” I say.

Mrs.
Maples snickers. “If Walt can take liberties, so can I.”

She’s referring
to Walt Disney. We’ve talked about this before, how ancient myths change over
time, becoming twisted with every generation of storytellers.

Mrs.
Maples swings her cane, motioning us to step inside while she holds the door.
The smell of death permeates her skin, and gelatinous make-up blots her hands
and face. Abby and Sofia leap into her arms, giggling, and Mrs. Maples plants a
wet one on each cheek before stepping back to consider Abby’s hockey jersey.

We
exchange looks but neither of us comment.

“Vindictive
oafs,” Mrs. Maples huffs, waving a hand at the life-size mermaid statue that
resides in an alcove off the foyer.

Mrs.
Maples has a love-hate thing for mermaid folklore. Apparently mermaids were
once people, legs and all, who deserved to be thrown from their land during the
great deluge. Those who didn’t drown adapted to life amid the waves. Many
became bitter, angry. They’d lost everything that mattered to them: land,
riches, power. They blamed others for their demise and in retribution lured innocents
to their deaths for centuries. Misery loves company. Tonight the
three-thousand-year-old bronze mermaid unearthed by archaeologists in the
Middle East dons a dusty pirate hat.

“Fitting,”
Mrs. Maples says, eyeing the hat.

Mrs.
Maples is eccentric. And slightly off her rocker.

She winks
at me then disappears into the kitchen. Thomas stretches to investigate a wall
of sepia photos and almost topples the table of tribal masks balancing
precariously on metal stands. He steadies one then yanks his hand as if bitten.

“For my
young ladies,” Mrs. Maples says, tail swishing. She blows Thomas a kiss. “Candy
apples, green ones, just how you like ’
em
.” She pokes
the end of her cane at a basket of apples. “One for each, your Grams and Gramps
included.” She points a bony forefinger at me. “One special, to bring sleep.”

Man, how
bad do I look if she can tell I’m not sleeping?

“Nightmares
are getting worse,” I say. We’d talked about them a bit the last time she
stopped by the house for tea. I kept the café delusion to myself. Forgetting
about it altogether would help me sleep. “How can an apple—”

“In times
of stress, the mind opens. Some call it the third eye. It allows us to see
things as they really are, keeping us mindful of our inner strength. Some are
stronger than others. I say it’s a gift.”

“I say
it’s time to go,” mumbles Thomas.

Mrs.
Maples grabs a fist full of Thomas’s sweater and pulls him down to her level,
patting him on the side of the face. “
’Tis
our soul
coming to the rescue.” She shakes her head and a cloud of make-up dust billows
from her wig.

“Sure it
is.” Thomas gently grabs Sofia by the shoulder.

“Do not
fret,” Mrs. Maples says, waving a hand in my direction, “the body will know.”

“Know
what?” asks Abby, taking my hand.

The
doorbell shrieks.

“Thanks
not necessary.” Mrs. Maples opens the door, driving us out with her cane. I
fumble onto the porch, trying to figure out what an apple has to do with an eye
and why nightmares are gifts. A devil and his father step past us into the
foyer.

“Enjoy
that party!” Mrs. Maples calls out, slamming the door.

I wheel
around, staring at solid wood, my breath swirling in the porch light. When I
last had tea with Mrs. Maples I didn’t mention Halloween. How does she know I’m
going to a party?

“What
party?” asks Thomas.

I step
down the stairs, pausing for a second peek at the door. If Mrs. Maples heard
there was a party tonight, I guess she’d assume I’ve been invited.

Thomas
steps in front of me. “What party?”

“The
Halloween party at the
Vandemere
estate.”

Thomas
runs a hand through his hair. “That’s fishing the deep end of the pool, that
guy is bad news.”

“Aren’t
you going?”

“No. And
neither should you.”

Abby calls
from halfway down the driveway. She’s tired and wants to go home.

I allow
doubt and confusion to slip from my mind and hurry to catch up, waving
goodnight to Thomas and Sofia.

The night
suddenly feels claustrophobic. The hairs on my arms stand on end. Fiendish
cries echo through the trees and illusory claws paw at me from the dark.
Fumbling, I try to shake the sensation of being watched,
studied . . . stalked.

I scoop
Abby up, placing her in the wagon, and hightail it home.

The
Keds
are just not fast enough.

At home,
Abby
sprints to the kitchen to sort candy with Grams,
and I head upstairs to calm my nerves and dress for the party. Gramps is parked
by the open door with a huge bowl of lollipops on his lap, waiting for the next
round of kids. I’m at the door to my bedroom when he calls out to Abby, urging
her to hurry to see what’s coming up the driveway. The patter of Abby’s feet
rumbles through the floors as I wiggle out of my jeans and sweater, throwing
them onto the bed.

I step
closer to the mirror and glide my hands over my belly as I turn, the side view
taunting me. If Meyer were alive, maybe I’d be pregnant. I’d thought I
was—hoped I was. I’d missed a period after the funeral and dreamed, for a
brief time, we’d created the family we so dearly wanted. But it wasn’t meant to
be.

I arch my
back, filling my insides with air, pretending.

The air
rushes out in a great whoosh, heat flushing my cheeks. Thanks to Meyer losing
control of his car, that dream is lost. Now I’ll never know the feel of another
child moving inside me, the sound of a suckling newborn holding tight to my
breast, the scent of creation. Abby will never be a big sister.

Damn you,
Meyer, for leaving us, for leaving me. You promised I’d never be alone. Damn
you for making me think we could be a family, for giving me hope. And while
we’re at it, damn that transport truck, and the drivers on the road that day.
Damn you all!

I glance
at the bed . . . at the Halloween costume. Adrenaline has me
high.

I’m a
widow. No longer half of two, but single?

To hell
with that!

I scroll
through songs on my cell looking for something to spur my mood then crank the
volume, Pink drowning out sounds from downstairs.

“I got a
brand new attitude and I’m gonna wear it tonight.” I dance around the room,
naked, singing at the top of my lungs. “I’m gonna get in trouble, I
wanna
start a fight!”

I spin in
circles then fall to the bed. I haven’t had this much energy in a long time. I
almost feel like my old self, the girl who laughed, challenged all authority,
and kicked up a fight just to get the blood pumping. The girl who took destiny
by the balls.

“Tonight,”
I declare to the woman in the mirror, “I’m going to have a good time in spite
of my status.”

I’m gonna
dress to kill and act the part.

I
arrive
just after nine, wondering if I’m early since there are only a half-dozen cars
parked in the drive. Even in the dark of night the estate is magnificent. Its
entire façade is clad in ivory limestone and massive windows line several
stories. Three soaring arches announce sets of oversized mahogany doors and
every ornate post is lit with a wrought iron lamp. Scaffolding and equipment
sits to the left, the place obviously under renovation. No one has lived here
in years. Before Bryce, that is.

What the
hell am I doing here? I shouldn’t be at a party. I should be home, grieving,
tucking Abby into bed. The bravado I had getting ready has evaporated on the
walk over, and my stomach is considering giving back the peas. Beaming faces
come to mind. Grams, pleased to see me going out, Gramps holding me tight.
They’d be disappointed if I returned home now, tail between my legs.

Among the
living.
Karen’s words taunt me.

A few
minutes later I’m in the same spot, second-guessing my outfit. A taxi pulls up
and the back door swings open an inch from my hip. Curvaceous legs and navy
heels swing from the back seat. “You came,” squeals Karen. She comes to stand
beside me, squinting to see my face in the glow of the lamps. “Oh no you
don’t,” she says, hauling me up the stairs. She knocks on the middle set of
doors, holding my arm in a death-grip.

A man
opens the door in a butler costume and a nervous laugh escapes me. “Good one,”
I say, pointing at his outfit.

“Ma’am.”
He nods. “I am Clause, Dr. Waters’ chef, and butler when the need arises.
Please do come in and allow me to take your coats.”

I make a
face at Karen and she grins from ear to ear. Clause disappears with our coats,
and Karen takes a good look at my outfit. “About time the old Tess showed up
for something,” she says.

I’m
dressed in gold from head to toe. I glow.

“I found
the gold tights and body suit at a thrift shop and I painted the shoes.” I
raise a leg. The once black stilettos reflect light with glitter. My hair is
pulled back into a tight ponytail coated in gold sparkles from a can. My facial
features are strikingly inhuman, painted on with shimmering makeup. Long
eyelashes twinkle, my lips glisten with gold lipstick, and Abby’s wings hang
down my back, even though I know they don’t belong with the outfit.

“Let me
guess, you’re a hot fairy,” Karen remarks.

“That’ll
do. I’m actually a
Tuatha
Dé
Danaan
.” Karen lifts an eyebrow. “The
Tuatha
Dé
Danaan
are ancient
fae
, mythical creatures thought to live
in a parallel world among the Irish.” She just stares. “No one will get it. I
expect to be pegged a fairy all night.”

Karen
shrugs without further comment. She’s just happy to have a wingman.

I take a
step back, appreciating Karen’s outfit. She’s a police officer. Well, a
scandalously clad police officer. The navy polyester uniform holds tight to her
curves, top three buttons hanging free. Her long red hair is tied into a bun
tucked beneath an authentic-looking officer’s hat.

I laugh,
delighted. “Who’d you buy this outfit for?” Her husband is a self-absorbed
prude who’d never volunteer for this type of foreplay.

Karen
looks herself over. “Hubby would poop his pants to see me like this. I figured
since I felt like a teenager sneaking out of the house I might as well have
some fun with it.”

God, I
love going out with Karen.

We’re
about to wander when Bryce blows into the foyer. “Thank you for coming,” he
says. He looks dashing, slightly menacing, but distracted. “The bartender will
serve anything you wish to drink and waiters are wandering around with things I
couldn’t possibly name.” The party is obviously catered. “Please, make
yourselves comfortable.” He ends with a hospitable bow, cape in hand, then
turns to greet the next wave of arriving guests pushing us from the foyer.

“You need
a drink,” says Karen. So we head for the bar.

“This
party is packed.” We push through the crowd. “How did all these people get
here? They couldn’t possibly fit in six cars.”

Karen
scans the crowd. “This is nothing.” She hates being outdone. Her parties are
legendary, and she has no intension of being knocked from her throne.

The bar
consumes an entire corner of the great room. It’s illuminated with candles and
small pot lights that showcase glass cabinets filled with an assortment of
expensive-looking crystal glasses and stone sculptures. An attractive young man
stands behind the counter, his suit starched stiff, making him look like a
penguin. I lean over the bar, inquiring about martinis, my voice straining to
be heard above the chatter. “Any kind you wish,” he says, flashing a smile
containing more teeth than should fit into one mouth.

“Candy
apple martini,” I say, Mrs. Maples coming to mind. “But not the sour kind.”

Bar boy
nods. “And you, officer?” He ogles Karen’s barely-contained boobs.

Karen
leans forward, giving him a better appreciation of her finer points. “Corona
with lime, please and thank you.”

Man, her
husband has no idea what he’s missing.

With drinks
in hand, we scan the room. People have put great effort into looking the part,
most in elaborate costumes. I watch a tall fellow in a pirate outfit talking to
a group of people with an animated hand and one hook flying every which way.
The group consists of an extra-large Fred Flintstone, Obi-Wan from
Star Wars
, and a doctor and nurse, a
couple. To our left a knight is involved in a heated conversation with a lanky
woman dressed like Wonder Woman. The man holds his sword outward, demonstrating
its advantages, and Wonder Woman, lasso coiled, stands with both sets of
knuckles on her hips, impatiently waiting to get a word in.

Everywhere
I look waiters filter through the room with trays of shots and fancy pastries.
As one approaches, pausing to serve several shots to a boisterous woman in a
witch costume, I gently place my almost full martini onto the tray.

“It’s much
too strong.” I can feel myself becoming light-headed already.

“Let’s
flaunt our stuff,” declares Karen. She leads the way through the crowd,
chatting as we go. Most of the people look to be from out of town, but I
recognize a few locals: Manny and his wife Loraine from down the road, the
Fedwicks
, dressed in matching ghost attire. Henry is here,
the chef from the corner bistro. I don’t know his wife’s name, but she’s beside
him dressed as a baby, diaper and all. Mostly couples. A lot of frowns and
soppy eyes. Just wonderful.

Karen
talks while I survey the room, admiring the architecture. The house was custom
built in the sixties for some European nickel tycoon, or so I’ve heard. The
attention to detail is impressive. One end of the room boasts the largest
fireplace I’ve ever seen, surrounded by intricate woodwork and glossy black
granite. An elegant antique mirror crowns the mantle framed by two ornate
statues of dancing women. Along a never-ending wall are three sets of French
doors. Beyond them the night is dark so I can’t see out, but I’m inclined to
think they lead to a beautiful patio oasis. Everything is layered in textured
shades of creamy ivory, and the walls are Venetian plaster, heavily rubbed to
shine like marble.

I expected
Bryce’s home to be littered with modern pieces and showy man-cave stuff, but
it’s not. Sure, there is a lot of open space not yet filled, but his
possessions are obviously historical pieces gathered from around the world,
both elegant and unique, and I’m surprised.

I take it
all in, Belle in the Beast’s castle.

Bryce
sweeps into the room, smiling, aiming straight for us, I think. Guest’s stop
him every few steps to chat. I find myself fidgeting, which pisses me off. He’s
well dressed in a cultured black suit and crisp white shirt, opened to reveal a
purple silk scarf stylishly folded and pinned with a diamond-encrusted emblem.
Over the suit, draped on his back and clipped at the neckline, is a black satin
cape with blood-red silk lining. His handsome features are highlighted by
slicked hair and pale makeup, making him every bit the regal vampire he’s meant
to be.
He’s got a glass of bubbly in each hand.

“At last,”
he says, coming to stand beside Karen and me. “I’m so pleased you could make
it.” He leans in to kiss Karen on each cheek as she mumbles words of gratitude,
and I wonder, for a split second, why she gets kisses and I don’t.

Bryce
turns to me. “For you,” he says and grins, handing me a glass.

Am I so
pathetic he thinks I need alcohol? “Thanks,” I say, slightly agitated. I wait
for the words of sympathy, the condolences, but they don’t come.

“If you’re
anything like me,” he says, “empty hands make you nervous.” His sly smile
reveals two dangerous teeth
.

I’m not
entirely sure what to make of this guy. I’ve dated men with more money than
class, good-looking guys with the confidence to approach a pretty,
self-sufficient girl without fear of rejection. They usually had egos the size
of mountains and rough hands. Not the manual labor kind.

“Thank
you,” I repeat, wondering for the umpteenth time why he insisted I come to this
party . . . and why I came.

Karen
mumbles something about a costume malfunction as she fumbles with the buttons
on her jacket. Everything looks fine to me, but she says she needs to find the
ladies’ room and slinks away before Bryce can offer directions, leaving me
alone with him beside the fire.

I make a
mental note to thank Karen later. And kick her in the ass.

“Vampires
have a long history,” Bryce says, maneuvering his cape like a bat wing. His
face glows, dancing with the flames of the fire. “They date back almost four
thousand years. Ancient tribal traditions speak of living sorcerers, immortals capable
of absorbing one’s life-essence or chi. These magicians didn’t rise from a
grave or suck blood, but the end result was the same. Over time, the word
vampire evolved to a catch-all phrase encompassing a variety of creatures, some
based on tribal traditions, most on modern imagination.”

I’m blown
away. Some of this I’ve read before. A lot of my books cover vampire folklore.
But I’ve never met anyone else who has read this stuff.

“No one
told Stoker.” I teeter on my toes, searching the mirror for his reflection.

Bryce
clears his throat with a raspy chuckle. “Folkloric vampires have little in
common with literary vampires. Vampire myths exist throughout all of Eastern
and Central Europe and references abound in scripture as old as documented
time. In fact, the word vampire is found in hundreds of languages, most
deriving from the Turkic word, witch.” He swigs the last of his champagne,
oblivious to my shocked expression.

“Perfect
choice,” he says, staring at my costume.

I feel the
need to explain. “I’m a fairy. An Irish fairy, to be precise.”

“The
Tuatha
Dé
Danaan
,”
he says, matter-of-factly.

Bubbly
drizzles down my chin.

“The
Tuatha
Dé
Danaan
,”
he says, “are remembered as myth, folklore, and are a perfect example of how
ancient history predating the written word has been twisted and misinterpreted
throughout the ages, making it impossible to distinguish fact from fiction.”

I can’t
tell if he’s serious. “Most of the books I’ve read paint the
Tuatha
Dé
Danaan
as mythical creatures who guard the passage to the underground, to the land of
the
fae
.” I peer at my gold tights and shoes. “And
look like this.”

“Today the
Tuatha
Dé
are an important
part of Irish mythology, their story always evolving. But what if, thousands of
years ago, the
Tuatha
Dé
were mere mortals, migrating people from an advanced civilization displaced by
a great flood or catastrophe? What if they were people no different than you
and I?” He leans in to whisper in my ear. “Who knows, maybe you’re a direct
descendant? The
Tuatha
Dé
were tall women and men with fair red hair and pale skin, and your stunning
green eyes are a dead giveaway.”

I suddenly
feel like a stranger in my own skin. My hair is dark but my mother was a red
head.

“The wings
are cute though.” A devious smile plays on his lips. “You ought to be careful
tonight. The vast majority believe the
Tuatha
Dé
Danaan
were sensual beings.
You may get hit on something fierce.”

I scan the
room, feeling somewhat targeted. No one is looking in my direction. No one but
Bryce.

“I’ll be
your white knight and protect you from the demons that lurk,” he murmurs in my
ear.

I laugh
but my heart is not in it. Who will save me from Bryce Waters?