Tantalize (26 page)

In Abraham “Bram” Stoker’s novel
Dracula
(1897), readers meet a hero named Quincey P. Morris, a Texan, described as “a gallant gentleman.” Ultimately, Morris helps destroy Dracula by plunging a bowie knife into his heart as Jonathan Harker cuts Dracula’s head off. Though Morris dies, too, Harker and his wife, Mina, later call their infant son “Quincey” in their late friend’s honor.

Perhaps because I live in Austin, Stoker’s choice of a Texan for one of the novel’s heroes has long intrigued me. Though my mythology and sensibility deviate, the naming of my “Quincie P. Morris” is a tribute to one of Stoker’s original vampire hunters, updated and gender flipped. Quincie became my twenty-first-century hero — a young woman wrestling with an after-school job, first love, and one hell of a drinking problem.

Avid readers may also notice nods to Maurice Sendak, Mary Shelley, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Margaret Mitchell, William Shakespeare, Bob Kane, Edmond Rostand, and particularly Ovid as well as his literary/theatrical/film progeny (from “Pygmalion” to “My Fair Lady” to “Pretty Woman” to “She’s All That”).

Austinites will note that, within the near south and central setting, the novel adds a few streets, businesses, and residences. As tantalizing as it may seem to visit Quincie’s house or swing by Sanguini’s, such locales exist only within these pages.

That’s it for now. Y’all take care.
Adios. Addio.
Good-bye.

To Bud Smith, Niki Burnham, Austin Police
Department Public Information Officer Susan Albrecht,
and Sandy at Austin Independent School District for
answering queries and offering suggestions . . .

to Pubsters, Poddies, and YA Writers for chiming in
on even more research . . .

to Writefest 2004 and 2005 for celebrating
novel writing . . .

to Anne Bustard, Tim Crow,
Sean Petrie, and Greg Leitich Smith for thoughtful
manuscript feedback . . .

to Dianna Hutts Aston for enthusiastic matchmaking
and Ginger Knowlton for enthusiastic agenting . . .

and to Amy Ehrlich for brilliant editorial backup and
Deborah Wayshak for brilliant editing . . .

I’d like to say,
“Grazie!”

I
dream of black-and-blue butterflies, slicing pain, pleasure pounding.

I dream of star flying and soft leather, of drowning, my gums heavy, muscles numb, and throat raw. I’m lost among the tombstones, swallowed by the moon.

“Can’t breathe, can’t breathe,” I whisper, shifting bare-skinned on slippery silk. The room smells of lavender and talcum powder, roses and cigars. A Johnny Cash song plays at low volume. “Can’t . . .”

“You don’t have to, sugar,” answers an unfamiliar masculine voice. “It’s time to open your eyes. We’re all so tickled to meet you.”

I try; I do. It’s hard to form words. It hurts. “Can’t . . .”

“Easy there, drink this,” he says.

I take the straw at my lips. I sink into the salty blackberry warmth, the not-caring place. I don’t know who he is. A doctor, I’d say, but do doctors call you “sugar”? I don’t think so. I’m not anyone’s sugar, anyone’s girl. I hardly have any friends, except —

“Lucy!” My eyes open, and I struggle to sit. “Where’s Lucy?”

The cool hand on mine is reassuring. The other has taken my cup away. The formally dressed man attached to both is movie-star striking, the hollows of his cheeks accented by flickering candlelight from the candelabra in the far corners of the room. His Asian-style chair is pulled to the edge of my iron-framed canopy bed. “Not to fret, your friend is safe. You have my word.”

The room is bigger than Lucy’s entire condo. Heavy pink-and-black-checked drapes cover the arched windows. They match the bedding.

Pink-and-white roses, lilies, and orchids in crystal vases crowd every antique surface. More cascade to the hardwood floor.

My wrists are bruised like I’ve given blood or had a transfusion or been restrained. Or all three.

I’ve gone crazy. It’s the only explanation. This is no average storefront shrink. My parents have sent me to the Club Med of insane asylums. “I’m . . . Who are you?”

“My name is Archibald Mosby Radford, originally of the Virginia Radfords by way of eastern Mississippi, western Oklahoma, and Toronto. According to custom, you’re welcome to call me ‘master’ or ‘majesty’ or ‘father.’ I’d prefer ‘daddy,’ to tell the truth, but I’m sad to say it’s falling out of favor. There’s no need to fuss. You remember me, sugar. I’m the one who saved you that night in the cemetery.”

I remember the cemetery. I remember the light.

“You’ve got what folks these days are calling ‘post-traumatic stress,’” he adds. “It’s like a hangover from what you were before.”

Before I can process that, a matronly woman in an apron appears outside the open doorway. “Pardon me, sir.”

“Quickly, Nora,” the man spits out. “The medicine is wearing off. What’s the trouble?”

“The aristocracy has gathered outside in the snow beneath the windows,” she replies. “They’re waiting to see her. Harrison is handing out blood by the bucket.”

I’m standing. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t care. I like the feel of the bare wood on my bare feet. I’m naked. I don’t care about that either. I hear the blood slipping through the woman’s body, feeding her heart. It’s faster now, the heartbeat.

I’m moving fast. I’m not used to this speed. I slide on a round wool rug and miss my target. The woman. Nora. My palms hit the stone wall, my claw-like fingernails break. My head falls forward, and the impact feels like it cracked my skull.

Liquid snakes through my hair and runs down my cheeks. My tongue darts to taste. It’s my blood I’m drinking.

The woman, Nora, she’s filled with more. Only hers is warm.

Why doesn’t she run? Why do I want her to?

I know the answer, and it stops me in place. On some level, I’ve known since I woke up. All those monster movies Lucy made me sit through. My broken nails. The right pinkie nail is curved and an inch long. I feel my fangs with my fingers and puncture the tip of my tongue on each. Blood rises, salty and seductive.

I recall the radiant man . . . last night . . . was it last night? . . . in the cemetery. Why didn’t the butterflies save me?

No, he saved me. The other one. The doctor? The one with me now. That’s what he said.

A delusion; it’s the most reasonable explanation. I’m sick. That’s why I’ve been checked into this mental hospital.

Suddenly I’m caught, tangled and restrained in the black sheet.

“That will be all,” the commanding voice says to Nora.

She turns to leave. “Charming child. I look forward to knowing her better.”

Both of their voices carry a trace of the South. Not Texas, but . . .

I force out the questions because I need to hear the answers. “Where am I? What have you done to me?”

“I’ve taken care of you, made sure your elevation was as protected as it could be. Sugar, you’ve been spared the spiraling moods, the paranoia and indignity, the cramps and shooting pain. The erratic and unpredictable behavior. Tonight your transformation is behind us.” He leads me to a window, pulls back the drapes. It’s open, but the icy wind is no bother. “Tonight the world is ours.”

Below, a crowd has gathered in the moonlight. Hundreds of jovial bodies, perhaps as many as a thousand, swirling, bobbing. They’re the dead of winter, and they’re dancing in the falling snow. Wind ravages their flowing hair, tosses up their capes and full-length skirts, spreads their draping sleeves like rodent wings. Against the white of the landscape, they swirl in black and red, in gray and violet.

Surveying the scene, I can almost count their eyelashes, the needles of the evergreens. The revelers sing my name, “Miranda!”

“I’ve turned you into a princess,” he explains.

CYNTHIA LEITICH SMITH
is the author of several acclaimed books for younger readers. About
Tantalize,
she says, “I tapped into my romantic nature and my love for monsters and marinara. Hold the garlic and enjoy!” A member of the faculty at the Vermont College MFA program in writing for children and young adults, she lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband, author Greg Leitich Smith.