Tears of Blood (The Blood Chronicles) (3 page)

“Attributes?” The unfamiliar word hung heavily in his mouth, and he felt decidedly drunk. He staggered backwards and his spinning mind briefly registered the champagne glass toppling from the ledge and crashing to his feet.

“Yes, attributes.” Declan repeated with slow and deliberate ease, one long finger tapping at the slight cleft in his chin. His eyes narrowed, the dark pupils growing each passing second. “Pardon me, I forget your English might not be as I expect. Perhaps there’s a simpler word for me to use.”

“You think you can fault my English?” Numb, Amado repeated the words dangling. “My English is not so bad I cannot understand what you say. I ‘ave lived in this country long enough, and I know what I ‘ear!”

“Ah, dear Amado Gianni, poor little immigrant disguised in the façade of a skillful actor and lover.” Declan sneered smoothly. “With your looks, you could bring many to our side. Use your charisma, and your delicious accent, and those unsuspecting darlings of humanity will fall into your arms.”

Amado didn't bother replying, realizing Declan made him feel he lingered on an obscene precipice. Defiantly lifting his chin, and attempted to ignore the stuttering beat of his heart. Frightened, he wanted to return to the overcrowded ballroom, mentally assuring himself there’d be safety in numbers.

Unfortunately, it appeared the moments were ticking by at a speed defying reason. Amado’s world spun, the sensation resembling the effects of a Hollywood party stupor, his numb skin tingling. Incapable of catching a breath, he heard only the man’s silky enticement in his mind.

“Come.” Declan beseeched, nearing his motionless body. As he drew closer, Amado's gaze filled with the image of startling pale flesh, nearly classical in shape. Vaguely, he thought the man was haunting beautiful, entranced by eyes that were an all-consuming black. “Join me.”

“Join?” Amado could barely mutter the word, those eyes sucking the very ability to speak from him.

“Say it.” His hands rose, the long and supple fingers lying on the actor's shoulders. Amado shuddered, incapable of holding back the betraying sign of fear, and an unmentionable coldness seeped through his jacket. “Say it, repeat the word.”

“What word?”

“Tell me yes.” Declan’s wintry breath fanned over Amado's heated skin. “I’ll grant you everything, if you do so. Join me, and you won't suffer the ridicule destined to befall you.”

The offer was tempting, but a part of Amado's mind screamed in protest. He wanted to run, and leave this man behind, forgetting the temptations of his seductive proposal. Unable to move, his body frozen in place, his thoughts slowed with each tardy heartbeat.

“Join my ranks, Gerino.” Balthazar crooned. “I can guarantee you everything you long for. I can offer life, beauty, youth, all the women you could love, and eternity.”

Staring into those fathomless eyes, an inner part of him screamed
No!
Not a word slipped from his lips, and his lethargy increased ten-fold. Seconds passed, perhaps minutes, the silence only broken by the echo of Mamie Paul singing.

The actor, his entire life spread before him, divorce papers still neatly folded in his breast pocket, felt his knees begin to buckle. His tormentor’s hands held him upright, a morbid chuckle escaping him as he bent forward. His black hued eyes glowed with an eerie redness, flickering where the pupil should have been, as his mouth opened wide.

“
Si
….”

He couldn’t control the single word that slipped from him, unseen fingers pulling his agreement from the depths of his soul. A low groan of horror escaped Amado, but he was unable to scream, frozen into place by the cruel meaning evident in Declan Balthazar’s gaze and the long canines declaring the man's intent.

Chapter One

The crowded living room of the apartment echoed with curses, a few harsh, others muttered. Despite the tone, Meghan heard the underlying similarity in each blasphemy. Hopelessness, disgust, and tears etched the gruff words.

She winced, as the man bang his shin into another end table, upsetting three decade’s worth of collected figurines. The exquisite china wobbled, teetered, and then toppled to the carpeted floor. Thankfully, Meghan didn’t detect the sound of shattering glass, and exhaled a tiny but relieved sigh.

“I c…can’t do this, Miss Stanley,” the elderly man stammered, staggering through the once familiar room. “My wife’s a hoarder, whether she wants to admit it or not. I can’t make it around her ch... chotskies!”

“I don’t hoard, dear. Besides, you’ve always managed.” The woman sobbed, wringing her hands. “We’ve had this stuff since the kids were little, and you’ve never knocked over one before.”

“That was before I lost my damned s…sight!”

She detected the soft little sniffles his wife tried to stifle, and the labored breathing of her latest client. Meghan’s heart ached with the pain he felt, and wished she could make his transition easier. Everything came with an adjustment period, and her professional training taught her she needed to defuse the volatile situation.

He didn’t let her speak, interrupting her in a wobbly voice betraying frustration, anger, and barely concealed tears. “I’m a man! I’m supposed to take care of my wife, and family. I’ve always paid m…my bills on time, went to church every Sunday, and n…never used the Lord’s name in vain. I was good to my neighbors, and did my job with pride. Wh…what did I get in return? The world done gave me a sharp kick in the ass, because I can’t do shit now!”

“You’ll have to learn have faith me, Mr. Stevenson.” She tilted her head toward his voice, her heart aching for the elderly couple.

Meghan lips tightened into a rueful grimace. “No, sir, nor can I see your wife, or those irritating chotskies you’re complaining about, Mr. Stevenson.”

“I’m s…sorry.” He mumbled awkwardly.

“You don’t need to apologize, Mr. Stevenson.” She shrugged as she made the comment. “I lost my sight five years ago. Believe me, if anyone understands, I do.”

“Do you?” He posed skeptically.

“Yes, I do.” She affirmed stubbornly. “I am aware exactly how hard this is and, before you go snapping at your poor wife, you learn to have compassion.”

“I sympathize.” She managed tightly. “But, because of my disability, I can guide you through the problems you might have adjusting.”

“First, we’re going to be working together.” She didn’t know if she could believe the humility she detected. “You can call me Meghan.”

“Your loved ones share in your pain, and your wife is hurting, too!” Meghan supplied quietly and raised her somber eyes to the ceiling.

“How is Shirley s…suffering?” He scoffed irritably, his words nearly an indecipherable garble. “She can s…see just fine!”

“Mrs. Stevenson lives with you, and has to adjust just as much, becoming your eyes and guide!” Meghan’s forehead puckered and, realizing she was close to shouting, she schooled her tone to reflect the calm temperament required. “I know how frustrated you are, but you aren’t solving anything by snapping your poor wife’s head off.”

Mr. Stevenson grew quiet. He scratched at his whiskered jaw, his mouth pulled into a frown. The room was silent apart from the muted and watery sniffles of his wife, and his expression turned contrite.

“I’m s…sorry, Shirley.”

“I know you didn’t mean to shout, George.” Shirley Stevenson murmured, cautiously stepping around Meghan and placing a comforting hand on his chest. “In over forty years, you haven’t raised your voice to me once.”

“I s…swore I never would and I kept it.” Tears filled his eyes. “I can’t imagine what’s come over me…”

“The aneurysm, I suppose,” his wife soothed. She dropped to her knees, picking up the spilled china figurines with one hand. The other, gnarled and twisted with age and arthritis, she kept on her husband’s calf. She paused and placed each of the delicate dolls on the tabletop, her expression sorrowful.

“Mr. Stevenson,” Meghan managed, biting back her own tears. She couldn’t afford to have her client think she was less than capable of managing the situation, or incapable of teaching him how to cope. As a therapist with a nonprofit rehabilitation group offering training, education, and support to the visually impaired of Bentham, New Jersey, she had a job to do. “Your wife is right, Mr. Stevenson. The aneurysm, possibly, changed your general behavior….”

“It changed me, as a man,” he grumbled, the words somewhat slurred. “I learned things I took for granted, all over again. It’s m…mighty damn frustrating to be half the man I used to be, relying on Shirley here to remind me I’m drooling like a s…stupid fool, or only combed half my hair. I ain’t used to none of this!”

“I know you aren’t, Mr. Stevenson,” she soothed. “That’s why I’m here, and I intend to help. Losing your sight is adding to your frustration and, like I said, I empathize.”

“Miss Stanley, I s…still don’t think you do.” He protested. Finding his wife’s hand, he pulled her to her feet. Desperately, he clutched at the limb, pulling it to his lips. After placing a gentle kiss on the papery flesh, he pressed their clasped hands to his heart. “I’ve worked all my life, since I turned thirteen, to provide for me and my family. I never asked for a handout and I’ve never been helpless.”

“You’re not.” Meghan contradicted kindly. “Of course, it seems like that at first…”

“I am, damn it!” He shouted before lowering his voice. “I don’t know how…”

Meghan snorted. “You keep arguing with me, but you’re
not
helpless.”

“How you gonna tell me otherwise?” He grunted stubbornly. “I can’t s…see a damn thing and c…can’t even walk around my own house.”

“George, I don’t mind…”

“That’s not the point, Shirley,” he muttered curtly. “I promised, when we married, to take c…care of you. Hell, I c…can’t do much now.”

Wistfully, Meghan eavesdropped to the gentle and affectionate words flowing from him. His love for his wife was obvious, and she envied them. Secretly, she wished she’d found a love similar to the one they shared, enduring, and everlasting, but she hadn’t had any luck.

George Stevenson was right though, she mused. Sometimes, despite how good of a person was, life kicked them in the ass.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson,” she interrupted, detecting Shirley’s breathy little sobs. “We need to sit and talk.”

“Great,” George snorted again and felt for his well-worn easy chair. Huffing, he plopped into the seat, the vinyl protesting loudly. “I c...can s...still find my TV chair and run my mouth like the next man. I might as well throw the recliner on the porch, though, s…seeing as I’m not going to be watching the games anymore.”

Meghan shook her head, her long blond hair cascading over her shoulders. She waited for Mrs. Stevenson to perch on a sofa cushion before she felt for her own seat. Settling comfortably into a worn armchair, she turned and faced the direction of their joint breathing. “You can listen to the TV the same way as you used to watch it.”

Meghan grimaced, the mere mention of the sport causing her to shudder. Familiar with the basic rounds of football, she could have kicked herself for using the wrong term. Still, George was speaking halfway civilly, and she wanted to keep up the repertoire.

No,” she confessed sincerely. “I can’t say I ever became interested in the sport. I’m far too busy doing other things than wondering who’s going to the Super Bowl.”