(I)
Cristina surged as she straddled him—she knew she was using him for his body yet again to night, yet she couldn’t deny her desires. It was like a drug—her lust.
“Jeez, hon,” Paul muttered beneath her. “I don’t think I can again…”
“Try, try,” she moaned, rocking on him in the darkness. “Please…” Don’t lose it, she begged him in thought. She knew she was asking a lot of him, but her desires were demanding much of her as well. Cristina’s blood felt like oil heating up on a stove top. Paul was gasping with every thrust. The shadows seemed to push her face down toward him. She began to slowly suck down the side of his neck, and when her tongue laved over his jugular vein, she could feel his pulse beating like a hummingbird’s. Next, their tongues were playing around in the other’s mouth with more fervor than she could ever recall. Paul’s hand slipped between them, his fingers hunting for nipples to tweeze in time with his thrusts, and when he began to pinch, she panted, “Harder, harder,” into his mouth. “Please, honey, as hard as you can.” She squealed and orgasmed when her plea was answered, and a moment later, Paul spent himself as well.
Good, good, she thought.
She collapsed atop him and sighed. She felt like butter now, melting into still-warm bread. The words in her head arrived like a zombie’s drone: I just couldn’t get enough tonight. Just like last night, and the night before …“Paul? That was wonderful…Paul?”
But he was already asleep beneath her. I’m surprised I didn’t kill him, she thought. Lately I’ve been riding him like a mechanical bull. Even in her exhaustion, though, she felt beaming, her nerves energetic in the revel of life. She slipped off the bed’s silk sheets, nipples constricting as the air-conditioning dried her glaze of perspiration. She traipsed about the room, sated in its darkness and silence. Only the moon leaked in through the louvers. In the big mirror over the dresser, the silverish light on her face sur-realized her features, leaving lines and wedges black but luminescing the rest.
Her thoughts strayed when she decided to wander the house. What a relief, she regarded of Dr. Stein’s diagnosis. For a while there, I thought I was going crazy. Hearing things, seeing things? All because of mold in the basement. Tomorrow a contractor was coming to give them an estimate for the cleanup. She’d been surprised, though, by the look on Father Rollin’s face when she’d mentioned it earlier. He was in and out of this house for years, she knew. But he’d probably spent very little time in the basement. Through the dining room blinds, she peeked quickly outside.
Hmmm …
At first she’d thought she’d seen the tiniest glint in one of the church’s dark windows but, Just the streetlight, or the moon, she dismissed.
It was past one in the morning now. The stillness of the house lulled her. It scarcely registered that she’d been wandering around in the nude—something she’d rarely done in the past—but now that she thought of it, she smiled. Her fingers stroked her hips without forethought. I like being nude, she thought. I like being naked in the house, at night, in the dark and the silence. The observation surprised her, as did the recognition that just this instant, she couldn’t imagine being happier. It was a joyous complacency, rooted in so many things, she supposed: her youth and health, her success in hand with Paul’s, this new environment and the love she felt pouring over her. If such a thing as an aura existed, she knew that hers must be blazing white.
She slipped back into the bedroom and got into bed. Sleep welcomed her—After all that sex? she thought naughtily—but her mind still tinkered with some thoughts. What could really explain her mood changes? One day shy and sheepish, the next day voracious? It’s everything, she knew.
It was all part of her now—the real her. Yes, she knew she was changing, and she knew it was all good.
Cristina fell asleep with an arm and leg hooked over Paul’s strong body. Hence, she was not awake to see the curvaceous, shadow-formed figure ooze into the room, grin down at her, and run a single finger up the side of her throat.
Nor was she awake to hear what it whispered in a voice like smoke: “Tara Romaneasca, tara flaesc Romanae …”
Cristina wakened at seven, to the sound of the shower. My God, I’m sore, she thought when she leaned up. Her muscles ached but a smile touched her lips when she realized why. It must be from their frenetic lovemaking. We tried some pretty off-the-wall positions, she recalled. She pulled on her robe and went out to make coffee, which was ready the same minute Paul rushed out of the bedroom, adjusting his tie. “Oh, you’re a gem,” he said, kissed her quick, and grabbed his insulated traveling cup. “Thanks.”
“You’re up real early,” Cristina noted. “I thought lawyers didn’t work till ten.”
“Not today, baby.” He finally knotted his tie. “Jess and I have a big client coming in at eight-thirty. Primo important.”
“Primo, huh? Too primo to skip out without breakfast? I could make you something.”
“No, thanks. Ann’s bringing in some of those egg-muffin things—”
“Ann?” Cristina grinned. “Should I be jealous?”
“You know, Ann, our secretary.”
“Is she pretty?”
“She’s very pretty. And very lesbian.” He paused to look at her. “Not nearly as pretty as you, anyway.”
Cristina gave him a hug. “Have a good day—”
“You, too—” He was pulling away, jingling his keys. “Oh, and try to find that menu for Shun Lee’s; we’re getting the carryout there when Jess and Britt come over. I know it’s around here somewhere.”
“Okay—”
“Oh, and don’t forget about the guy coming at nine.”
“The mold guy.”
“Right. The sooner we get that mold out of there, the better I’ll feel.”
“Me too.”
“Gotta run, love you.” He gave her another peck and was out the door. Cristina smiled after him.
Later, a contractor arrived—a tall young man with an eye patch. I hope it wasn’t mold that caused that, Cristina thought. “That’s quite a job title,” she said when he assured her he was “an IAQ-certified mold inspector” and “a full member of the National Board of Mold Remediators.” He put on a mask like a painter and descended the basement steps with what he described as an “infrared swatch scope.” I didn’t know mold was so technical, Cristina thought. He returned in about a half hour, mask off and jotting on a clipboard. “Pretty bad down there, huh?” Cristina assumed the worst, but his reply was surprising. “No, ma’am. When your fiancé called, he said he had a toxic mold problem, but there’s nothing toxic down there. It’s just a simple black Mycota mold.”
“Really? Our doctor said it was the kind that could make you sick and even see things.”
“Probably just covering his bases,” the man said without ever looking at her with his one good eye. He kept scribbling as he talked. “The molds we get around here look a lot like some of the protostelids that sometimes cause hallucinations. I’ve given you multiple estimates for what ever kind of work you might want: basic remediation, aqueous Ph-control and sequestrant-based sealing, or full reconditioning. If you want to know the truth, all you need is the basic unless you want to turn the basement into an apartment.”
Cristina brushed her hair out of her eyes, flummoxed. “Nothing harmful down there?”
“No, ma’am. The mold you’ve got down there wouldn’t make a parakeet sick.” He scribbled some more, and gave Cristina the top sheet. “And we can also fix that crack in the cement, if you want.”
He left as abruptly as he arrived. Well…he was young, she realized. We better get a second analysis. And what had he said about cracked cement? I never noticed any cracks, she told herself. She started to go down herself to look, but then paused at the door. No. I better not. If that kid’s wrong about the mold, I don’t want to be passing out and God knows what else.
As she was mounting the steps to her studio, she grimaced. The aches in her back and shoulders had trebled, which only confounded her. Why am I so damn sore all of a sudden?
Cristina’s muscles throbbed as if she’d been doing some heavy manual labor. Forget working today, she resolved and turned back down. I’m going to go take a nice, warm bubble bath …
(II)
The room buzzed.
And it stank now worse than ever. “How do I look?” Francy asked, striking a flapperlike pose amid the glowing candles. “Do I look maaaaav-alous?”
Stutty looked awed and even jealous of the diaphanous red dress. The label read Dolce & Gabbana, but she’d never heard of him. “I wish I could wear it-wear it-wear it,” she lamented. She was whittling points onto some more broomsticks.
“You don’t have the right curves, Stutty. I do.”
“Gimme a break!”
“Big deal,” Sandrine muttered. She fiddled with her Hypothermia Harriet doll. “It’s a rich-person dress, and I say shit on rich people. We don’t even really know if you’re ever going to need it.”
Francy fell silent, glaring at her sullen companion. “The New Mother said I would, Sandrine.”
Sandrine shrugged.
“You don’t believe the New Mother?” Francy took an authoritative step on two dirty feet. “After all she’s done for us? The New Mother can see the future. Don’t you believe that?”
“I…”
“ ’Cos if you don’t believe that, you can’t be in the convent!” Francy half-yelled. “She’s known the future since our Prince lay down on the stone table! Since the time of the Infidels! Since when the time the Darkness came to the land and blessed them!”
“I believe the New Mother,” Stutty offered. “She said we’d be off crack and now we are. She said that guy and the woman would move into the church-house, and they did. And-and-and she told us what was there, and we’ve seen it. She said she would come to us, and she has, hashas-has-has-hasn’t she?”
“Yes,” Sandrine dolefully agreed.
Candlelight flickered over the dress to make it look alive. “So how can you not believe?” Francy questioned.
Then Stutty, enthused before the dead television said, “As the Time gets closer, the New Mother becomes more real, just like she said. We even felt her last night, right?”
“Well…yeah,” Sandrine said.
“She’s always been real, Stutty,” Francy corrected. “Just less here, and more somewhere else, since the time of the Prince. But now that’s reversing.”
“Okay!” Sandrine rebelled. “But so what? What do we get out of it?”
Francy leaned close, lowering her voice. “We get to live forever.”
“Forever?” Sandrine winced, offering her hands to the reeking, garbage-strewn room. “Here? Like this?”
“No, Sandrine. Like her. And anyone who doesn’t believe it can’t be in the convent.” She eyed the moldering corpse of Doke in the corner. It was a warning.
Sandrine, in her depression, continued to object. “So why can’t we go to the house and get the thing ourselves?”
“Because that’s not what’s in the future,” Francy reminded. “That’s not what the New Mother said. It has to be the woman. The New Mother already knows what’s going to happen. It was all planned a long time ago. The woman has to touch it first.”
Sandrine fidgeted, prone to clinical depression. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But I do believe…”
“Good,” Francy stated.
“She’s just fucked-fucked-fucked-up,” Stutty diagnosed. “ ’Cos of drug-drug-drug-drugs.”
“Oh, right,” Sandrine exclaimed. “I’m fucked-up.”
“We’re all fucked-up!” Francy celebrated. Then all of them, even Sandrine, laughed.
“You should take the dress off for now,” Sandrine said. “If you don’t, it’ll be all dirty by the time you need it.”
“Yuh-yeah,” Stutty added. “You’ll stink it all up!”
“Kiss my ass!” Francy cracked back. “I took a shower last night, in the house.”
“You did?”
Francy’s eyes widened. “Yeah. And you should’a seen the bathroom. I’ll bet Donald Trump doesn’t have a bathroom like theirs.”
“Who’s Donald Thump?” Sandrine asked.
Francy smirked. “Never mind. But it was the best bathroom.”
Stutty grinned. “Yuh-yuh-yeah? But what else did you do?”
“Shut up!”
They all laughed again.
Francy continued to strike poses. “The New Mother’s coming out earlier and earlier now, and pretty soon she’ll be as real as us. But we have to believe. We all must believe.” Suddenly her posing stopped and she got serious again. “ ’Cos anyone who doesn’t…”
She pointed to Doke. Then she pointed past more boxes, to Crazy, and impaled next to her was Ruthie Mooseface and Blinda, whom they’d impaled early this morning.
The room buzzed.
(III)
Vernon found it inconceivable that the vast campus of Columbia University existed entirely in the middle of Morningside Heights. From the end near the Teacher’s College it looked endless. He’d walked so much his feet began to hurt…Big fancy Ivy League place like this and they don’t even have a campus directory. He hoofed past Fairchild Hall, squinting for building numbers. He felt invisible amid the throng of youthful students…and depressed when he realized, Jesus, I’m almost old enough to be their grandfather …Statues of Hamilton and Jefferson seemed to eye him with suspicion as he trudged on through beating heat. A crude xerox flapped on a lamppost: SAVE DARFUR, NOT IRAQ! it suggested. Vernon shrugged. Why save either? Both countries hate our guts. Next, it was The Thinker giving him the eye, as if to say What’s a busted, over-the-hill cop doing Here?
Good question, Vernon admitted. Probably another wildgoose chase.
Finally he found a map and directory board, which showed him that the building he sought sat at the other end of the campus. A small billboard next to the directory had this message: STUDENTS PARTICIPATING IN “SARAN WRAP” PARTIES WILL BE EXPELLED.
Vernon didn’t even want to guess.
The building was back near the Teacher’s College, where he’d first entered; the cool air sucked him in. The first door he came to read, DR. CARL AURED -LINGUISTICS, which stood open a few inches. Vernon stuck his head in. “Dr. Aured?”
A graying man who was bald on top looked up from his desk as if annoyed. “I can’t be bothered now—I have an appointment with a police officer.”
“I’m the police officer, sir. Inspector Howard Vernon.”
“Forgive me! You don’t look at all like the police.”
Vernon smiled gratefully. Well, that’s a change. “I appreciate you making the time to see me on such short notice.”
He held his hands up and pffft’d, like a Jewish patriarch. “The summer sessions? Not very busy. Please, have a seat.”
Vernon sat down, having noticed enough of the cramped office to tell it was sterile and lackluster, which probably paralleled this man’s job.
“On the phone you mentioned ‘strange’ writing at some crime scenes,” Dr. Aured recalled. “It sounds intriguing. May I ask what crimes were committed?”
“Murder and vandalism,” was all Vernon said. He slipped the man the notes he’d taken. “Pardon my handwriting. But the words look to be from several languages. One, I suppose, is Latin, and the rest…Well, that’s why I’m here.”
Dr. Aured appeared thrilled as he focused on the notes. “Mmmm,” he muttered several times, and, “Um-hmm.” After only a few moments, his gaze snapped back up. “It’s all Latin, in a sense—Latin-rooted, I mean—because it’s all founded in Vulgar Latin; a Romance language, in other words. This line here, for instance…” Aured touched the tip of his pen to what Vernon had transcribed from the closet in the precinct women’s room:
TARA ROMANEASCA, TARA FLAESC ROMANAE and TARA FLAESC WALLKYA.
“It’s a bit of a hodgepodge,” the linguist said. “Latin mixed with Saxon and Old English, and quite a bit of Finno-Ugris—the language of the Magyars of Hungary. Before the Turks overwhelmed the Slavias in the mid-1400s, the crusader princes of Romania and Bulgaria—all under the supervision of the Polish and Hungarian kings—frequently spoke in a meld of these languages so that Turk spies and non-Christians would be less likely to understand them. But these quotes are very strange…”
“But what does it mean?”
“Oh! Sorry! Of course, the reason you’re here,” the elderly man exclaimed. “It means something akin to ‘This land of Romania, this flesh of Romania.’ And ‘Tara flaesc Wallkya’ roughly translates to ‘This flesh of Wallachia.’”
“Wallachia?” Vernon questioned. “What’s that?”
“Southern Romania, referred to, of course, in the first quote.”
The next line was: ME ENAMOURER AD INFINITUM.
From the chapel. Vernon tried to keep things sorted.
“This is more bastardized Latin, just less bastardized. ‘My true love forever.’”
Vernon didn’t know which was stranger, the first quote or the second. Why on earth would bum-girls write something like that? But then he realized the folly of the question. How could they come to write ANY of it?
Unless someone was teaching them…
Dr. Aured chuckled. “But this next quote, is by far more interesting.”
Vernon looked at the notes again and saw: SINGELE LUI TRAIESTE, the words written in magic marker on the impaled body of Virginia Fleming.
“Yes, much more interesting, indeed. It seems to be an unaccented attempt at modern Romanian or Româna. You see, Inspector, the modern Romanian language is derived from Aromanian and Megleno-Romanian, seven vowels, twenty consonants, and twenty-eight letters. To ease some of the confusion, we have this system today known as the IPA—”
Why do I have a feeling that doesn’t stand for India Pale Ale? Vernon thought.
“—the International Phonetic Alphabet, which in some cases standardizes the different accents, diphthongs, triphthongs, etc., that exist throughout the world. But your criminals aren’t regarding the IPA at all, almost as if they’re trying to write by ear, and aren’t particularly educated.”
“You nailed that one,” Vernon told him.
Did Aured smile ever so slightly? He looked at Vernon and said, “‘Singele lui traieste’ means ‘His blood is alive.’”
Vernon squinted at him.
“You have some very unique criminals here, Inspector. Ultimately, they’re fudging phonotypic Cyrillic with Old Church Slavonic. No diphthongs, no triphthongs, no accents.”
“You’re already way over my head, sir.”
“Just the fact that the words are Romanian, I mean. It’s almost funny—not that murder can ever be funny, of course.” The linguist was digressing in his overkill of knowledge, apparently amused by something Vernon couldn’t comprehend. “Then the reference to Wallkya—Wallachia, in tandem with the line, ‘His blood is alive.’”
Now the old academician smiled outright. “I’m afraid that’s all I have for you, Inspector.” He chuckled loudly. “Unless your murder victim happened to be impaled.”
Vernon nearly fell out of his chair. “Was that…in today’s paper? Nobody told me.”
Aured’s smile turned blank. “Well, no. I just made it up, based on the only inference I could assume. You don’t mean that your murder victim actually was impaled?”
Vernon felt as though someone had smacked him in the head. “We actually have two victims who were impaled, Doctor. How could you know that? I know for a fact that it’s not in the papers yet.”
“Oh, dear.” Aured’s eyes thinned in perplexion. “Just…from the words, Inspector. I was making a joke but now it seems…” He cleared his throat. “Wallachia is the province of Romania that was once overruled together with two more provinces, Moldava, and Transylvania, and in the mid-1400s, the warlord of these provinces was Vlad the Impaler—the historical Dracula.”