HDA - Living in Darkness Trilogy - Pt 2 - The Search

Even the air smelled like home. Energy surged through her the minute her feet touched the ground. At last...she was home. The sky held an afterglow from sunset, turning church spires and office buildings into black silhouettes.

“It is beautiful here.”

She glanced at her sister. “Yes, it is.”

“My ladies.”

“Yes, Stirling?”

“Your car is waiting.”

She nodded and adjusted the hood of the specially made cloak further over her face more out of habit than necessity. “Lead the way, Stirling.”

The silver-haired man led them a long silver grey limousine with heavily tinted windows and opened the back door. The two women climbed into the warm interior and Stirling closed the door with a solid thunk. As always, he would sit up front with the chauffeur.

Fiala Quirin settled in her seat, pushed the hood back, then glanced at the newspapers on the leather seat beside her. She’d been gone for a very long time and she wanted to catch up on local events. Her sister, Eva stared out the window. “How could you ever have left here?”

“It was necessary at the time.” Fiala said, staring at nothing in particular. Like now, she thought. It had ben necessary for them to leave their home in Scotland to avoid risking exposure. Fiala shuddered. God forbid, that Eva would be forced to endure that kind of exposure. She trusted Stirling implicitly but decided she needed to get around to asking him exactly what had led to the situation they’d been forced to flee from.

Fiala unfolded the current newspaper and froze. ‘Vampire Killing in Old Princely Court’ blared the headline. Fiala, stunned, quickly scanned the front page article. She quietly refolded the paper, then tapped on the smoked glass partition. “Stirling.”

The partition slid down into the seat’s back. “Yes, Madame?” he asked, his British accent making him sound quite old-world.

“There has been a change in plans. Tell Walter to go to the Bucaresti Hotel.”

“Yes, of course.” The partition slid back up, leaving Fiala and Eva in solitude once again.

Eva frowned. “I thought—“

Fiala shook her head and started to hand Eva the paper. “Wait. You don’t read Romanian. A girl was found murdered and Dorian Thayer is blamed.”

Eva’s dark eyes widened. “Not your---“

“I doubt it. He would never be so foolish.”

Eva looked confused. “Then who is this person they blame for the girl’s death?”

“Not Dorian Thayer.”

Eva cleared her throat carefully. “Fiala, it’s been a long time.”

Fiala shook her head. “Dorian would never do that. And he would never stay at the manor. He had his own place.”

Eva just nodded. “So we return to Scotland?”

“No.” Fiala gave Eva a gentle smile. “In time we would have been discovered and that would be disastrous.”

Eva sighed. “How can you bear it?”

Fiala looked down at her gloved hands, the gloves of the same material as the cloak. “Sometimes painfully.” How many years, she thought errantly. No, she’d stopped counting. It had gotten too depressing, keeping track of birthdays and special occasions. A young naive girl once, she’d oft dreamed of traveling. “Sometimes I get so tired.”

Eva rested her head on the other woman’s shoulder. “I shall miss it.”

“Scotland?” asked Fiala quietly, a note of indulgence in her voice.

“Not really. I can’t ever call you mother again.”

Fiala touched Eva’s cheek. “And I shall miss my wonderful daughter.” There was silence as it grew darker outside, as the sun began to set behind the old buildings.

The limousine pulled in front of the Bucaresti Hotel. Fiala wanted to hurry and get out but she waited for Stirling. He opened her door and helped her out, then assisted Eva. “I shall unload your luggage, my ladies.”

“Thank you, Stirling.” Fiala strode to the double front doors with Eva by her side, neither bothering with hoods now for the night was cold and dark, lit only by a sliver of a moon. Although Eva had been adopted as a young child, the resemblance between the two women was uncanny—same mahogany hair worn to their waist, same dark eyes. The doorman opened the door and they walked in.

“Wanda? It’s bloody good to see you.”

Fiala turned to see a middle-aged man walk towards her. By the gods, what was he still doing in Bucaresti? She smiled and let him kiss her on each cheek. “Hello, Percival. I was not aware I looked that much like my mother.”

Percival Berkeley-Smythe took a startled step back. “My God, Fiala?”

“Yes. And this is my sister, Eva.”

Percival nodded, still looking somewhat dazed. “And how is your mother?”

Fiala found it still hurt, losing her. “She died five years ago.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry.”

Fiala stepped around him, patting his hand as she and Eva headed for the front desk. “It’s all right, Percival.” She felt the sudden urge to cry. By the gods, she missed her. “Forgive me but we need to check in.”

The British Ambassador sighed. “You look so much like her. You must be abour Mira’s age.”

Mira? Ahh, Miranda. Fiala smiled. “I guess I am. How is your family?”

“As well as can be expected, my dear.”

Fiala held back a sigh, telling herself not to ask. Some internal imp made her do it anyway. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing much. Back in the summer, at Mira’s suggestion, I’d hired a man. He didn’t come into work today. She thinks it’s because of an argument they had last night. My daughter tends to be too trusting,” he added, his tone suddenly bitter.

“I see.” Nothing much indeed, thought Fiala. She saw Walter lug in their suitcases. “If you’ll excuse us, Percival.”

“I’m rather concerned myself,” he continued absently as if he hadn’t heard her. “Kurt Varick is a born diplomat, knowing exactly what to say in any given situation. It’s a wonder some other embassy hasn’t snapped him---“

Fiala had started to walk away but the name made her spin around. “What did you say?”

Percival blinked at her tone. “I said I was rather—“

“The name. You mentioned a name.”

“Oh. Kurt Varick. He’s—“

“Excuse me.”

Percival watched her and her sister walk away. Apparently Wanda hadn’t bothered to teach her daughters any manners. With a shake of his head, he stalked out of the front doors of the hotel.

“Stirling.” Fiala tapped him on the shoulder as he came in. “I need you to find someone for me. You can leave the footwork to Walter.”

“Of course, madame. Who is it?”

“Kurt Varick.”

Stirling gave a start, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Madame...pardon me, but Kurt Varick has been dead for over two hundred and fifty years.”

“Exactly.” She smiled and gestured to the luggage. “We’ll tend to this. Please....find out all you can.”

Stirling nodded, signaled to Walter and they left the hotel. Fiala and Eva checked in, then followed a bellhop to their corner suite on the third floor. After the bellhop deposited the bags jsut inside the door and Eva tipped him, Fiala closed the heavy drapes on all the windows, even though it was full dark outside now. Then finally, she shed her cloak. Eva did the same.

Eva glanced over at the woman she now called sister. “Is something wrong?”

“No, Eva, right now, I’m just feeling my age.”

*****

29 October 2003

Bucaresti, Romania

6:49 pm

The incessant banging finally roused him.

Joe squinted groggily at his alarm clock. Seven-oh-two—morning or night, he wondered. He caught sight of darkness through the gap in the curtains. Where was he anyway? What had awakened him? The knocking continued. Right. Someone was at the door. What day was it? Joe pushed himself off the bed, feeling grungy. Where was the door? Oh. There. Joe scrubbed his face with both hands to wake himself up. Why ws it so hot in here? He yanked open the door to see a broad-shouldered man with a crooked nose, his fist up to beat the door again. Joe frowned. “Yeah?”

“Kurt Varick?”

Who the hell was....oh. “Uh, yeah. Who’s asking?”

“Come on.”

Instinct kicked in and Joe shoved the door right in the man’s face but the man kicked it back, knocking Joe on the floor. It registered somewhere in his foggy brain, that was not good. “Come quietly. Madame wishes to see you.”

Madame? An image of a middle-aged woman who owned a brothel and had dozens of luscious exotic beauties popped into his head. “I wouldn’t have thought prostitution was that big a business here.”

The man’s face went blank for a moment, then he shook his head. “Not that kind of madame. Come.”

What other kind of madame could there be? Hmm, an intriguing thought. Joe got to his feet. “I can’t go like this. I need a shower.”

“No time.” Walter ran a hand over his short dark hair. “Freshen up at the sink.”

Joe started for the kitchen. Waking up a little at a time, he remembered why it was so hot. “Let me turn off the heater first.”

The man shrugged. “Fine.”

Whatever had possessed him to switch the heater on high? God, it was stifling in here. He pulled off the long-sleeved shirt and yanked a clean one out of the basket of laundry he’d washed and dried nearly a week ago and had yet to fold. He shook the wrinkles out and slipped it on. “You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name but I don’t know yours.” He splashed water on his face, then dried off with a clean wrinkled towel, feeling a bit more human.

The man grunted, rolled his shoulders. “Walter Trujillo. Happy?”

“Exceedingly.” Joe was awake now and feeling better. “So does this madame have a name?” A part of him doubted the wisdom of going with this guy unarmed but there was no way he could get his gun and not

cause a fight. Although he felt better, he was in no mood or condition for a brawl. Anyway, on the surface, he didn’t seem affiliated with Thayer. And hell, he was curious about this madame.

“Fiala Quirin.”

“Never heard of her.”

Walter arched an eyebrow at him. “You wouldn’t know her.”

Joe didn’t like the way the man had said that. He pocketed his keys, wished he could grab his gun but it was down at the bottom of his suitcase in the closet since he’d had no viable reason to pack the Beretta all over town and risk problems. “What do you mean?”

Walter just motioned to him. “Come on.”

Joe threw his hands up in exasperation, then locked the door to his apartment as they left. “You’re a real chatterbox, Walter. You’re talking my ear off here.”

“Come,” said Walter at the foot of the stairs.

“See?” Joe hurried down the stairs and followed Walter out the door, only to skid to a halt. “Whoa. Can I borrow this baby sometime?” Joe patted the roof of the silver limousine. “How’s it run?”

Walter sighed and headed around to the driver’s side. “Get in.”

“Hey, don’t I get the royal treatment?”

Walter just looked at him for a long moment. Joe sighed and got in on his own. The back seat was supple grey leather. Nice. Walter lowered the smoke colored glass partition halfway. “Liquor cabinet is on your left. Ice is in the cooler.” He smiled and Joe decided then that some people just weren’t meant to smile. “Enjoy the ride, Varick.” Walter raised the partition completely and started the limousine.

Joe frowned, getting a very bad feeling about all this. There wasn’t a cement factory near the Dimbovita River,was there? He shifted in the seat and glanced out the window,noting the dark tint on the windows. Who owned this vehicle? he wondered as the limousine moved smoothly through the traffic.

Outside the window, he spotted an elegant sign and blinked. Bucaresti Hotel? That was the snazziest place in town. Joe frowned. Who was this Fiala Quirin anyway and what did she want with him? He got out of the vehicle as it stopped, joining Walter on the sidewalk. “Lead the way,” he said grandly.

Walter snorted, rolled his shoulders again and walked inside, toward a bank of elevators. “This way.”

Joe had a sudden flash of the old Aerosmith-Run DMC song, Walk This Way, and nearly groaned. He squared his shoulders and ran a hand over his hair, making sure it wasn’t sticking up anywhere. He joined Walter inside the elevator. Walter pressed the button for the third floor and the elevator launched smoothly upward.

“So who is Fiala Quirin?” asked Joe, squelching the lyrics of Love in an Elevator in his head. Then he changed his mind. Maybe the song would help him forget about his queasy stomach, which seemed to lurch in rhythm with the elevator.

Walter just stared straight ahead. The elevator halted and the doors parted. Walter led the way to a corner suite and knocked on the door. The door swung open. A man in his mid-sixties with piercing black eyes that for a second, at least to Joe, looked strangely familiar. “Madame is waiting,” he said coldly. “This way, please.”

Joe held back a sigh. At least the jukebox esconced in his head had shut up. He followed the older man to another door. The man tapped once, then opened the door. “Madame Quirin.”

Joe walked inside to find a room with the drapes closed, the only light coming from dozens of candles. The scene kicked up another song in his head, this one vintage Meatloaf.

“Who are you?” asked an exotic voice barely above a whisper.

“You should know. Your chauffeur knew my name.”

“You are not Kurt Varick. Kurt Varick died two hundred and fifty seven years ago,” came the voice again from a chair in a darkened corner. Snatches of a music video flickered in his head. Maybe not so vintage Meatloaf.

“So you say.”

The owner of that voice stood and walked toward him. “Because I know.”

The woman had dark hair that glinted red in the candlelight and brown eyes that glittered gold. She didn’t look much older than thirty. Joe folded his arms across his chest and arched an eyebrow. “And your point is?”

“You are not Kurt Varick. Why do you take his name?”

“I’m a descendant of his.” Joe’s brain finally kicked in. How could she possibly know all this. Unless she was a descendant.

“Not so. Kurt had no family when he died.”

Joe frowned at the odd way she said it as if she’d known the man personally. But that was impossible. “Oh. When did he die?”

“Seventeen-sixty-three.”

Joe blinked, surprised. “How do you know?”

She came closer, studied him for a long moment. “His eyes were not blue as yours.” She shook her head. “Who lives in the estate east of the city?”

“Dorian Thayer.”

She took a step back. “No.”

“You know him, too?”

“The man who resides there at the present, are you a compatriot?”

What an odd question, he thought, then noted this entire conversation was rather odd. He cleared his throat. “Of him? No.”

His stance, his tone told her more than the words. He despised the man who lived in her manor. “Good.” Fiala stepped closer, laid her hand on his arm. “Then you shall be mine.”

This close he saw her hair was a rich dark auburn, her eyes more gold than brown, her skin was cool and dry and she smelled faintly spicy. In a distant sort of way, he realized why she seemed familiar. The face was more heartshaped and smaller but she made him think of Casi. He blinked. Had it really been only this morning that he’d seen her? “Now wait a minute,” he began hoarsely.

“What’s this?” Fiala demanded, suddenly seeing the marks on his neck.

Joe stepped back. “Nothing.”

Fiala walked to the table next to the chair, then came back to hand him a newspaper. Joe had picked up enough Romanian to translate the headline. He scowled and handed her the paper. “So?”

Fiala studied him, searched for the signs. It confused her that there were none. “It is no coincidence.”

No, shit, thought Joe. He focused on the nearest candle and took a deep breath. “I have to go.”

“Wait.”

He glanced over at her, felt his stomach lurch. It was hard to look at her and not relive every moment, every argument he’d had with Casi. He swallowed hard. “What?”

“We shall join forces.” She tossed the paper toward the fireplace and stepped forward and touched his arm again, tightening her hand on his wrist, touching his pulse. She glanced down at his wrist and frowned.

“No. I work alone.” The pressure on his wrist made him look down. He could feel the sluggish, weak beat and for a moment, it scared him. He tried to pull away put she wouldn’t release his wrist. Instead with her free hand, she turned his face to hers, then touched the wounds with a light finger.

Fiala’s frown deepened. The pulse was sluggish, the wounds were searing hot, not a good sign. He could even die. “That is not wise. You may regret it.”

“Thayer’s dangerous.”

Fiala smiled carefully. “So am I.”

For a second, Joe forgot to breathe. He didn’t doubt that. He took a breath, forced himself to concentrate. “I work alone,” he said again, his voice hard.

“So determined. You like playing with fire, don’t you.” Fiala walked to the fireplace, stopping to pick up the paper. She tossed the newspaper into the fireplace and stood there a moment,watching the flames begin to devour the paper. She turned around slowly. “One day you will get burned.”

Silhouetted against the growing flames, he saw that her hair hung past her hips. She was slender and on the petite side, clad in a simple dress. Joe cleared his throat. “Is that a threat?” he asked.

“An observation.” She came close to him again, close enough for him to finally pinpoint her scent. It was cinnamon. She touched his neck, lightly brushed the wounds, then pulled his head down. She stood on tiptoe and touched her red-tinted lips to his.

Frozen with surprise, Joe felt a shock as her cool lips met his. Reflex overrode thought and he kissed her back. After all, she was beautiful and looked so much like Casi....and she tasted of cinnamon and apples.

Fiala pulled back and let go of him. She knew it now. He had not been touched. Joe gave her a confused look and took a deep breath. “What---I mean, why?”

“You needed it.”

That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “I’d better go.” He started for the door, then glanced back at her. “And the answer’s still no.”

“Wait.” Fiala came up to him. “No man is an island.” She searched his face. “Nor is he wholly self-sufficient.” She touched his cheek. “You have trouble trusting people, why is that?”

For some bizarre reason, he flashed to seven months ago when he’d first met Cassidy, Casi’s friend at Castle MacFairlaigne. The way she’d told him he shouldn’t always believe only what he saw. He shook his head slowly. “Because it hurts,” he said barely audible. He blinked, startled. He’d never intended to say that out loud.

She cocked her head to one side. “And who do you trust when you can’t trust yourself?”

Joe gave her a shocked look and had to clamp his jaw shut to keep from blurting out the answer. Casi. He trusted her. “I’m leaving.”

Fiala didn’t want him to leave yet. “Wait. You must be ravenous. Have supper with me.”

His stomach rumbled loudly in the quiet room. “Why?”

“You are intriguing. I like intriguing.”

Joe’s hand dropped from the doorknob. It wasn’t as if he had anything pressing. “All right.”

She rang a small bell and another door opened. “Yes, madame?”

“Ahh, Maria, set another place for supper.”

“Of course, madame.” Maria sketched a half-bow and left, closing the door behind her.

Joe stayed where he was. He half-reached for the doorknob. “I really should go.”

She stretched out a hand, her brown eyes suddenly haunted and intense. “Stay. Please. Tell me your sorrows...your joys...your---“

“Fiala, supper is prepared.”

Joe turned and for a heartbeat thought he was seeing double.

Fiala nodded. “Of course, Eva. Come....Kurt, let us eat.”

Joe shook his head, suddenly feeling threatened. He wasn’t sure why, both women seemed harmless. He was being irrational. “Maybe another time,” he said shortly and left.

*****

29 October 2003

Bucaresti, Romania

7:02 pm

It was a dark night, barely lit by a scattering of dim stars and a crescent moon. The wind was cold as it whipped around her, tugging at her hair and clothes. Casi hadn’t really intended on spending the afternoon with Sonja or telling the girl her life history. She glanced at the map Sonja had given her, then looked up and around. She caught sight of a wrought-iron gate. Was it the British Embassy she was supposed to look for?

“Good evening.”

Cassandra spun around and promptly forgot to breathe. The doorman had called him a wraith but this close, wraith or not, she could see he was gorgeous—and appeared to be very real. He bowed low, like an old-world gentleman. The wind tugged at his long black cape, the inner lining glinting blood red in the darkness. “I am Dorian Thayer,” he said softly, his deep voice faintly accented.

Casi reminded herself to breathe. “I....know.”

“Yes....You saw me last night.” His hand hovered at her chin but didn’t touch her. His dark eyes seemed to see inside her. “And I saw you.”

Casi found herself looking for fangs, then she snapped out of her daze. “I have to go.”

“Stay...please. Tell me, what is your name?”

What were the old wives’ tales? wondered Casi. You didn’t give a lock of hair to a wizard, you didn’t invite a vampire into your house—what else? Casi cleared her throat. “Cassandra MacFairlaigne.”

“Cassandra....yes....”

They were only a few steps away from the Embassy now. Casi felt relief—until Dorian touched her wrist. His hand was cool and paper dry. She stared at his hand, felt her pulse speed up. “Did you kill her?” she blurted out.

“A vampire killed her....Cassandra.” His long pale fingers tightened around her wrist. With his free hand, he tilted her chin up until she had to look at him. “Do you believe I am a vampire?”

“I—“ She swallowed hard as his cool hand slid down the length of her jaw, touched the pulse at her neck. Vampires did not exist, she thought fiercely. “No.”

Dorian smiled and continued sliding his hand along her skin, until he stopped at her throat. “You are very unconvincing...Cassandra. Your body betrays you.” His fingers curved around her throat. “I ask again....Do you believe I am a vampire?”

Casi flashed back to that morning, the wounds on Joe’s neck, the dead girl. A spurt of anger welled up and she snapped, “Blood-sucking undead don’t exist. Vampire wanna-bes are everywhere, though.”

Dorian’s hand on her throat tightened just enough to make her gasp, then he abruptly let go of her. “Believe what you wish....Cassandra. That does not mean that I do not exist.” He stepped away from her, half-turned away.

He didn’t just say what she thought he did, did he? Casi narrowed her eyes. “You’re actually saying you’re--?”

He moved so fast, she had no place to go. The brick wall of the fence surrounding the embassy was at her back. This time she did see fangs and fear wiped out all other thought as he came closer. “No—“

Dorian Thayer slammed his hands against the brick, imprisoning her within the space of his arms. His dark head swooped down, the hair brushing her jaw. She felt hot breath on her bare neck, felt the barest touch of his lips, his teeth on her skin. She felt more than heard him say, “Yes...”

Casi pressed against the rough brick, trying to get away but with his arms placed on either side of her, kept her caged. “Don’t...” she whispered, as she felt a sharp pressure against her neck. This couldn’t be happening---

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.