| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Edward Cox / Artwork by Lee Kurugnati |
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| Poppy Seeds |
Joanne uncorked the little bottle and poured the dirty red liquid into a tin cup. She placed the bottle on the table,
and then, with a steady hand, added some white powder. She stirred the mixture with a silver spoon.
By the open bay window, Franco sat in his customary position, gazing out into the nighttime forest. The size of the
chair dwarfed his frail form. Joanne hated how weak he had become.
She cursed and snapped a cigarette lighter into life. This is your own doing, Franco, she thought and held the
flame to the cup’s base. Never thinking about consequences until it’s too late.
Sometimes Joanne blamed herself. If only she had been the jealous type, Franco would have respected her
sensibilities and not taken so many extra lovers. But Franco’s sexual appetite was so large; Joanne could never
hope to sate his desires alone. To deny him would have been wrong. Joanne had always taken comfort in the fact
she alone was Franco’s one true love. He always promised there would never be another he would ever wish to
share a sunrise with, and that was good enough.
The mixture began to boil. Joanne released the flame and dropped a chunk of cotton wool into the tin cup. Instantly
the wool’s sterile whiteness sullied. Upon the table a hypodermic needle pointed at Joanne accusingly. She took it
and fed the tip into the angry cloud, drawing the mixture into the syringe’s fat body like an over-sized mosquito
greedily feeding.
“I never wanted to return here,” Joanne whispered. “I should’ve told you.” She looked around the room, glaring at
the ceiling, walls, and floor. She blamed them all. This whole building was damned.
Outwardly it was a non-descript place. Its appearance was bland to the point of innocence. But inside it was ugly, a
debauched pit catering for anything the half-sated soul desired.
It was Franco’s idea to come here, to celebrate their hundredth anniversary at the place they first met. Franco might
be an incurable romantic, but his business acumen was uncanny. Only he could have found a reason, in a place like
this, to extend their celebratory holiday indefinitely.
#
When Joanne and Franco arrived at the den, they spent the first two nights reveling in their lusts, and enjoying sinful
passions with hedonistic abandon. On the third night, their hunger demanded feeding. They stalked the den’s
bowels, preying on the lingerers who dwelt there. They were easy pickings.
“What is it, Franco?” Joanne asked breathlessly. “What’s wrong?”
In the gloom, Franco took his mouth away from the wound in the addict’s wrist and shivered. Blissfully unaware of
Franco’s presence, the drug-dazed fool, comatose in his opium dreams, twitched on the dirty bunk. Blood ran
freely from his arm and pooled on the wooden floor.
“I cannot catch my breath,” Franco hissed. He turned dilated eyes to his lover, blinking rapidly and gasping.
An icy touch of winter stabbed at Joanne. She moved towards Franco, and then stopped as he began laughing.
“Franco?”
Franco offered the addict’s arm to Joanne. She took it gently from his grasp, and Franco sat heavily to the floor.
“Such feelings,” Franco whispered, and motioned to the blood running from the wound. “See for yourself.”
Joanne looked at the blood and hesitated. She was so very hungry, but something was obviously wrong. She had
never seen Franco act this way before.
“It is safe, my love, try it,” Franco asserted. “It is wonderful.”
Joanne smiled coyly. She may have been untrusting of the addict’s blood, but Franco would never allow harm to
befall her. She placed her mouth over the wrist and drank, tentatively at first, and then with passion. At once she
knew what it was Franco had found.
Franco looked up at her and grinned. “Opportunity,” he whispered.
Joanne fell to the floor beside her lover and kissed him soundly.
#
An owl screeched and startled Joanne from her thoughts. She gazed at Franco, unsurprised to find him still
motionless in the chair. Ten years had passed since they first returned here.
Once Franco had discovered the sheer bliss of feeding from a man whose blood was laced with opiates, the
business opportunity had been too apparent for him to ignore. The den master had died soundlessly in his sleep, his
life taken by Franco’s skillful brutality. Undertaking ownership of the den was simple enough. It was not as if the
business depended on tax returns, mortgage payments and staff unions. As long as the suppliers were kept in trade,
and customers who came from the town below were catered for, one den master was as good as another. It had
not taken long before more of Joanne and Franco’s kind flocked to the den in search of this new human drug.
Business boomed. It was easy for Franco to become the new lord of the forest, and Joanne his lady: the whore
returned.
Joanne sighed. She lifted the syringe and tapped the body. “You always said this stuff would come in handy one
day,” she told her lover. “You’re an entrepreneur, Franco. Always got your finger on the pulse.” She bit back tears.
The empty bottle sat on the table, uncorked and harmless. Funny -- the liquid had seemed so innocent in its glass
housing, and now so deadly in the syringe. Joanne moved to sit in the chair beside Franco.
It had all seemed so easy at first. But not everyone had been as carefree about the den’s new owner as Franco had
supposed. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the needle into her arm.
#
The sun had set an hour ago. Neatly attired, Franco sat at the bedroom table, ready for a night of business. He read
a letter with an amused expression. Upon the table was a small opened wooden crate.
Joanne lounged naked on the bed, still dozy from her day’s sleeping. She sighed contentedly and hung her head
over the edge of the mattress, gazing at her lover upside down.
Franco met Joanne’s eyes and smiled. “You are beautiful,” he told her.
“Flatterer,” Joanne accused and switch her gaze to the crate. “What have you got?”
“A gift,” Franco replied. “It was delivered this morning, from our church neighbors in the town.”
Joanne sat up. “Oh, what this time?” she asked, irritated. “Crucifixes? Wooden stakes?” Her eyes suddenly
widened eagerly. “Is it more garlic butter? Delicious!”
“Blood!” Franco stated bluntly. He gave a mischievous smile, and lifted a little corked bottle from the box. Holding
it between thumb and forefinger, he shook it gently. Red liquid sloshed within. “It seems our neighbors wish to
‘please’ me.” He lifted the letter. “‘The blood within these bottles is a sacrifice from the townsfolk. A regular
donation of these should sate your hunger, and diminish the need to leave your forest lair and enter the town in
search of sustenance.’ Hah!” Franco tossed the letter away with a flourish. “Do these idiots truly believe we will sit
around drinking from these bottles like cans of beer over a card game?”
“Perhaps,” Joanne chuckled. “Can we not keep them for the winter months? Trade is always poorer then.”
Franco clucked his tongue. “Ah, Joanne. You should know by now the assassin always hides behind a smile. The
blood has been mixed with holy water.” He lifted the bottle up to his nose. “I can smell it.”
“My God!”
Franco smiled at Joanne’s fearful expression. “Do not worry yourself. You would have to drink every bottle in a
single sitting to be poisoned.”
Joanne relaxed. “Then they are harmless,” she decided.
Franco’s face became grave. “Not harmless, my dear. One would be enough to paralyze your sense of touch.” He
shook the bottle again. “It would leave your nerves entirely devoid of feeling, at least for a while.”
“Then throw them away, Franco!”
“I do not think I will,” Franco replied, back to good humor. “They may prove useful one day.” He dropped the
bottle back into the crate.
Joanne sighed heavily. “Can you not just give the churchmen a contribution? I am tired of their attempts to drive us
away.”
Franco shook his head. “Like the last den master?” he asked bitterly.
“Well why not? A small payment would keep them quiet and off our backs. Would that be so hard to swallow?”
“You know, the church once viewed this place as a necessary evil, Joanne. As far as they were concerned, what the
sinful did here, they were not spreading in the town. They justified the former master’s donations as some kind of
tax of fealty to the church.” Franco’s eyes became dark. “But the churchmen are fat and greedy,” he said in a raised
voice. “They once thrived off this place as much as you or I. They will not be content with one small payment. They
will demand regular donations.”
“Calm down, Franco,” Joanne said, chuckling good-naturedly. “Your brow becomes terribly lined when you are
agitated.”
“How can I be calm?” Franco huffed, ignoring his lover’s mirth. “Tell me something: which do you think angers the
churchmen more; the fact we dwell here in the forest like some mocking blasphemy? Or because the undead are not
as charitable as the previous owners?” He scoffed. “They damn our kind, yet they would accept us if we paid them
to. I will not bow to fools so unworthy of their religion!”
Joanne rolled her eyes. Once Franco climbed on his high horse it was difficult to knock him down. “I was born
here, Franco,” she stressed. “Most of my youth was spent in that town under church law.” She slipped from the
bed. “I know what they are like. They will not give us peace until they are satisfied.” She moved to the window,
opened it, and gazed out into the dark forest. “But enough of politics. I find it a terrible bore.”
Franco’s face split into a wide grin. “Ah, my Joanne,” he whispered. “Where would I be without your grounding?”
“You would be more unhappy than you could possibly bear,” Joanne replied playfully. “You have a busy night
ahead?”
Franco moved up behind Joanne and wrapped his arms around her. “Yes, a busy night lies ahead.” He muzzled her
neck. “The crate was not the only thing found at our doorstep this morning.”
“Oh?” Joanne said dreamily and leant back into the embrace. “Do tell.”
“We have a new Monkey,” Franco whispered in her ear. “The servants found her skulking around outside shortly
after dawn. She wants to join the ranks.”
“Who is she?” Joanne asked, feigning jealousy.
“No one knows,” Franco replied. “She wouldn’t even tell the servants her name.” He smelled Joanne’s hair and
sighed. “But I shall call her Poppy. It seems fitting.”
“Poppy is a woman of mystery then?” Joanne said and shivered as her lover grazed his teeth across the skin of her
shoulder.
“After I test her for suitability,” Franco boasted, “she will be no more of a mystery to me than any other woman.”
#
Joanne pulled the syringe from her arm and let it fall to the floor.
The day’s first batch of birdsong had begun. She breathed deeply. The smells of the forest floated in through the
open window; the sweetness of summer berries, earth and foliage; damp and woody, the musky scent of woodland
animals. The forest was readying for dawn’s approach.
Joanne looked across to her love. Franco’s chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly, the skin stretching across ribs
like shrink-wrap. A line of drool fell from the corner of his mouth and pooled on the blanket about his legs. It had
been four years since Joanne last heard his voice.
If Joanne could hazard a guess, it was a ploy by the churchmen that sent Poppy to their door. But the truth was no
one ever discovered where she came from or her real name. A cult had arisen among the town’s younger
generation. Opium Monkeys, they called themselves. Pretty young things would be fuelled with opiates, and then
mingle at Franco’s parties as hors d’oeuvres for the clientele. It fit into their culture as easily as text messaging,
laptops, and Marilyn Manson.
In typical style, Franco personally tested each new Monkey for suitability in his private chambers. It was so unlike
him not to sense danger when Poppy arrived. It wasn’t until she disappeared the morning after a night with Franco
they realized something was wrong. By then it was too late.
Joanne reached across and took Franco’s hand. Soon even this simple touch would be unfelt. The mixture in her
veins would slowly anaesthetize her nerves, and give freedom from the stresses of pain. “Is this how you feel,
lover?” she wondered aloud, and released Franco’s hand.
Weakly, Franco turned his head and looked at her questioningly.
“Soon,” Joanne promised and was sure the ghost of a smile touched Franco’s mouth, giving her a glimpse of the
man he once was.
Not for the first time in recent weeks, Joanne found herself thinking back to the day she left behind her hometown,
and all she knew. So long ago now, it had been a night like this, nearing summer’s end and warm. Franco… he had
been so handsome, so strong and full of promises.
Joanne angrily curled her fingers into tight fists. It was all such a waste.
#
The bright moon shone in the clear night sky and bathed the clearing with its light. With her arms wrapped around
her naked body, Joanne shivered and felt the leaf-mold beneath her feet. She smelt of damp earth and rotten wood.
Even though the night was warm, her skin was cold, yet she felt invigorated. The scents of the forest seemed
different, brighter, sharper, and more apparent to her senses. She could feel and hear wildlife gently living around
her with startling clarity.
She tried to think back. There was a blank spot on her memory. The last she remembered she was in plush
chambers, sipping sugar-laced absinthe, and eating dried dates. Someone else had been with her, stroking her hair
and whispering soothing promises into her ear. And then… and then what?
Franco emerged from the tree line as silently as a ghost. He watched Joanne with dark eyes. He was immaculately
dressed in a suit of purple velvet. A gentleman’s cloak hung loosely from his shoulders. So much the dandy; he
looked out of place in the forest, yet at the same time like he belonged, as he always did.
“How do you feel?” Franco asked.
Joanne blinked several times, and spat dirt from her mouth. “I am unsure,” she said, grit crunching between her
teeth. “How should I feel?”
Franco chuckled. “Alive, perhaps? Free?”
“Yes,” Joanne said in surprise. “That’s it. That’s it exactly.”
Franco moved forward and brushed mud and wood chips from Joanne’s hair. He took her hands and inspected
them. Thick mud had compacted under her fingernails. Her knuckles were scraped raw and covered in splinters.
“I awoke in the dark and panicked,” Joanne explained, almost apologetically. “It took a long to time to dig my way
out.”
“Think yourself lucky you have no family to afford you a sturdier coffin, Joanne,” Franco said gently. “Breaking free
of a thin crate was a blessing in comparison. I was not so lucky at my rebirth.”
Joanne nodded. “I was so alone at first. I thought you had abandoned me.”
“Never,” Franco whispered and kissed her wounded hands. “Have you not found me waiting? Is everything not as I
promised?”
“Yes,” Joanne said, her voice barely above a sigh. Tears filled her eyes. “Without you I am lost, Franco. I do not
know how to survive like this.”
Franco wiped away her tears and gently cupped her face. He kissed her grime-smeared forehead then her cheeks
and finally her pale lips. “We are bound, you and I,” he explained. “Our kind does not choose companions lightly. I
will show you such things as to make your head spin, Joanne… if you will accept me.”
“Oh, I accept you,” Joanne said, earnest dependency edging her tone. “For now and forever.”
“Forever? Yes, perhaps there is time enough for that. We will be eternal companions.”
“I love you, Franco.”
Franco’s face became hard, his eyes hypnotizing. “Because I return that love, I must give you this warning.” He held
her face so their gazes were just inches apart. “There are those in the world who wish harm upon us, and perhaps
with good reason. Blood is everything to a vampire. Without it we die! Remember this, my love… my Joanne…
remember.”
Joanne nodded. Franco’s words were a lesson so full of truth, the instant she heard them they became as second
nature to her as breathing air. “Will we always be together?” she asked.
Franco unfastened the clasp about his neck, and with a flourishing swirl, took his cloak and wrapped it about
Joanne’s naked form. He then placed his arm around her, and she leaned willingly into his strong embrace.
“It is time to leave, Joanne,” Franco said. “Are you ready to forget this simple place?”
Without further word, Joanne slipped a thin arm around Franco’s waist and allowed him to lead her from the forest.
#
Joanne uncurled her fingers, and saw her nails had broken the skin of her palms. She felt no pain. The numbness had
begun.
Blood is everything to a vampire…
It was true. But if AIDS was carried upon its coppery waves, it was as deadly as it was for the living. There was no
mercy waiting for Franco. No release from the ravages of Poppy’s kiss.
Tears welled in Franco’s eyes and Joanne looked away. Above the forest the sunrise had already baked the edges
of the sky angry red. The light began to stretch, stalking and hunting through the woodland. Joanne forced her eyes
wide open; knowing in her heart Franco did the same. “Time enough,” she whispered, and freedom roared in her
ears.
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