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Chapter 6
TorontoThe elevator doors opened on the 9th floor. Directly in front of him was a pair of glass doors. A tasteful bronze plaque next to them proclaimed SRPB Publishing. Will was definitely in the right place, but now that he was actually here, reaction set in.
He had been so excited after receiving the letter that the next few days were a blur. He had been so busy making arrangements, comparing airline prices, looking up hotels on the Internet and reading about things to see and do in Toronto, that he hadn't had a chance to be nervous. He had even invested in a water-resistant, plush-lined all-weather overcoat that he thought would be appropriate for the weather conditions in Canada. It had been a rather large expense, but he was glad to have it as he exited the plane into decidedly un-California-like weather.
Will took a deep breath in an attempt to quiet his suddenly pounding heart. His heart was so loud in his ears; it felt wrong somehow—like he shouldn't be able to hear it beating. Maybe everyone felt like that. In normal circumstances, nobody paid any attention to their hearts . . . A slight redness around the edges of his vision warned him that he had forgotten to exhale. He laughed, breaking the tension. He'd certainly make a good impression if the publishers' first sight of him was their prospective new author passed out in front of their doors!
He stuck his new manuscript between his knees, while he wiped his sweaty palms on the lining at the bottom of his coat. His tie felt like it was strangling him, but he guessed he was as ready as he'd ever be. He straightened his tie, retrieved his manuscript and opened the door.
He walked down a hall covered with framed movie poster-sized paintings. They were rather lurid. Who chose artwork that was all so very similar? Women in period dress, nightwear, or modern dress that somehow always happened to be long and flowing; every bosom heaved, every woman had long, thick, abundant hair. The hair came in one of four colors—coal black predominated, followed by red, blonde and chestnut. It felt like being in the 18th century version of the Playboy offices. Oh! Of course! These were book covers. Duh!
At the end of the hall, he noticed a large window on his right and a waiting room on his left. The waiting room was furnished with actual chairs—not those horrible rows of formed plastic, all stuck together and bolted to the floor that the airports featured. As he approached the desk, an attractive woman exited an office and came toward him.
“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was here,” she greeted him with a smile. “Can I help you?”
Will cleared his throat. “I'm William Winter. I have an appointment with Ms. Parker. I'm a little early, so I could just sit here and wait.”
The receptionist checked her appointment book. There he was: William Winter, scheduled with Harriet for eleven o'clock. Her eyes glanced at the clock on the wall. 9:42. Definitely more than 'a little' early.
She gave him a friendly smile. “Would you like coffee?”
“Oh, no. No, thank you.” He was nervous and wired enough; the last thing he needed was more coffee.
The receptionist smiled again. “I'll let Ms. Parker know you're here.”
She could have used the phone, but decided she'd pop into Harriet's office instead, to see if there was any way Harri could squeeze him in early. The poor guy looked like he'd implode long before the 75 minutes were up. First time authors were so fragile; they always brought out her protective instincts.
**********
Will's feet barely touched the ground as he and Ms. Parker—Harriet—left the building. She had offered to take him to lunch, and he suddenly felt ravenously hungry. Ms. Par—Harriet—had been all that he'd hoped for. She was exactly as he'd imagined a successful editor; mid-40's, fashionably dressed, short brown hair that she had a habit of running her hand through, rectangular tortoise-shell glasses—he had felt immediately at ease in her presence. And she was excited about his book!
When he'd given her the new manuscript, she'd said that if it were similar to the first, she was looking forward to a long and profitable association with him. She'd given him some suggestions for re-writes and a $25,000 advance. He was an author! A professional, soon-to-be-published writer!
Harriet and her husband owned a small cottage in Quebec, where they frequently spent weekends during the summer. It was quiet, rural and a bit rustic, but she offered it for his use during the re-write process. They'd have to meet frequently and it would be much more convenient—and much less expensive—than flying back and forth from LA. He'd jumped at the chance.
The cottage was closed for the winter, so Harriet suggested he relax and spend a few days sight-seeing in Toronto while she arranged to have the electricity and water turned on. There was no heat, but there was a fieldstone fireplace in the main room and a coal-burning stove in the kitchen, which shared a wall with the larger of the two bedrooms, so he should be comfortable enough. The coal bin was full, and she'd order a cord of wood for his use. He'd asked her about renting a car, and Harriet suggested a 4-wheel drive vehicle.
Will's hotel was pre-paid through Monday, and his return flight was scheduled for Monday afternoon. He'd relax and enjoy his three-day vacation in Toronto, then go home to pack for his stay in Quebec.
Life was good . . . and getting better by the moment!
**********
Quebec
Anne awoke with a small smile on her face and stretched like a cat. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt that she was so happy here. She couldn't remember her previous life, but she must have had one. She must have had a job, responsibilities, people who cared about her . . . Maybe not. She knew Mother Marie-Claire checked all the newspapers, and no one seemed to be looking for her. If she'd had a job, it must have been some crappy, minimum wage thing—she got a brief flash of a brilliant orange hat . . . with a cow? No ring, so she probably wasn't married. Based on the injuries she'd had when she'd come here, she'd bet she had some dead-end job with no future and an abusive boyfriend that nearly killed her! Why would she want to go back to that?
She was happy here. She felt . . . serene. There was a comfortable routine about her life. She didn't have to make any decisions, she was contributing to the community by doing the simple tasks the Sisters assigned to her, and she felt welcome and cared for. This felt like something that had been missing in her other life. She got the feeling that she hadn't been taken care of by anyone in a long time; she felt that she was more the one who took care of everybody else.
This was nice . . . it was like a vacation. She pushed away the thought that her memory might never come back. She wouldn't think about that now. She just wanted to live in the 'now'—to enjoy the peace and quiet happiness of her current situation. Was that so wrong?
**********
Quebec
Lucien rose at sunset. He was expecting a shipment of soil that he had ordered from a gardening supply house in Arles. It was due to arrive at the Port de Montreal tonight. He had arranged to hire a pick-up truck in Quebec City, and he wished to be on the road by 5:00; half-past, at the latest. Blessing the short winter days, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. Boots and a sheepskin jacket completed his ensemble.
He glanced at the sky; he had enough time to travel to Quebec City in the old-fashioned way. A wry smile crossed his features at the thought of his describing the BMW motorcycle as 'old-fashioned'—perhaps he should have referred to that particular mode of transportation as 'mortal', instead.
Lucien floated across the pristine snow, leaving no tracts to his lair. Arriving at the abandoned barn he had appropriated for his use, he sent out his senses to check for intruders. Good. No one had discovered his hide-out. With a flick of his wrist, he unlocked the intentionally decrepit-looking padlock and waved open the barn door. Walking past the Land Rover, he removed the tarp from the bike.
He turned the key, mentally adding power to the battery, and it caught at once. In no time at all, he was roaring down the country lane leading toward Autoroute Provenciale 73. Once on 73, he would make good time to Quebec.
**********
Once he had transacted his business at the Port de Montreal and his crates of native earth were safely stowed in the back of the pick-up, Lucien relaxed. He did not come to Montreal very often; the noise and sheer numbers of humans existing in such close quarters overwhelmed him. Imagine! The population of Montreal was currently over one million people. Lucien could not conceive of such a large number. He doubted if the entire population of France, in his youth, was that large. And here they were—all in one city.
He strolled the streets by the docks, where the unfortunate women who had no protectors sold themselves for money—to buy another day of existence. Lucien passed by the ones who polluted their blood with drugs or excessive alcohol and the ones who were too thin or sickly. Those could not spare what he needed, and he would not bring about the continuance of his own existence at the expense of theirs.
He caught the eye of a demi-monde who looked reasonably healthy and mentally drew her toward him. A satisfactory price for a blow-job was agreed upon, and she led him into a shadowed alley. Gently grasping her chin, he stared into her eyes; implanting the 'memory' that she had performed the agreed-upon service.
Her facial muscles went slack and her eyes closed as her head lolled to the side.
Supporting her weight with one hand, Lucien stroked her throat with the other. His canine fangs descended as he watched the blood pumping . . . pumping . . . beneath the thin layer of skin. Holding her chin steady, he pierced the skin and drank, then closed the marks of his entry with a swipe of his tongue.
Bringing her back to full awareness, he walked with her to the coffee shop down the block and bought her a cup of hot, sweet tea before going on his way.
That was the usual reward for donating blood, n'est pas?
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