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BACK TO FRASER'S FRACTURED FICTION Mistress Estellaby A. Fraser
© Copyright 2003 A. Fraser. All rights reserved.
Dinner at Fairlawn had been wonderful; the best part was no dishes to do
afterwards. Well, no, the best part was the fried chicken. And not having to eat
dinner alone. It had been a fun evening, after an odd afternoon.
Ray thought about that encounter with Mistress Estella. Was she following him?
Though his early experiences in life had left the mage with a healthy dose of
severe paranoia, he doubted it. She couldn't possibly have known that he would
come to the beach that afternoon, could she? Well, she was a psychic, but he'd
have to be extremely paranoid to believe that she was using her clairvoyance to
spy on him. It had just been coincidence.
Too bad he didn't believe in coincidence.
The phone rang in the middle of this train of thought. It was Michael, sounding a
bit worried. "Is Francis over there?" he asked.
"Not unless he's hiding," Ray answered. "I haven't heard from him tonight."
"He's not at home," Michael said. "I dropped by to talk to him about that fortune
teller."
"He met about ten girls at the fair, Michael," Ray fought a grin. "He's almost
certainly out with one of them."
"Ah." The Archdruid sounded relieved. "If he stops in to see you on his way
home from tomcatting, tell him I want to talk to him, okay?"
"Sure."
"How are you doing?"
"Oh, fine. Thanks again for dinner. I was just going to go downstairs and do
some work."
"I won't keep you, then." Michael didn't entirely approve of Ray's workshop, but
knew better than to criticize another magic-user's techniques. "Good night."
"Night. Love to Mary and the offspring."
Ray hung up, vaguely worried himself. Michael wasn't the sort to panic over
nothing. The Druid was extremely sensitive; he might have picked up something
out of place at Francis' shack, making him concerned over the vampire's absence.
It was still early in the evening, though, and this was boring little Fletcherville...
how could Francis possibly have gotten into trouble?
Aside from being Francis, of course.
Shrugging, Ray decided to take his own advice and not worry about it. Francis
was a big boy and had been a vampire since 1968; he could take care of himself.
Admittedly, he was practically a fledgling compared to, say, Gideon; but he was
still a vampire. There wasn't much that could hurt the undead.
As he walked down the stairs that led to his underground workshop, Ray tried
very hard not to think of the things that could harm vampires. He didn't need the
distraction of worrying about his best friend right now. He had meditation
exercises to do, and for that, he had to have a clear mind. Lack of concentration
could kill the unprepared magic-user.
The workshop had been built into a natural cave in the cliff when Ray's house
had been constructed. It was sparsely furnished. A worktable, the surface
scarred almost as badly as its owner, with a bookshelf above it and a hard
wooden chair, were the only furniture. The bookshelf held material that, a few
scant centuries ago, would have gotten Ray burnt at the stake. On the table were
a candlestick with a stub in it, surrounded by wax, a plastic skull that yelled out
"Happy Halloween!" if its button was pressed, and a small metal box that
appeared to be covered with frost. A few assorted dried herbs in mason jars
were shoved in randomly among the books. A sword, edges sharpened and
gleaming, leaned against the far end of the table. Otherwise, the workshop shared
something with Estella's tent at the fair. There were no pentacles, no occult signs
and symbols, no other magical paraphernalia at all; not so much as an athame.
Ray had a knife in his pocket. It had three blades, a corkscrew, a bottle opener,
and a device for taking the stones out of horses' hooves; all tucked into a
staghorn handle. It was the only thing he owned that had been his mother's,
handed down to her by her father and carefully kept all these years. It was
consecrated to absolutely no gods, but the three blades were seriously sharp. It
had served him well, and was the only knife he needed.
He sat down in the chair and lit the candle. No matches or lighter required. He
tried to clear his mind of all its baggage from the past few days; the fair, Mistress
Estella's reading, his talk with Michael, the meeting on the beach, vague worries
about Francis. Damn and double damn, it wasn't working. He found himself
reaching towards the cold metal box. It contained drawn cards called Trumps,
through which Ray could contact the person represented on them.
No. If Francis was out with a girl, he would not appreciate being interrupted by a
Trump call. There was nothing wrong. Let it go, and concentrate on the task at
hand.
The candle flame danced, though there was little air current down here. Ray
concentrated on his breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out. Let the worries go. The
past was the past and could not be altered. The future is unknown, fortune tellers
be damned. The present is this room, this candle, this exercise. Nothing else
mattered.
His mind calmed, peace achieved, Ray rose from his chair. He picked up the
sword from its resting place and slowly went through a series of exercises with it,
as if fencing with an invisible partner. Finally he finished by holding the sword
in en-garde position ... and releasing the hilt. It hung, unsupported, in mid-air;
only the power of his mind holding it in place.
Nobody at all had taught Ray this exercise. He'd made it up himself; found it
was the best way to concentrate his mind. When he really needed to fine-tune
his control, he would lie naked beneath the suspended blade, one careless
moment away from self-disembowelment or castration. One or two of his scars
were from lack of concentration with the sword exercise, but fortunately all the
important bits of him still functioned.
While he stood there, holding the sword with his mind, open to the power that
coursed through his blood, Raymond Griffin knew that his friend Francis was in
serious trouble.
Francis had woken at the crack of dusk, as usual for a vampire. He hadn't lost
any sleep over the encounter with Estella, but that was because he didn't sleep as
mortals defined the word. But he was perturbed at what Estella had said. Not so
much on his own account; the idea of lacking a future just because he was dead
was laughable. If that was true, then he hadn't had a future since 1968. No, that
wasn't it. She'd really upset Ray and Francis didn't like it when his friends were
upset. He decided to pay the fortune teller another visit.
Since this was a professional visit, he put on the jeans with the least amount of
holes in them and a clean Metallica t-shirt. It was, theoretically, possible to dress
Francis up; but even in a tux he still acted as if wearing jeans. He tugged on his
boots and threw on his leather jacket, then went out to swear at the Harley until it
started. He never bothered with a helmet. What was the point?
The fair was going full Tilt-A-Whirl when he arrived. This time, Francis ignored
the lure of the games and the smell of food. There weren't too many people lined
up at Estella's tent. Grinning to himself in anticipation of the encounter to come,
Francis joined the line.
Nothing much happened until it was his turn to go into the tent. As he entered,
Estella drew in a breath. But whatever she had to say remained unspoken, as a
shadow in the tent moved and stepped in behind Francis. The young vampire
tried to turn to look at this unexpected company.
Then the person behind Francis reached out, seized the young vampire's right arm
and twisted it behind its owner's back in an unbreakable "come-along" grip.
Francis yelped, but a hand went over his mouth.
"Don't make a fuss, boy," hissed a voice in his ear. "I just want to talk to you.
Not a word, Estella!" he warned the fortune teller. "Go and sit down over
there."
She did as she was told, her eyes broadcasting an apology and appeal to Francis.
Francis couldn't break free. He should have been able to slip out of that grip like
an eel; instead he found himself being held so tightly that he'd have had a
problem breathing had he still needed to. The hand over his mouth had no blood
smell; neither did the hand's owner.
There was a new vampire in town, and he was a lot stronger than Francis.
Francis fought. He bit, he kicked, he squirmed. His captor only laughed and
increased the pressure of his hold. Finally, though, the stranger had had enough.
"Stop fighting me, boy," he snarled, "or a mortal dies for every kick."
Francis had to believe him, for the sake of the fair-goers. This was one powerful
vampire, and not only in size. The last time there'd been a vampire of this
magnitude in Fletcherville, it had taken the whole Brotherhood to kill him. His
only hope was that Estella would tell Ray what had happened here in her tent.
Francis hadn't bothered to let anyone know where he was going.
No longer struggling, Francis allowed himself to be taken out of the fairgrounds,
through the back ways among the cars and trailers belonging to the carneys. No-
one disturbed them or even saw them go this way; obviously his captor did not
want mortal witnesses. Francis was shoved into the back of a van. There were
no windows and the doors had a solid iron bar that slid across the back. He
could probably escape by kicking the doors open, but it would take a lot of time.
And, as soon as he was down on the floor of the van, his captor bound him
tightly with duct tape and rope; the rope looked like the type of hawsers used to
secure ocean liners to the dock. His mouth was duct-taped, too.
It wasn't the first time this stranger had captured another vampire. That wasn't a
reassuring thought. It would be nice if Francis had even the faintest idea what
this was all about...
Estella found a phone and managed to get Ray's number from information. He
was the only person she could think of to call, even though she nearly hated
herself for it.
'Typical female,' she muttered to herself, 'turning to the man to help in a crisis.'
Yeah, right, so what else was she going to do? Take on a powerful vampire by
herself, in order to rescue another vampire? She remembered the surge of
magical power that had made her flinch when she'd first touched Ray Griffin's
hand. She wasn't turning to just any man, after all; but one who could
conceivably actually help.
Ray was almost at the phone, reaching for it, when it rang. Damn telemarketers,
calling just when he needed to talk to Michael!
"Hello?" he asked breathlessly.
"Mr. Griffin?" asked a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.
"Yes, who's this?"
"Estella Smith, from the fair."
Ray stared blankly at the phone. Why on earth would she be calling him? "What
can I do for you?" he asked.
"Your friend Francis is in trouble."
"Yes, I know... how did... never mind. Do you know what's happened to him?"
"I think so, yes. But I shouldn't really say over the phone. How quickly can you
be here?"
"Extremely quickly," Ray answered grimly. "May I bring someone with me?"
"No vampires."
"Fine. I'll be there in no time."
"I'll meet you at the gate, so you don't have to pay admission."
"See you there."
He hung up and quickly dialled Fairlawn's number. "Hey, Galen, let me talk to
your dad, it's an emergency. Michael, how fast can you get over here?
Something's happened to Francis, and that fortune teller knows about it, she
wants us to meet her. Okay, I'll wait."
It took Michael very little time to get down the road. The Archdruid merely
honked his horn; Ray flew out of the house, admonishing Andrei to stay put, and
jumped into Michael's car.
"Floor it!" the mage said.
"This isn't a Ferrari," Michael said, but went as fast as the Cliff Road allowed.
They arrived at the fair in short order. Estella was waiting for them, having
cancelled her remaining readings for the night. She suggested that a fair full of
roustabouts looking for trouble at the drop of a "Hey, rube!" was not the best
place to talk. Michael and Ray agreed, and she joined them on the other side of
the gates.
"Michael Fairlawn," said Michael, once they were clear of the crowd at the
gates.
"Estella Smith," said Estella. She didn't take his extended hand.
Michael raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
Estella turned to Ray. "We'd better go somewhere to talk, where people can't
hear us."
"Michael's the driver," Ray answered.
Estella got into Michael's car, not looking entirely certain that this was a good
thing. Then she noticed that there were muddy footprints on the car floor, gum
and candy wrappers strewn about, a deflated soccer ball, a three ring binder, and
a torn mitten all abandoned to their fate.
"You have children!" she deduced. "All right, I'll trust you. Drive on."
He ended up driving them to the Fletcherville Inn, a quiet retreat in the village
where they could talk without worrying about anyone listening. They took a
booth in the back. The waitress brought them drinks and finger food, then left
them alone.
"You know what happened to Francis," Ray said, looking at Estella. "Tell us."
"He was taken," she replied, sipping her Coke. None of the three of them had
ordered alcohol. "Taken by another vampire."
Neither of her two companions looked surprised, she noted. It would require
incredible force to take a vampire against his will, after all, and only another
vampire or some other preternatural being would have that kind of power.
Power. There were all kinds; physical, mental, metaphysical, psychic... both
these men sharing her table had power, though it flowed differently in each. She
found herself wanting to automatically trust the one named Michael. Ray Griffin
was still a question mark. A big one.
"Do you know this other vampire, Estella?" Michael asked.
"Yes, I know him."
The van stopped, finally. Francis had been shaken and banged around quite a bit
in the back, for the mooring ropes hadn't been used to secure him to anything.
He was fighting mad by the time they pulled off the road, but was completely
unable to do anything about it. The doors opened and the tall, unknown vampire
reached in, grabbed Francis by the handiest hunk of rope, and pulled him out.
They had driven for at least three hours, by Francis' best reckoning, but he had no
idea of which direction they'd taken. In detective novels, kidnap victims could
listen for tell-tale sounds as they were being abducted, but all Francis had heard
was the van's engine and the bangs he made against the panels. Though he had
excellent night vision, there wasn't much to see when he was taken out of the
van. They were inside a building; possibly a warehouse or something of that
nature because the size of the place dwarfed the van and there were some large
crates and bits of machinery lying about.
He wasn't allowed a more leisurely look. His captor ripped the duct tape off his
mouth, taking a bit of skin with it, and frog-marched him into what seemed to be
an office. An office, Francis did have time to notice, with no phone, computer, or
other outside means of communication. It did have at least one chair, into which
he was thrust, still bound more tightly than Houdini.
"What the hell..." he began, but a blow to the side of his head stopped him.
"I ask the questions," said his abductor.
It was the first time Francis had seen the strange vampire face-to-face. He found
a heavy-muscled, heavy-jawed man of nearly six and a half feet, with brown hair
and deep-set brown eyes, and a nose that appeared to have been broken more
than once. He was wearing ordinary clothing that wouldn't stand out in a crowd.
Right at the moment, his fangs were showing and there was a red light behind his
eyes.
"What were you doing in Estella's tent, boy?" asked this formidable vampire.
"Don't call me 'boy'," Francis replied.
"You have not been one of us for even fifty years yet," replied his captor. "You
are a boy."
"How do you know how long I've been turned?"
"I can smell it on you," sneered the other. "And I said that I ask the questions.
Or would you like another reminder?"
Francis flinched automatically, for his head still rang from the first blow. The
other man laughed.
"I thought not. Now, what were you doing at Estella's tent?"
"I came for a reading, that's all." Francis wanted, very badly, to ask what
business it was of this stranger's, but he kept quiet.
"You were there last night, too." The stranger leaned in more closely. "One
reading, I would almost believe; except that I know Estella too well. She would
not read for you even one time, let alone two."
"I came for a reading," Francis repeated.
"She will not read for vampires." The stranger drew back, looking down at
Francis. It was a threatening pose. "And she would know what you are. She
does, doesn't she?"
"Yes," Francis sighed. "She wouldn't even touch me."
"Estella hates the undead. Even a boy like you would upset her. Your
companion must have been highly unusual, for her to admit you both to her tent."
Francis said nothing. He would not give Ray away. Not a word about the
Brotherhood would escape him. This vampire was obviously inimical to his own
kind; to mention the Brotherhood would be betrayal.
"Odd to see a vampire so loyal to a mortal," sneered the older man. "He must be
someone special to you. A lover?"
It was baiting, pure and simple, nothing Francis couldn't handle. The kidnapper
was expecting Francis to react angrily and deny a homosexual interest in his
companion, possibly by giving away a name or more information. Besides, he'd
known Gideon and Joshua too long and too well to think there was any particular
shame in being gay.
Another, unexpected blow to his head made Francis wince. He had no way to
fight back or defend himself. He hated not being in control
"Why did you go to see Estella tonight?" asked his tormentor.
"I went for a reading."
The admonishing hand dropped. "Very well. You are stubborn, but so am I."
He lifted Francis bodily out of the chair and carried him out of the office as if he
was a parcel. A long walk through the echoing warehouse, and they came to a
small cage with a solid-looking steel door. This had two half-foot-thick steel
bars across them, which the stranger slid aside with ease. He pulled open one of
the doors. Inside was a box, a windowless, bar-less cage not quite large enough
for Francis to stand up or turn around in. It was just the right size, Francis
couldn't help noticing, to fit into the back of the van he'd been transported in. He
was tossed, still tied and duct-taped, into this and kicked until he lay still,
groaning.
"Sleep tight," sneered his captor.
The door was slammed shut. Francis heard the bolts being drawn back into
place.
"You _inherited_ him?" Michael repeated incredulously, a forgotten stick of
celery dropping from his fingers.
"Some families get good jewellery, or the parlour table, or horrible watercolours
by forgotten amateurs," Estella nodded. "My family has a vampire."
Ray looked at her to see if she was joking. She met his gaze calmly, no hint of
laughter in her eyes. When it threatened to become a staring contest, Michael
cleared his throat.
"A few details would be nice," he said gently.
"The vampire is my great, great, great Uncle Rigo," Estella said. "He was made
a vampire by another, many years ago."
"Not by a gypsy curse?" Ray repeated, radiating sarcasm.
"Do not mock the ways of my ancestors, gadjo," Estella said, then laughed at
herself. "I'm only half Rom, and don't really follow the ways of my people. You
should hear the arguments about that!"
"I believe it," Michael said, giving Ray a stern look.
"It should be a gypsy curse," Ray objected, "or what's the point of Uncle Rigo
being a gypsy?"
"Oh, hush, let her tell the story."
"We don't know why Uncle Rigo was changed," Estella continued. "He won't
say. He claims he's forgotten the reason. Nothing anyone did could cure him or
end his existence; and nobody wanted to stake a family member in the heart. We
take family very seriously. Others who weren't family offered to destroy the
wampyr, but nobody wanted to say 'yes, do it'."
Michael nodded to show he understood. Ray still looked faintly incredulous, but
he was hooked on the story in spite of himself.
"So Uncle Rigo outlived everyone in his generation," Estella continued. "And
there was no-one in the next generation, either, who wanted to be responsible for
staking the family vampire. Uncle Rigo chose one person in the family to ...
haunt is the only word I can think of."
"Haunt how?" Ray asked.
"That one person," Estella answered, then suddenly laughed, although it wasn't a
humourous sound. "The 'Chosen One' of each generation," she snorted, "would
be shadowed by Uncle Rigo, protected in a way, but actually used more like a
sort of shield. If anything happened to Rigo, any unexpected stakes or exposures
to sunlight, the family member would die in an unspecified horrible way.
Somehow, he found a way to connect whatever animates him to the life of the
person he chooses. I've tried to do some research on how he did that, but every
time I get close, he finds out and stops me."
"So you are his choice for this generation?" Ray's voice had a trace of sympathy
now. Uncle Rigo sounded like an unpleasant type.
She nodded. "I had hoped that by travelling around a lot, following the summer
fairs and the psychic fair circuit in the winter, that I could at least lose him from
time to time. He always finds me. At least he makes his own arrangements for
food and accommodation, and we never stay in one place long enough for his
eating habits to become a problem with the police."
"Why you?" Michael queried.
She shrugged. "The Sight also carries in my family, though it is seen as not
being much better an inheritance than Uncle Rigo. Fortune telling is not a highly-
regarded trade among the Rom. It's just to fleece the gadje. But Rigo has
usually chosen whichever family member has the strongest touch of the Sight to
be his inheritor."
"Probably because they would be able to spot other vampires, and those with
occult connections, and warn Rigo of their presence," Ray spoke up, surprising
himself and the other two. "Rigo was undoubtedly somewhere nearby last night;
I could feel something menacing, out of place, about your tent. I just couldn't
identify what it was. He must have seen Francis and I go in."
"Yes," Estella nodded. "He warned me long ago to stay away from other
vampires. He's very curious about you." She spoke to Ray, since neither she
nor Rigo had seen Michael before this night's meeting. "If he finds out that I
have left the fair, and consulted two men with power, he is going to be furious
with me."
"Will he hurt you?" Michael asked in concern.
She smiled at him, and for the first time, she looked rather pretty. "There is no-
one yet in the next generation to inherit him," she answered. "He does not hurt
family. But your friend Francis may be in serious danger."
"So Rigo has Francis?" Ray demanded. "Where?"
"I don't know," Estella sighed. "I never know where he finds to hide."
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