Authors: Edward Lee
City Infernal (4 page)
“No. That’s the way she wants it for now. And I respect that. I love her.”
Confusion whipped around her.
Then Radu added, “We do ... other things, and that’s fine. I’m sure she’s told you about our arrangement—”
“No,” Cassie said abruptly.
“Oh, I’m sure she has. She even told me that it would be okay. You know. She wouldn’t mind if ...”
“If what?”
“You know. She wouldn’t mind if you and I got together.”
Another, harder jolt. But all Cassie could do was stand there, struck dumb, immobile as if paralyzed in a dream.
Why didn’t she object? Why didn’t she leave right then?
“Come on, I know you’ve always had a thing for me. It’s flattering.”
She just stood there, dazed.
“I’ve always had a thing for you too, but I’m sure you know that.”
He’s
lying,
was her first thought. No one had ever had a “thing” for her, just Lissa, her vivacious alter-ego.
lying,
was her first thought. No one had ever had a “thing” for her, just Lissa, her vivacious alter-ego.
But then the doubts slipped in.
There were no precursory words or gestures, no testing of the waters. He was kissing her at once, and the only thing that shocked her was that she didn’t pull back. It never occurred to her to do so. The moment lit all of her fuses at the same time, longing that had percolated deep inside since puberty. Cassie could almost hear those fuses burning in the core of her soul. She returned the kiss with no reservation.
What am I—
Her skin tingled beneath her black-satin top; his skin, too, felt hot as her hands rubbed up and down his bare back. She didn’t flinch when he pushed the top up and shucked her breasts out of her bra—to the contrary, she was ravenous for more, to be touched more urgently, to be felt, to be wrapped up in him. When he grabbed her hand and pushed it down below his waist, she didn’t pull it away. She only stood higher on her tiptoes, to kiss him harder.
His soft whisper warmed her ear. “You’re a virgin too, aren’t you? Like Lissa?”
She didn’t want to hear her sister’s name now—not at this moment.
“Yes,” she panted back. “But I don’t care. I don’t want to be.”
“I could never take that from you—I wouldn’t,” he said. He seemed so considerate, so sweet. “I’d have to know that you were really sure....”
I’m ready, she thought.
I’ve never felt like this before....
I’ve never felt like this before....
But in her mind, her emotions collided. Guilt tried to ruin the priceless embrace, to put a wrecking ball through a moment that she’d been yearning for for so long.
But then she remembered what he’d told her, that Lissa had said this was all right.
“I’m really sure,” she promised him. “I know I am.”
His eyes penetrated her. “Let’s go over here....” A strong hand urged her toward some boxes in the corner. From his back pocket, he produced a condom. Cassie kissed him one more time, her exposed breasts pressing hotly against his chest. “I want you to do it now, right
now,”
she nearly pleaded.
now,”
she nearly pleaded.
He was just about to lay her down when—
“What are you DOING!”
—Lissa walked in.
Cassie froze. Radu shoved her away as if leprous.
“Lissa, I thought she was you!” he exclaimed. “She came on to me. Honey, I swear—she was pretending to be you!”
Liar!
Cassie wanted to yell, but her voice was lost. She could just lie there across the boxes, frozen in dread.
Cassie wanted to yell, but her voice was lost. She could just lie there across the boxes, frozen in dread.
Rage had contorted Lissa’s face into an incised mask. Bloodshot eyes watched the condom fall to the dusty floor. “Bullshit!” she screamed. The voice sounded hysterical, insane. Inflamed by drugs, alcohol, and now betrayal, Lissa seemed possessed.
“Lissa,” Radu began. “Honey. Calm down—”
“SHUT UP!” Then the twisted face shot to Cassie. “And you, you treacherous BITCH! My own SISTER!”
Cassie’s lips barely worked. “I-I’m sorry,” she peeped. “I—”
Lissa was shaking all over. Her face was hot-pink, her eyes radiating hatred above streaming tears.
“Well to hell with BOTH of you!” the next scream exploded, and in another second she’d unzipped her wrist-purse, removed a small pistol.
“Holy shit!” Radu yelled and turned to run.
BAM!
Cassie screamed, the world falling in on her. The bullet caught Radu right in the back of the skull. He fell flat, face-first. Within seconds, a frightful amount of blood began to halo around his head and shoulders.
Lissa’s red face turned. The gun pointed at Cassie’s face.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Cassie sobbed.
“My own sister....” Lissa’s voice could’ve been a death rattle, and the eyes that looked down already seemed dead. “How could you do this to me?”
Lissa put the pistol to her own temple.
“No!” Cassie screamed and lunged.
She wrapped her arms around Lissa’s shoulders, tried to grab for the gun, when—
BAM !
Lissa collapsed, dead, as Cassie staggered backward, her face and breasts splattered with blood and brain tissue and flecks of splintered bone.
Cassie fell to her knees and screamed until she passed out.
Chapter Two
(I)She shot upright, her heart thumping, skipping beats. Her hands frantically dragged up the bedsheets, used them to wipe the blood and brains off her face.
She quavered, the silent cry on her lips, and then fell back into the pillows. Her heartbeat paced down; she looked at the bedsheets.
No blood.
No brains.
Just the curse of memory.
Two long years and the nightmare still marauded her at least once a week.
Better than every night,
she reminded herself, which had been the case until they’d moved out here. After Lissa’s suicide, Cassie’s mental troubles had compounded, not just the recurring nightmare, but further introversion, two failed suicide attempts of her own, and a month in a private psychiatric hospital where the regimen of psychotropic drugs had reduced her to a stumbling zombie. The scars on her slim wrists were the only tangible results. Group therapy, hypnotic-regression, and narco-analysis had also failed. Ironically, it had been her father’s idea to break away from all of that. “To hell with all these crackpot doctors and drugs,” he’d said one day several months ago. “Let’s just get out of the city, get out of this shark-tank. Maybe that’ll be the best medicine for both of us.” Cassie had no reason to object, and with that, her father, the rather famous William F. Heydon, controlling partner of the third most successful law firm in the country, quit his influential—and very lucrative—post with a single one-sentence letter of resignation. The jurisprudential power circles in D.C. had experienced the legal equivalent of a
grand mal
seizure, and her father never went back to the firm again. Clearly, the two minor heart attacks and repeated angioplasties had shown him the light. “Every day above ground’s a good day, honey,” he told her. “Don’t know why it took me so long to see that. We’ve got everything we need. Besides, I’m sick of the chauffeur, I’m sick of lunch every day at the Mayflower, and the Redskins suck. Who needs this town?”
Better than every night,
she reminded herself, which had been the case until they’d moved out here. After Lissa’s suicide, Cassie’s mental troubles had compounded, not just the recurring nightmare, but further introversion, two failed suicide attempts of her own, and a month in a private psychiatric hospital where the regimen of psychotropic drugs had reduced her to a stumbling zombie. The scars on her slim wrists were the only tangible results. Group therapy, hypnotic-regression, and narco-analysis had also failed. Ironically, it had been her father’s idea to break away from all of that. “To hell with all these crackpot doctors and drugs,” he’d said one day several months ago. “Let’s just get out of the city, get out of this shark-tank. Maybe that’ll be the best medicine for both of us.” Cassie had no reason to object, and with that, her father, the rather famous William F. Heydon, controlling partner of the third most successful law firm in the country, quit his influential—and very lucrative—post with a single one-sentence letter of resignation. The jurisprudential power circles in D.C. had experienced the legal equivalent of a
grand mal
seizure, and her father never went back to the firm again. Clearly, the two minor heart attacks and repeated angioplasties had shown him the light. “Every day above ground’s a good day, honey,” he told her. “Don’t know why it took me so long to see that. We’ve got everything we need. Besides, I’m sick of the chauffeur, I’m sick of lunch every day at the Mayflower, and the Redskins suck. Who needs this town?”
“But what about all your friends at the firm?” she’d asked, and he just laughed back. “There’s no such thing as
friends
in a law firm, Cassie, just more sharks who’d stab you in the back without a second’s thought. I wish I could be there to see them fight over the big piece of raw meat I leave in their laps. I’ll bet those blood-suckers are even fighting over my office chair.”
friends
in a law firm, Cassie, just more sharks who’d stab you in the back without a second’s thought. I wish I could be there to see them fight over the big piece of raw meat I leave in their laps. I’ll bet those blood-suckers are even fighting over my office chair.”
It was all fine with her; Cassie’s own insecurities had barred her from any real friendships herself. Who would want to hang out with someone perpetually half-dazed by psych drugs anyway? What guy would want to date a “Thorazine Queen?” And the city’s Goth scene was dead to her now.
She knew she could never walk into another Goth club again because they’d only remind her of Lissa.
Her father’s spur-of-the-moment plan had worked. Since the day they’d moved into Blackwell Hall—a month ago now—her emotions seemed to start balancing out. The nightly dream of her sister’s death reduced its recurrence to a weekly basis. The dread of seeing her psychiatrist evaporated; she didn’t go to her any more. Release from the battery of anti-depressants and other psycho-pharmaceuticals rejuvenated her to a degree she found astonishing.
She felt alive, vibrant, more so than she could remember.
Maybe things will really work out,
she thought.
Maybe I’ll get past this, and have a real life some day.
she thought.
Maybe I’ll get past this, and have a real life some day.
She was learning quickly that one step at a time was the best way to handle things.
She slid out of the high, four-poster bed, drew the heavy drapes, and immediately shielded her eyes. The harsh sunlight seemed to barge into the room. She opened the French doors and sighed at the caress of fresh air. Standing on the balcony in only panties and bra left her with no reservations.
Who’s going to see?
In D.C., that would be another matter altogether. But this was the
country.
All that looked back at her near nudity were rolling hills and distant pastures. The sun rose over the crust of the Blue Ridge mountains a hundred miles away; song birds—not garbage-plump pigeons—lifted off the railing when she stepped out.
Who’s going to see?
In D.C., that would be another matter altogether. But this was the
country.
All that looked back at her near nudity were rolling hills and distant pastures. The sun rose over the crust of the Blue Ridge mountains a hundred miles away; song birds—not garbage-plump pigeons—lifted off the railing when she stepped out.
It was an alien environment indeed: Cassie preferred the cityscape at night, not late-morning sun shining over farmland and forests. But she wasn’t about to complain. The quiet countryside was what her father craved for his own rehabilitation—Cassie would just have to get used to it.
Beggars can’t be choosers,
she reminded
herself. It beats the view from a psych-ward window.
Beggars can’t be choosers,
she reminded
herself. It beats the view from a psych-ward window.
Though she lacked her father’s appreciation of country scenery, she absolutely loved the house. Blackwell Hall, as it was called, loomed over a hundred acres of disused grazeland from the summit of a pleasantly wooded incline known as Blackwell Hill. Blackwell Creek burbled at the hill’s foot, feeding unsurprisingly into Blackwell Swamp. When Cassie had asked who Blackwell was, her father had answered with a casual “Who gives a crap? Probably some plantation magnate from before the Civil War.” His law firm had inherited the house in an estate settlement; his former partners had gladly given it to him as part of his severance when he’d agreed to endorse his client list over to them for no future shares. He’d simply wanted out, and the millions he’d invested throughout his career provided several more million per year in interest income. Dad was rich for life, in other words, and Blackwell Hall, regardless of its history, provided the seclusion he believed was desperately necessary for them both.
The old southern antebellum house had obviously been added to—if not eccentrically—since its original construction.
Gone with the Wind meets the Adam’s Family,
she thought when she first saw the pictures.
Works for me.
The front of the original structure—and its polished white-granite pillars—faced west, and around that, the rest of the delightful monstrosity had been built: a three-story manse with a dormer level, a garret level, iron-cresting along the roof, stone cornices, parapets, and off-hanging turrets windowed with stained glass. Ivy crept up the genuine mahogany siding, and great bow windows, complete with functional shutters, seemed to have grown from its fieldstonewalled first story. There was even an old oculus window in the mansion’s central garret.
Gone with the Wind meets the Adam’s Family,
she thought when she first saw the pictures.
Works for me.
The front of the original structure—and its polished white-granite pillars—faced west, and around that, the rest of the delightful monstrosity had been built: a three-story manse with a dormer level, a garret level, iron-cresting along the roof, stone cornices, parapets, and off-hanging turrets windowed with stained glass. Ivy crept up the genuine mahogany siding, and great bow windows, complete with functional shutters, seemed to have grown from its fieldstonewalled first story. There was even an old oculus window in the mansion’s central garret.
This place is so creepy, I LOVE it!
was Cassie’s first assessment.
was Cassie’s first assessment.
Inside, the expected clash of styles merged well in an overall refurbishment that borrowed from Colonial and Edwardian styles. Whole walls were reserved for deep man-tall fireplaces and slab mantles and hearths. So what if they’d never be used in the nine-month hot season ? They looked cool just the same. The floor layout was a fascinating maze, with odd corridors branching this way and that, rooms leading to smaller rooms lead. ing to still smaller rooms, frequent dumb-waiters, and even hidden closets behind hinged bookshelves. The original gas-lamp fixtures remained, having been refitted with electric lights; six-foot-high sconces provided standing room for statutes of southern historical figures such as Jefferson Davis, Lee, and Pickett, plus more brooding unidentified figures. Thirty rooms in all, the house was a clash of stereotypes which brought visions of southern belles fanning themselves alongside stuffy robber-barons from the ’20s.
And the ubiquitous multi-layered drapes kept the interior dark—just the way Cassie liked it.
What functioned as the “living room” was more like an atrium, a thousand square feet in itself. Exotic throw rugs covered the refinished natural wood floors. There was a den, a study, a sitting room, and a library, too, not to mention a vast country kitchen which her father had upgraded with high-end appliances. Other millionaire upgrades appointed the house: a hot tub, a 54-inch television and home theater, spacious black-marble bathrooms, and much else. Lastly, the house didn’t have a basement, it had a
series
of basements: long narrow cellars of nearly hundred-year-old tabby brick, so low-ceilinged a tall person would have to duck. Perfect stowage for her father’s law books, which he clearly intended to never look at again.
series
of basements: long narrow cellars of nearly hundred-year-old tabby brick, so low-ceilinged a tall person would have to duck. Perfect stowage for her father’s law books, which he clearly intended to never look at again.
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