June 16, 1908 - Never Free, Never Me
Mull's Pub, The Sativum Building, Morgansborough, NC
The egg white oozed through the separator into the shaker and fell over the ice cubes into the syrup, tea vodka and lemon juice. The two newcomers approached the bar as she fixed the lid, “Un minuto, ragazzi.” She began to shake. “I heard it in the clothing shop across the way earlier today…”
“Someone’s out for…. –fel Mull?”
“A new mulatto…”
“They can go out in the sun, no problem.” She strained the drink into the chilled glass. “Some men were here looking for one.” She turned and handed the cocktail to her customer.
“Cheers, Mia.”
“A tá santé, Henri,” she smiled. The men always preferred it when she spoke a few phrases of French or Italian, and if she included their name it was magical.
Henry pushed a few bills her way. The attractive newcomer with the slicked back blond hair gestured to his glass, “Same.”
The older bald fellow with the handlebar moustache and mole held up two fingers. “So, someone’s looking for a mulatto leech?”
“Mmm,” the bald one drank the last of his beer foam. She took fresh glasses to the taps. “Guess we’ll have to keep our eyes open then.” Gooseflesh rippled down her neck and arms. A leech that could go out in sunlight; did they mean her? Who else could they mean? Her kind wasn’t common but vampire she was. Not that many knew what she could do. She placed the full glasses before them, they paid and she was unable to touch them, not even a light caress. It was always easier then they were drunk, these men were not. “Miss?” the young attractive one stared at her as the bald one fumbled with his wallet. Her heart began to beat within her chest; she could feel the blood coursing through her veins, then the pain began behind her eyes. This young man’s pale blue eyes pierced hers, she feared her brown irises would seen be rimmed with red. “Yes?” she forced mastery over her voice.
“You’re very beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she smiled and made sure her perfectly plain human-looking teeth were seen. “Mia!” Oliver crashed into the counter. She had hoped the bald one would hand her the money but he too slid it across the bar as he picked up his glass. They thanked her again and returned to their table. “Another Mia!” Oliver shouted and her head throbbed. She avoided looking at the lights as she moved. Though it had been busy, the casual touch she was so careful to obtain from most of her patrons had not occurred tonight. She hadn’t had a shift in two days and this one was nearly over – she would need to touch someone with intention tonight… and soon. She retrieved a fresh glass for Oliver. The pain behind her eyes shot through her head to where her coiffure was collected at the nape of her neck. Her eyes squinted to keep out the glare of the electric lights. The counter jarred her hand as she turned too quickly. “WHAT THE HELL, MIA?!” Broken shards of glass lay in a pool of beer on the counter between her and Oliver. “Madon!” She cried through her hand. “I apologize Olly,” she scrambled to get a few rags, “I’ll get you another."
“Yeah! I’d hate to talk to Mr. Mull about this.” She would have clapped back had she been well. Oliver had as much pull with Mr. Mull as she did. Oliver wasn’t charged for his replacement beer. She took a few moments to wash the dirty glasses. Her group of regulars, of the raucous sort, kept the throb in her head. The shards of glass from Oliver’s were thrown in the rubbish bin and the counter wiped off. The dirty glasses washed and her raucous table of regulars remained. The news that someone was looking for her accompanied the pain. She remembered what happened to her parents when she visited their Milano villa during the Esposizione Internazionale del Sempione. “Just a moment,” she said as the bell dinged as she dried the glasses with her apron.
“We need some help here!” She turned, “What can I do for you?” “What do you think? Just look at him!” the one gestured to the man who had slumped onto the counter when he sat down. There were bright red streaks in the man’s stringy blond hair. “Ah mio deo!” She placed some small ice cubes from the refrigerator into a clean rag. “Sir, what happened?” “What does it look like happened?” the surly one snapped. “How did it happen?” “I fell down,” the injured man mumbled. “Here,” she took one of his hands. He wasn’t one of her patrons who wore their bleeding hearts on their sleeves. This would not be a light caress of the hands as she extended a glass or took their money. This would hurt, but not physically. He wasn’t the healthiest, but he was here. She was more afraid of what would happen if she didn’t. “…hold this down.” She pressed his hand onto the rag over the injury.
The man moaned.
“I’m sorry it’s cold.”
The pain behind her eyes left. “We have to stop the bleeding.”
The lights dimmed and the shadows brightened. Cards were being shuffled, beer gulped at the table. All went dark – ‘Keep an eye on Mia!’ – She stepped back and her vision returned when she let go. “Can I get a whiskey?” the surly one asked.
“Sure, have you a preference?”
“Nah.”
She glanced at the other man who cradled his head with the hand that wasn’t on the rag.
She filled a shot glass with cheap whiskey for the surly man in the applejack cap.
“Can I get you a drink?” She asked the injured one.
“I guess just a beer… it’s really bright in here.”
“I’m sorry; I can’t do anything about that.” The surly man clapped a hand on the injured man’s back, “I’m on his,” and left.
“He’s rude, that friend of yours,” she placed the beer before him.
“He’s just a guy.”
“You didn’t know him?”
“No,” he began to sip the beer from its place on the counter.
“What’s your name?”
“Ifrit.”
“That’s an unusual name for around here.”
“It’s not from around here.”
He didn’t seem to know who she was. She had the upper hand if he was the one to keep an eye on her. “Where are you from?”
“Charleston.”
“What brought you here?”
“Getting away from all the bullshit.”
She nodded, “I fully understand that.”
“You too?”
“Yes.”
She eyed him as he gingerly sipped his beer. He was pitiful. This was a clandestine operative?
Arthur staggered up to the bar from the raucous table. She went to tend to him.
“I’ll have another,” he said in his soppy way.
“Sure,” she smiled.
“When you going out with me then, Mia?”
She tensed, perhaps Ifrit didn’t hear him. Then “MIA!” chorused from the table.
Merde!
“I’d have to ask your wife, Arthur.” She glanced over her shoulder. Ifrit raised his eyes to meet hers.
“Now isn’t that interesting?” a familiar voice whispered in her ear. “Not now,” she breathed. “What’s that?” Arthur fumbled with his wallet.
“Not now,” she held a hand up.
“You’re my favorite.”
“I know,” she smiled again.
Arthur took his glass and returned to the poker game. She looked back at Ifrit who was staring at her over his glass.
“Have you had a good night?”
“I’ve had a better one than you.”
She looked up at the clock mounted on the wall, ten ‘til ten and the end of her shift.
“You’re not from here.”
“No.”
“I guess everyone here is running from something.”
“Seems to be.”
“Yes! Very interesting,” the familiar voice said.
Mia froze.
“Did you hear something?” Ifrit asked.
“No.”
“I thought I did.”
“You did hit your head.”
“I don’t think that was it.”
“Do you often hit your head?”
“Sometimes…”
“Now, isn’t that interesting Emilia? This man hears voices.”
Ifrit’s jaw dropped and his eyes grew wide.
She looked over to see the translucent figure of Dr. Patrick Murphy. “What are you doing?” She looked in horror at the table too absorbed in their card game.
“Tell me, my fine fellow, how does it feel? This beautiful creature just drained you of your mental faculties.”
“Wha…”
“Figlio di Puttana!”
“Now, now, Miss Ratavoloira, I sincerely wish to know.”
“You know him?” Ifrit’s cloudy gaze stared at her.
“Yes, Emilia, please tell him how we know each other,” Dr. Murphy’s face contorted into a smile.
She released the mangling grip on her apron. Hoping to frighten this man so he blamed what he saw on the drink or his injury she leaned over the counter and whispered, “I killed this man.”
He stared at her with the same lazy face, “Look my head hurts…” he whined. “Can you tell me where I can find Ed Clarke.”
Mia straightened up, “Do I look like someone who the Chief of Police keeps company with?”
“Don’t lie to this poor man, Emilia. We both know you know where Mr. Clarke is.”
If looks could kill… again.
“Lenoir Road; third house on the left before you reach the bridge; walk around back, knock on the door. I didn’t send you.”
“Obliged,” he set the wet rag on the counter and tilted out of his stool. “Enjoy your evening with…” and he gestured to where Dr. Murphy had been.
“You have some nerve!” she turned to see Magrit Wiedner.
“Sorry, I thought I was on time.”
Mia sighed, “Not you… I do apologize; I was talking to… someone else. They must have left. Listen, I can’t stay, I can come back and help you close should you need me to, but I must go now.”
She removed her apron and donned her coat and hat in such a hurry that Magrit could do nothing but say “Ta!”
As she ascended the stairs into Walton Plaza she heard a throat being cleared as she pulled her gloves on. She looked.
The visage of Dr. Murphy stood before her again.
“Haven’t you done enough?” She turned for the intersection.
“Emilia… you know that man was unwilling.”
“Aren’t many of your patients unwilling? Or weren’t?” She crossed Sterling Street.
“This isn’t about me; it’s about you and what you do, and why. I wish to help you.”
She laughed, “I stopped needing your help sometime ago,” she cut her eyes at his translucent figure as it glided next to her.
“Yes you did. And for that I thank you.”
She stopped; then he was before her with that awful smile under his beard. Her brow had furrowed and head cocked.
“After our… intimate moment… well… death has a way of granting clarity. In regards to you, I can see things clearer than ever.”
“Aren’t you afraid someone will see you?”
“There’s only one person who can see me now, Emilia.”
She glanced around at those who passed her on the street. Dr. Murphy’s presence had always been tiresome.
“What do you want?”
“To fix you, for you to understand yourself as I do. I want you to know why you do what you do.”
“I do what I do because I must,” her jaw clenched, “to survive. It is to me as was eating and drinking for you once. I derive no pleasure out of it, not as you do tormenting me.”
“Why do you follow this man then? Is it to learn more of those who murdered your parents? To know if they hunt you too? Or even Arturo?”
She shook her head. What had any of this to do with Arturo? She was done with him. “You’re just a pebble in my shoe,” she pushed right through Dr. Murphy.
“I’m more than that, Emilia!” He called as she shook off the chill. “He won’t provide any answers, just more questions.”
She looked over her shoulder and he was no longer there.
The passersby hadn’t noticed she spoke to an invisible being. A hack with a squeaky wheel rolled by, a man excused himself as he brushed past her, chatter from the brewery across the street mingled in the humid summer air.
As she shrugged off the altercation with Dr. Murphy and began her course for the home on Lenoir Street to learn more of this man with the odd name, it occurred to her, Ed Clarke – the one who addled the mind of Mr. Rimes and kept his thumb on his brother Ben – was he the one who wished to keep an eye on Mia? But why?
Upon this conclusion she heard another voice, one all too familiar to her, one she would fight claw and fang to never hear again… the one that made her ruin the lives of all she touched… somewhere out on the crowded street… “Do it!”
The egg white oozed through the separator into the shaker and fell over the ice cubes into the syrup, tea vodka and lemon juice. The two newcomers approached the bar as she fixed the lid, “Un minuto, ragazzi.” She began to shake. “I heard it in the clothing shop across the way earlier today…”
“Someone’s out for…. –fel Mull?”
“A new mulatto…”
“They can go out in the sun, no problem.” She strained the drink into the chilled glass. “Some men were here looking for one.” She turned and handed the cocktail to her customer.
“Cheers, Mia.”
“A tá santé, Henri,” she smiled. The men always preferred it when she spoke a few phrases of French or Italian, and if she included their name it was magical.
Henry pushed a few bills her way. The attractive newcomer with the slicked back blond hair gestured to his glass, “Same.”
The older bald fellow with the handlebar moustache and mole held up two fingers. “So, someone’s looking for a mulatto leech?”
“Mmm,” the bald one drank the last of his beer foam. She took fresh glasses to the taps. “Guess we’ll have to keep our eyes open then.” Gooseflesh rippled down her neck and arms. A leech that could go out in sunlight; did they mean her? Who else could they mean? Her kind wasn’t common but vampire she was. Not that many knew what she could do. She placed the full glasses before them, they paid and she was unable to touch them, not even a light caress. It was always easier then they were drunk, these men were not. “Miss?” the young attractive one stared at her as the bald one fumbled with his wallet. Her heart began to beat within her chest; she could feel the blood coursing through her veins, then the pain began behind her eyes. This young man’s pale blue eyes pierced hers, she feared her brown irises would seen be rimmed with red. “Yes?” she forced mastery over her voice.
“You’re very beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she smiled and made sure her perfectly plain human-looking teeth were seen. “Mia!” Oliver crashed into the counter. She had hoped the bald one would hand her the money but he too slid it across the bar as he picked up his glass. They thanked her again and returned to their table. “Another Mia!” Oliver shouted and her head throbbed. She avoided looking at the lights as she moved. Though it had been busy, the casual touch she was so careful to obtain from most of her patrons had not occurred tonight. She hadn’t had a shift in two days and this one was nearly over – she would need to touch someone with intention tonight… and soon. She retrieved a fresh glass for Oliver. The pain behind her eyes shot through her head to where her coiffure was collected at the nape of her neck. Her eyes squinted to keep out the glare of the electric lights. The counter jarred her hand as she turned too quickly. “WHAT THE HELL, MIA?!” Broken shards of glass lay in a pool of beer on the counter between her and Oliver. “Madon!” She cried through her hand. “I apologize Olly,” she scrambled to get a few rags, “I’ll get you another."
“Yeah! I’d hate to talk to Mr. Mull about this.” She would have clapped back had she been well. Oliver had as much pull with Mr. Mull as she did. Oliver wasn’t charged for his replacement beer. She took a few moments to wash the dirty glasses. Her group of regulars, of the raucous sort, kept the throb in her head. The shards of glass from Oliver’s were thrown in the rubbish bin and the counter wiped off. The dirty glasses washed and her raucous table of regulars remained. The news that someone was looking for her accompanied the pain. She remembered what happened to her parents when she visited their Milano villa during the Esposizione Internazionale del Sempione. “Just a moment,” she said as the bell dinged as she dried the glasses with her apron.
“We need some help here!” She turned, “What can I do for you?” “What do you think? Just look at him!” the one gestured to the man who had slumped onto the counter when he sat down. There were bright red streaks in the man’s stringy blond hair. “Ah mio deo!” She placed some small ice cubes from the refrigerator into a clean rag. “Sir, what happened?” “What does it look like happened?” the surly one snapped. “How did it happen?” “I fell down,” the injured man mumbled. “Here,” she took one of his hands. He wasn’t one of her patrons who wore their bleeding hearts on their sleeves. This would not be a light caress of the hands as she extended a glass or took their money. This would hurt, but not physically. He wasn’t the healthiest, but he was here. She was more afraid of what would happen if she didn’t. “…hold this down.” She pressed his hand onto the rag over the injury.
The man moaned.
“I’m sorry it’s cold.”
The pain behind her eyes left. “We have to stop the bleeding.”
The lights dimmed and the shadows brightened. Cards were being shuffled, beer gulped at the table. All went dark – ‘Keep an eye on Mia!’ – She stepped back and her vision returned when she let go. “Can I get a whiskey?” the surly one asked.
“Sure, have you a preference?”
“Nah.”
She glanced at the other man who cradled his head with the hand that wasn’t on the rag.
She filled a shot glass with cheap whiskey for the surly man in the applejack cap.
“Can I get you a drink?” She asked the injured one.
“I guess just a beer… it’s really bright in here.”
“I’m sorry; I can’t do anything about that.” The surly man clapped a hand on the injured man’s back, “I’m on his,” and left.
“He’s rude, that friend of yours,” she placed the beer before him.
“He’s just a guy.”
“You didn’t know him?”
“No,” he began to sip the beer from its place on the counter.
“What’s your name?”
“Ifrit.”
“That’s an unusual name for around here.”
“It’s not from around here.”
He didn’t seem to know who she was. She had the upper hand if he was the one to keep an eye on her. “Where are you from?”
“Charleston.”
“What brought you here?”
“Getting away from all the bullshit.”
She nodded, “I fully understand that.”
“You too?”
“Yes.”
She eyed him as he gingerly sipped his beer. He was pitiful. This was a clandestine operative?
Arthur staggered up to the bar from the raucous table. She went to tend to him.
“I’ll have another,” he said in his soppy way.
“Sure,” she smiled.
“When you going out with me then, Mia?”
She tensed, perhaps Ifrit didn’t hear him. Then “MIA!” chorused from the table.
Merde!
“I’d have to ask your wife, Arthur.” She glanced over her shoulder. Ifrit raised his eyes to meet hers.
“Now isn’t that interesting?” a familiar voice whispered in her ear. “Not now,” she breathed. “What’s that?” Arthur fumbled with his wallet.
“Not now,” she held a hand up.
“You’re my favorite.”
“I know,” she smiled again.
Arthur took his glass and returned to the poker game. She looked back at Ifrit who was staring at her over his glass.
“Have you had a good night?”
“I’ve had a better one than you.”
She looked up at the clock mounted on the wall, ten ‘til ten and the end of her shift.
“You’re not from here.”
“No.”
“I guess everyone here is running from something.”
“Seems to be.”
“Yes! Very interesting,” the familiar voice said.
Mia froze.
“Did you hear something?” Ifrit asked.
“No.”
“I thought I did.”
“You did hit your head.”
“I don’t think that was it.”
“Do you often hit your head?”
“Sometimes…”
“Now, isn’t that interesting Emilia? This man hears voices.”
Ifrit’s jaw dropped and his eyes grew wide.
She looked over to see the translucent figure of Dr. Patrick Murphy. “What are you doing?” She looked in horror at the table too absorbed in their card game.
“Tell me, my fine fellow, how does it feel? This beautiful creature just drained you of your mental faculties.”
“Wha…”
“Figlio di Puttana!”
“Now, now, Miss Ratavoloira, I sincerely wish to know.”
“You know him?” Ifrit’s cloudy gaze stared at her.
“Yes, Emilia, please tell him how we know each other,” Dr. Murphy’s face contorted into a smile.
She released the mangling grip on her apron. Hoping to frighten this man so he blamed what he saw on the drink or his injury she leaned over the counter and whispered, “I killed this man.”
He stared at her with the same lazy face, “Look my head hurts…” he whined. “Can you tell me where I can find Ed Clarke.”
Mia straightened up, “Do I look like someone who the Chief of Police keeps company with?”
“Don’t lie to this poor man, Emilia. We both know you know where Mr. Clarke is.”
If looks could kill… again.
“Lenoir Road; third house on the left before you reach the bridge; walk around back, knock on the door. I didn’t send you.”
“Obliged,” he set the wet rag on the counter and tilted out of his stool. “Enjoy your evening with…” and he gestured to where Dr. Murphy had been.
“You have some nerve!” she turned to see Magrit Wiedner.
“Sorry, I thought I was on time.”
Mia sighed, “Not you… I do apologize; I was talking to… someone else. They must have left. Listen, I can’t stay, I can come back and help you close should you need me to, but I must go now.”
She removed her apron and donned her coat and hat in such a hurry that Magrit could do nothing but say “Ta!”
As she ascended the stairs into Walton Plaza she heard a throat being cleared as she pulled her gloves on. She looked.
The visage of Dr. Murphy stood before her again.
“Haven’t you done enough?” She turned for the intersection.
“Emilia… you know that man was unwilling.”
“Aren’t many of your patients unwilling? Or weren’t?” She crossed Sterling Street.
“This isn’t about me; it’s about you and what you do, and why. I wish to help you.”
She laughed, “I stopped needing your help sometime ago,” she cut her eyes at his translucent figure as it glided next to her.
“Yes you did. And for that I thank you.”
She stopped; then he was before her with that awful smile under his beard. Her brow had furrowed and head cocked.
“After our… intimate moment… well… death has a way of granting clarity. In regards to you, I can see things clearer than ever.”
“Aren’t you afraid someone will see you?”
“There’s only one person who can see me now, Emilia.”
She glanced around at those who passed her on the street. Dr. Murphy’s presence had always been tiresome.
“What do you want?”
“To fix you, for you to understand yourself as I do. I want you to know why you do what you do.”
“I do what I do because I must,” her jaw clenched, “to survive. It is to me as was eating and drinking for you once. I derive no pleasure out of it, not as you do tormenting me.”
“Why do you follow this man then? Is it to learn more of those who murdered your parents? To know if they hunt you too? Or even Arturo?”
She shook her head. What had any of this to do with Arturo? She was done with him. “You’re just a pebble in my shoe,” she pushed right through Dr. Murphy.
“I’m more than that, Emilia!” He called as she shook off the chill. “He won’t provide any answers, just more questions.”
She looked over her shoulder and he was no longer there.
The passersby hadn’t noticed she spoke to an invisible being. A hack with a squeaky wheel rolled by, a man excused himself as he brushed past her, chatter from the brewery across the street mingled in the humid summer air.
As she shrugged off the altercation with Dr. Murphy and began her course for the home on Lenoir Street to learn more of this man with the odd name, it occurred to her, Ed Clarke – the one who addled the mind of Mr. Rimes and kept his thumb on his brother Ben – was he the one who wished to keep an eye on Mia? But why?
Upon this conclusion she heard another voice, one all too familiar to her, one she would fight claw and fang to never hear again… the one that made her ruin the lives of all she touched… somewhere out on the crowded street… “Do it!”
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