Terrible Praise Page 8

  The building is a sprawling fieldstone ranch, once the family home, sitting atop an immaculately maintained sprawling green lawn. Clover petals twinkle with dew as my headlights dance across the landscape. The parlor has seen no outward renovations since the early seventies—Loreen Carrington’s hand-sewn avocado-colored drapes are still drawn over the boxy windows—asleep to all the world, but with extended office hours for us.

  Derek, the only son, is standing at the back entrance with the usual brown paper parcel tucked under his arm. Sandy blond hair hangs in his eyes, his wide face drawn, his meaty shoulders hunched. Beside him is a dark-haired man, roughly Derek’s age, whom I have never seen before. I check the messages on my mobile as I throw the vehicle into park, more than suspicious that I was not warned about the new help.

  Derek steps out from the light of the open cellar door, ahead of his guest, and rushes across the pavement to greet me. He reaches out to take the handle of my driver’s side door and I throw it openly quickly against him. His knuckles make an audible crack as I exit, and slam the door closed forcefully behind me. Derek holds his hand cupped to his chest, straightening his back, and with a trembling arm offers the package to me. I fling it behind me onto the roof of the car, tracking the movements of Mr. Carrington’s mysterious companion as he joins us.

  My eyes widen in the dark, swallowing the weak surrounding light so that I can see every detail of this man. He has slick brown hair combed back from his face, unshaven with at least three days’ growth on his jaw. Unlike Derek he is not wearing the standard black rubber apron or the customary rubber gloves—rather, sleek, leather ones. His clothes are solid black and plain. A simple coat, a V-neck undershirt, dark denim jeans, black boots. He has the world-weary eyes of the unapologetically corrupt, and the crooked mouth of a criminal who has never been caught. Most unsettling, is that this man is not at all alarmed by me.

  Derek motions to the unsavory individual to his left. “Kathryn, this is my associate, Mr. Collins.”

  I do not respond, nor does Mr. Collins. Derek’s heartbeat echoes in my ears. After several moments of searching both their faces—the only flinch belonging to Mr. Carrington—I turn myself entirely toward Derek. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Derek fumbles with a squint, genuinely puzzled by my abrasiveness. “Meaning of what? Mr. Collins’? Didn’t Birgir tell you?”

  Birgir, my brother Bård, keeps all manner of company. But he is nowhere to be seen. “Tell me what?”

  Derek offers a nervous smile to Mr. Collins, who stands motionless with arms crossed. The mortician rubs the back of his own neck with a rubber-clad hand, and the elbow length gloves squeak against the skin. “Mr. Collins will be handling the remains,” he clarifies.

  “Handling?” I tilt my head, and step closer.

  “Yes. He’ll dispose of them this evening.”

  I smile and my teeth glint in the reflection of Derek’s large dark eyes.

  “How, exactly?”

  Mr. Collins bristles, uncrossing his arms. He fishes in his jacket pocket and withdraws a pack of Marlboros. The cigarette casts a red glow on Mr. Collins’s cheeks and he exhales pointedly in my face. “Does it matter?” he asks with a disinterested shrug. His vocal cords have leathered from years of smoking, though he cannot be more than thirty-five. He has a low register, voice steady and surprisingly confident.

  I turn to face him in time for his next directed exhale and brush the smoke aside with my fingers. I narrow my eyes at this dark figure, but he only flicks the ash from his cigarette.

  “It matters a great deal to me that these remains are handled properly.”

  “So, you’re a family member of the deceased?” Mr. Collins gestures down at the blood on my blouse with his smoldering cigarette.

  I take a step closer to the dauntless Mr. Collins. “No—”

  “Then I doubt it matters much.”

  My fists clench and my body lurches forward, but Derek is quick to position himself between us with raised hands.

  “Please, Kathryn, this is all just a misunderstanding. I assumed that Birgir told you about the new arrangement. Mr. Collins will be picking up a few…deliveries…to lighten the considerable load on our crematory. That’s all. He was contracted by your family, by Birgir, specifically.”

  Reluctantly, I straighten myself and adjust my jacket as Mr. Collins finishes the last of his cigarette, crushing the orange embers underfoot.

  “So…” Collins shoves his leather-gloved hands in his coat pockets, and rocks onto the balls of his feet. “What’d you have for me this evening?”

  My thumb finds the trunk release in my pocket, but my eyes never leave Collins’s face. They track him to the back of the vehicle, where he tugs at the cuffs of his gloves and removes a small Dictaphone from his jacket pocket. He records his observations with the clinical detachment of a doctor, a detective…

  “White male, identification indicates thirty-nine years old, hips and shoulders appear to be dislocated. Swelling in the right hand and wrist, laceration on the neck, blunt force trauma to the forehead. Can I get a blood type here?”

  I walk around the side of the car and stand with my hands on my hips. Mr. Collins lifts the recorder to my lips, I knock his hand away and he nearly drops the device.

  “O Negative.”

  Mr. Collins repeats this information, and pauses the recording. He resumes his examination of the corpse, dipping his head beneath the hood. One good slam of the lid would ease my troubles considerably.

  “Everything appears to be order,” Collins concludes. “Next time do me a favor,” he points with his thumb to the wound on the victim’s neck, “cover your tracks before you drop him off. Keep the damage to a minimum or we’ll never move the product.”

  With that, Collins takes the legs and hoists the lower half of the body free, leaving Derek to wrangle the head and shoulders. Together they shuffle across the darkened parking lot in a slow side step of a dance, to an unmarked black van that I must admit, I had not noticed. A thick white cloud tumbles from the refrigerated interior when they swing the back door open. Mr. Collins takes a moment to clear the door of limbs—too many for a single victim, clearly the table scraps of Bård’s and Lydia’s meals have already been collected. The presence of their kills steadies me. Collins guides Dennis’s body inside while Derek pushes.

  Mr. Collins shakes Derek’s hand and turns to look at me only once before climbing into the driver’s seat. The tires screech across the blacktop in a puff of smoke, weighed down with a heavy load, and I watch the taillights disappear down the side of the building. My mind is flooded with concern for the fate of its incriminating cargo, racing through scenarios as mundane as a routine traffic stop.

  “Kathryn,” Derek calls breathlessly. “Come inside and get cleaned up.” He waves me through the cellar door, and disappears into the harsh glare of the embalming room. I retrieve the parcel from the roof of my car and follow.

  The heat from the open furnace is smothering as I strip off the evening’s attire and cast it in. The hollow lights overhead gleam along the surface of an empty embalming table and dance in the reflections of several glass beakers, and a discarded syringe in the large metal sink. Derek drops a clear plastic bag on top of my clothing—all the identification Dennis was carrying—and pushes a button on the side of the cremator, sealing the steel door of the furnace.

  I arrange myself quickly in the corner of the room where Derek keeps a small partition—presumably to protect our modesty, if we had any, but more likely to protect his own. In the parcel I find the usual attire for the trip home: snug black thermal, dark jeans, flat boots. Fleetingly, I remind myself to thank Lydia for the pains she takes to keep all of us presentable, and then I remind myself of Lydia, and the thought of praising her causes me physical discomfort.

  Derek averts his eyes when I emerge, clearly nervous to be alone with me as angry as I am, and pretends to clean his instruments in the sink. I retrieve my mobile and keys from the foo
t of the embalming table.

  “Will there be anything else?” he asks, in a small, cautious voice, breaking his own self-imposed silence.

  “We shall see.” I hover in the doorway with one foot on the highest stair, the other firmly planted in the outside world, anxious to return home and confront Bård regarding this unexpected change to our established routine. Derek’s shoulders slump in response, his head twisted at a sharp angle to regard my face though my silhouette is darkened by the shadow of the door.

  “Kathryn, again, I didn’t know you didn’t know.”

  “I believe you.”

  Out in the parking lot, the gentle whispers of a warm night rush up to embrace me, but it does little to ease my troubled thoughts. Who is this Mr. Collins? Why would Bård leave me to fumble my way through this new arrangement? My brother is always so diligent, and his loyalty to Fane—to the family—is beyond question.

  * * *

  I quickly make my way down the dark wood–paneled corridor to Bård’s chamber—positioned opposite my own. The slight groan of the floor beneath my feet is my only introduction as the hatch overhead closes. Bård stands in the center of his comfortable suite, not fifteen feet away, his back turned and his attention focused elsewhere. Despite my brother’s enviable physique, not even his wide shoulders are enough to obscure the edges of Fane, reclining comfortably on the sofa.

  “Stela,” my Lord greets. “So good of you to join us. I trust you met the new help?”

  I take a respectful knee at the sound of his rich and welcoming voice. “Yes, my Lord. Mr. Collins is why I am come.”

  “I have no doubt.” He smiles. “And unannounced. You owe Bård an apology, my dove.”

  Finally acknowledged, Bård is free to face me with a cursory glance over one shoulder, careful to show as little of his back as possible to Fane. I take up residence beside my brother who smacks the space between my shoulder blades playfully but with such force I have to take a step to compensate. I grit my teeth and Bård offers me a blinding white smile, combing a stray lock of white hair back into the neat bun at the base of his neck. The skin around his black eyes crinkles with patronizing delight, and mingles with the deep lines etched into his forehead. My considerable years aside, I will always be a child in his eyes.

  “My apologies to you both for this intrusion.”

  Fane responds with a good-natured laugh as he rises from the sofa and walks over to embrace me. The silk of Fane’s emerald shirt pressed against my cheek hides most of my face, but not before I notice Bård’s expression shift into apprehension as though I am about to be crushed. Bård does not enjoy the same relationship I have with our Lord, though the affection that passes between them is frequent and freely exchanged. My brother has been my protector as far back as I can remember, and if there be any cause for discord between these two it is born of Bård’s thinly concealed concern and the unspoken implication that Fane would ever cause me harm.

  Fane holds me at arm’s length by the biceps. “I planned to make my way to you before sunrise.” He strokes the side of my face with the back of his fingers. “We have much to discuss. But come, be seated with us.” He releases his hold, and I am ushered forward between their towering bodies. Bård smiles again and stands beside Fane, with his hand outstretched toward the sitting area in clear invitation. Indeed, my brother is so pleased by my visit that I doubt my own motivations for dropping in on him. He must have believed I knew about Collins. Bård would never leave me so under prepared, and I am not in the habit of questioning my elders.

  Though my brother and I share a similar station in life, his age affords him a superior position in the hierarchy. He has been so long in Fane’s service, and with that comes enlightenment, a kind of mental evolution for any human-born Strigoi, or vampire as the English say. Such a crude term for a life so special. He put away selfish musings, egotistical pursuits and pointless guilt centuries ago. I was so certain I had done the same, but my recent misstep with Elizabeth was motivated by blatant self-interest. I am quick to bury her name inside my heart, behind the fortress that protects my private thoughts from Fane’s all-seeing eyes.

  Bård settles in the high-backed elk bone chair opposite the sofa, and I take a seat beside Fane. My Lord rests his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and picks up the thread of their earlier conversation. Not surprisingly, they were discussing their newest business partner.

  “We can expect thirty-five percent of Mr. Collins’s profits,” Bård reports with absolute modesty.

  With iridescent fingertips, Fane plucks and straightens the cuff of his charcoal pants. “I believe that number can be increased. But Stela will discuss the rate with Andrew next quarter, once he has had a chance to trend the profits.” Fane turns as if only just remembering my presence beside him. “I trust henceforth, Andrew will be a vigilant and dedicated ally.” His mouth curls up at the corners with the meager beginnings of a smile.

  I look to their faces, waiting for some clue to fill in the gaps. Both men are placid, expectant but patient. Their silence is remarkably unhelpful and Bård grows uneasy the longer it takes me to answer Fane.

  “Profits from what?”

  My brother raises his bushy white brows, settling his ankle on his knee with both hands folded neatly in his lap. He schools his surprise, looking every bit the fine, Scandinavian gentleman he is, watching Fane closely.

  “Stela?” Fane leans away from me to search my face. Too soon I sense the familiar pressure, prickling and warm as his eyes peer into mine and then behind them. “From the sales, of course.” His answer is hardly helpful, but his shock at having to explain himself and Bård’s obvious surprise over my ignorance, make one thing abundantly clear: both men assume that this topic is as familiar to me as it is to them. I realize quite suddenly that I have missed some crucial detail, with which I am no doubt deeply involved. Perhaps it was discussed at a family conference. I curse the distraction of Elizabeth.

  Once turned, a Strigoi rarely forgets. The life that came before eternity fades, but the days, years after—memories sharpened by new eyes—remain, untouched.

  I try to relax my expression and my mind, while Fane’s crystalline eyes, like icy fingers, comb through my thoughts, and if he senses some resistance on my part I will have to explain more than I am able. Bård’s eyes shift back and forth between our faces before settling on mine. He knows that I am lost.

  “You hate change, Stela.” To my complete shock Bård laughs, a full, deep sound like thunder rolling between hills, effectively derailing the conversation. “Of course she recalls our discussions, my Lord.” He smacks Fane conspiratorially on the knee as he stands. Fane’s gaze is broken at the unexpected contact, and he turns with a start in Bård’s direction. That deadly focus, Fane’s singular stare is at once hooked into another being, releasing its drowning grip on my mind.

  The relief comes like a rush of blood to my head and I follow Bård’s gregarious lead, laughing at myself and bewildered by this act of kindness. Not because I do not care for my brother, or him for me, but because pitting himself between Fane and the object of his focus is a dangerous game. To distract Fane in his search of one’s thoughts, one must shift the focus elsewhere, and that means drawing his attention. Who among us does not have something to hide?

  “Quite right, my son.” Fane stands and takes Bård’s broad shoulders in both his hands, bending my brother forward to kiss the top of his pale head. “I will admit that when you first proposed this unconventional venture, I thought it grotesque to say the very least. Bold, even for you.” He shakes my brother, and through the tight-lipped smile on Bård’s face, I know Fane’s grip is tighter than either let on. Fane is not fooled, good-humored though he may seem. I can sense him still, prying at the edges of me with a passing glance.

  How long can I keep going like this? Eventually Fane will find a chink. He will slither inside me and find the dark endless ocean of melancholy I seek to hide from him. Once he has waded through the black
ness, he will uncover all the other little secrets walled up inside of me. Elizabeth being only one. At the very least, I suspect it will break his heart to know that I have lost my way, that my faith in him has been compromised. That the misery of my monotonous nights has become more than I can bear. At worst, he will see my unhappiness as treason.

  Fane releases Bård from his outwardly affectionate grip, betrayed by Bård’s sudden rebound and his decisive step backward. Eyes bright and furious, Fane smiles at me from over his shoulder. He knows already that I hide things, but he is biding his time. Perhaps, he does not want to believe it. He stalks past the elk bone chair, dragging his hand over the crude, worn stitching to stand before the large window display at the end of the room. The image projected on his screens is a mountain lake in Skarstad, Norway— Bård calls it a portrait of home.

  Fane crosses his arms over his barrel chest, taking in the scenery as though he has never seen that lake before. I shift my weight on the sofa, unsure if I should go to him. Bård notices my small movements and puts a hand out, warning me to remain seated. My brother leans back against his bedpost, pressing his spine against the wood but standing straight. He keeps his arms tightly to his sides, his black eyes fixed on Fane. What must the subjects of Fane’s lands have thought when my formidable brother first crossed the Balkans all those centuries ago, seeking asylum from the angry mob of villagers his unchecked appetite orphaned? Was he a beautiful walking image of Odin with the youthful vigor of Thor? Did they mistake him for a god?

  “Human beings…” Fane drawls, flexing his thick arms. “They are carcasses, waste, even as they live and breathe. No surprise they would be willing to purchase their own dead. And for what? For bones, tissue. For scraps.” He cranes his head in consideration. “Perhaps an old woman’s prayer for a new hip will be granted tomorrow, or a burn victim will receive a skin graft…because we are as we are. And the lives we take now will change lives. Does that not make us the very definition of infinity?” Fane turns slowly around, his face a mask of contempt, tempered with quiet contemplation that softens his eyes and full lips. I force a smile, because it is expected and I am certain that behind me, Bård does the same.