Last Bitten(13)

“Tested? What now? I thought this was a done deal.” Nia drank and enjoyed the sweeter flavor, tinted with a hint of mint. “Refreshing.”

“I stay here. You go up with Florence; she’ll introduce you to your coffin room.”

The stairs spiraled up; Nia followed the blonde bombshell, realizing she hadn’t uttered a single word.

“Are we in one of the towers?” Nia asked, gripping the ring box in one hand and the chalice in the other.

Florence opened the heavy, red door with a single white calla lily carved dead center. It looked real. Nia stroked the smooth curves then entered to find the room filled with real calla lilies. She gasped. “How does Johnny know I love these?” She looked to Florence, who had disappeared off into a walk-in closet on the right. Nia flopped onto the silkiness of the bedding on the cherry-wood, four-poster bed. It was obviously centuries old; she could feel it speak. Memories of something flashed in her mind, something bad—pain. She jumped back up.”Where’s the coffin?”

Florence pointed to the large mirror that hung on the left side of the room.

“What, you don’t speak? What is it?” Nia asked, leery of the silence.

Florence shook her head no.

“Why not? Wait staff banned from talking?”

Florence shook her head no and looked down as if ashamed.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I guess I never thought that you were mute. I’m sorry if I offended you in any way.”

Florence nodded then signed something with her hands.

“Oh, I . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know ASL.” Nia shrugged palms open as they both stood in front of the large, silver, antique mirror. “I guess I’ll have to learn.”

Florence reached a hand out to her, took Nia’s hand and held it, then opened her mouth. Nia backed up in shock. “You have no tongue?”

Florence nodded and smiled sadly.

“Should I ask how that happened? I mean, you could write for me.”

Florence nodded no, then took Nia’s hand again this time cupping it in her own. Florence nodded and closed her eyes, then motioned for Nia to do the same.

A scene unraveled in Nia’s conscious, like she’d flashed back fifteen years. She saw a young, ethereal woman framed in long, sleek, white-blonde hair that just barely touched the white marble floor. The woman held a pair of scissors, inching slowly but surely toward her. Nia felt her arms tied, all the while drowning in an awful sense of fear and hatred.

Nia let go in shock and covered her face. “She cut out your tongue?”

Florence nodded again, the hurt in her hazel eyes.

“Because you broke her favorite vase? I just don’t get that. Who is this woman? That is so awful— You don’t ever need to worry about me doing something like that, okay?” Nia gave Florence a hug, feeling the middle-aged woman’s anguish and mortality. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Nia deeply felt Florence’s pain. This new ability to connect with others was strange, to say the least. In their embrace, Nia also knew that Florence hadn’t touched another person in many years. Why she had touched Nia just now, Nia wasn’t sure. They had instantly bonded.

Nia pointed back at the mirror. “Am I missing something?”

Florence smiled and pressed on the left side of the mirror. It swung open and another set of stairs led up into the top spire itself. The room was very small, and a coffin lay upon the floor—a single lily carved upon the silver lid. On the other side of the coffin, another set of stairs went straight down.

“Wow,” said Nia, bending for a closer look. “I don’t know about this . . . I don’t think I can sleep in there. I mean I know the routine. I’ve seen the movies. It’s just not me really, but that bed . . . can I sleep there?”

Florence gave her a serious look, nodding towards the shining casket.

“Seriously.”

Nodding yes and gesturing for Nia to follow, as she moved, Florence hurried back down the stairs into the walk-in closet. She could hear rustling and then Florence emerged with a massive, emerald-green, basque-styled gown with an emerald-beaded corset. The skirt flounced out in many layers of tulle.

It was enough to send Nia begging for a hot shower.





What am I doing? What am I doing? This isn’t real. I’m not a slave to the night. I’m just not. I’m not one of them. I don’t even know this Johnny, and I’m married to him just because I said yes, in a club, drunk out of my wits? We’re not married—not really. This whole thing is farce. I’m deranged. Of all the things I have done in my life . . . What’s wrong with me? This dress, this ring, everything. Oh my God—Johnny. What have you done to me? What are you doing to me?