Chapter Text
Blood Levy #1
Part I: Entry
October 18, 1971 – Monday
Downtown Collinsport
She stepped neatly, distractedly off the curb, and it was on her at once, vast, unstoppable, thrusting into her space like a shark materializing out of clear sea. Instinctively she tried to wrest her body away from it as it sailed toward her faster than she could understand. There was nowhere to go. Her hands battered against the hot metal, but it was no use; the car bumped her with a sickening cuff that she felt to the limits of her soul, and down she went.
Her palms slapped the pavement. Her long red hair swung all around her face, swished and swung in the sunshine, as if she were on a kiddie ride at the fair. I’m hit, she thought. Hit by a car. This is ridiculous. How could I let such a stupid thing happen? I never saw it coming and I probably didn’t even look to see if it was safe to cross. She felt warm, gritty asphalt under her fingers. Braced on hands and knees she tried to rise, but her elbows buckled, she weakly collapsed onto one hip, and finally, shockingly, banged her head on the ground. Contrecoup brain injury, her mind dictated, as if in chastisement. What must I look like in this undignified position in the street? It seemed to her that all of this took place in a weird, apologetic silence.
Noise finally caught up with the surreal. Trickles of sound, people muttering. Someone across the street gave an exclamation. She heard a chorus of gasps. It’s about time someone noticed me, she thought, ruffled. The car had hit her hours ago. Had the gasps across the street come first, or the exclamation? Bewildered, unable to figure out the answer or why it was important, she laughed inside her head.
“Did you see that?”
“She’s lying in the street.”
“Is that Dr. Liska?”
“That car hit her!”
The car in front of her rocked a little as the driver lifted himself out. His door chunked closed and his shoes appeared before her eyes. Dr. Veronika Liska placed the weight of her upper torso on her arms and raised her head. I’m fine, she said, I’m not hurt, it’s nothing. Didn’t see the car. It doesn’t hurt. She realized that she was not speaking the words.
“Lady, I never saw you ‘til the last second. You hurt? Oh my God, it’s you, Dr. Liska.”
She grunted—and then was suddenly grabbed and lifted out of the road, straight toward the sky it seemed to her, in warm, strong arms—taken away from the apologizing driver and staring onlookers. She curled tiredly into her unknown savior as though this was the most natural thing she had ever done. Papa, she thought. The man holding her turned from the street and carried her back over the curb, his voice rumbling in his chest, cozy against her cheek.
“Watch out, I’ve got her. You—open that door!”
And thus, held securely in a stranger’s arms, was Veronika borne into the dark foyer of the Collinsport Inn.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At nearly the same moment that this was happening to Dr. Liska, another woman was being carried into a different dwelling. Tisa Lundford was ferried into the foyer of Collinwood, held in the arms of her uncle, Elliot Stokes.
A muffled thud and a scratching noise at the front door had alerted Elizabeth Stoddard, seated at her desk in the drawing room, that she had a guest. She rose and went curiously through the foyer, a smile stealing across her lovely face. She was anticipating Elliot Stokes and a relation of his, a niece that none of them had ever met. Elliot’s other niece, Hallie Stokes, now living here at Collinwood, looked forward to spending time with this long-lost cousin.
Opening the door, Elizabeth’s smile of welcome was transformed into surprised concern.
A pink-faced Elliot stood in the October sunshine, gripping a limp young woman in his arms. She lay weakly against his chest, her hands curled closed, legs dangling, a faint growl emanating from her throat. Elizabeth couldn’t see the girl’s face, pressed as it was into Elliot’s collar, as if wincing away from the sunlight.
“Oh!” Elizabeth faltered, drawing back. Elliot gave a slight upward toss to the girl in his arms to get a better grip. Her limbs flopped bonelessly in reaction.
“It’s us,” he gasped. “Elizabeth—my niece, Tisa. Can she—may I—”
“Come in!” Elizabeth cried. “Elliot, of course she may come!”
At this invitation, Tisa Lundford passed the threshold of Collinwood.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Downtown
Striding past the startled young man behind the check-in desk, the stranger carried Veronika into one of the unaired formal sitting rooms beyond the café and gently deposited her onto a cretonne sofa. The woman’s eyes closed, fluttered open, then shut again. He could see that she’d struck her head; a dark bruise was already forming on her forehead. What did one do for a closed head wound? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t think. Oh, damn his memory. The man frowned over her as the desk clerk hurried into the room.
“Mr. Nunes! What happened?”
Nunes turned to regard the teen in a short-sleeved plaid shirt with an uncomfortable-looking knit clip-on tie, dark pants, and shoes. The boy’s eyeglasses flashed at Nunes. He looked young and untested.
“Lady’s been hit by a car,” Nunes rasped, straightening. Just over the young man’s shoulder, he could see the interested faces of other people who had followed them from the street peering into the room. He indicated them with his chin. “Get them out of here,” he instructed.
“Everything all right in there?” someone called from the gathering crowd. Others craned their necks to see into the room. Nunes moved to stand protectively over the accident victim, blocking their view of her with his body.
The desk clerk went to the doorway, irritated. “Come on, folks, now, please go away. Everything’s okay in here—just go on out—yes, I know, I know—” his voice trailed away as he firmly led the small throng to the front door. He came back to Nunes almost at once, face stricken with concern.
“Mr. Nunes, shouldn’t we …” Call Collinwood, the boy had been about to say. He was pretty sure that Dr. Liska was engaged to Roger Collins. But Nunes probably didn’t know anything about Collinwood.
The man’s dark eyes measured him. “What’s your name?” Nunes asked.
“Warren Paxton, sir.”
“Warren, sit with this lady. Keep an eye on her. Better yet, rustle up one of the housemaids and get them to sit with her. You’d better guard the front door.” For they could hear the door to the Inn being cautiously reopened, and low, curious voices murmuring in the foyer. “I’ll phone the doctor. Do it now.”
Warren studied Nunes. Here was this man, a guest who had taken a room upstairs last night, commandeering the situation. Warren was nineteen years old and didn’t really work here; he was only covering the front desk for a few months until the winter semester of college started. He was glad to defer to the instruction of the older man.
Pressing at the eyeglasses which had slid down his nose, he hurried away, encountering a maid loading a laundry cart with clean towels. He sent her to the sitting room. No sooner was he positioned behind the check-in desk that, again, folks began opening the street door and looking inside, hissing questions at him. He grimaced. Nunes was right. This was an annoyance, people hanging around as if there had never been a car accident before in the history of mankind, maybe hoping to see blood or hear moans. Feeling an alliance with Nunes, he hastily rounded the desk, urged the curious people outdoors and joined them, closing the door firmly behind him.