André peeks around the corner, concerned with being caught and losing the game. After a few minutes of silence from the tunnels, I cross my arms and lean against the wall.
I catch myself at the last second, jerking upright. I don’t want to touch whatever corpse residue may have accumulated over time.
“I’m surprised the family takes the joke this far.”
André turns his head but stays in position by the door. “What do you mean?”
“The monsters’ dance is about making light of the gossip. Odd, but acceptable.” I pause and consider my next words. “Butplaying a game like this? In the place a child got lost and died? I don’t know.” I lift a shoulder. “It’s a bit too morbid for me.”
He stands straight, studies my face for a moment. “Yes, but the dance and the hunt began before . . . before what happened to the girl. It’s a terrible thing, but life goes on,oui?”
“That’s true.” I try to sound agreeable. He and Luci obviously enjoy the tradition. I give a little laugh. “But the vampire rumors. How wild is that?”
André bobs his head. “Where Maison Marteau is concerned? Not so much.”
“What? André, don’t tell me you believe in vampires.” I tilt my head, encouraging him to keep talking.
“No.” He looks over his shoulder and walks closer. “But one of them thought he was. Grégoire Marteau, the man who built the mansion.”
I nod in the dark, and André spills.
“It’s not really a secret, but that man wasfou.” André drops his voice to a whisper. “Bat. Shit. Crazy.”
He looks back again, as if afraid someone will sneak up and catch us talking about the revered Grégoire Marteau. “The family pretends. They want people to think they don’t care. Because if they can laugh off their history, so will everyone else. But trust me, it’s a sore subject. Adarkfamily secret.”
André pauses and licks his lips.
“What’s the secret?” My muscles are rigid as I lean forward.
“He had Renfield Syndrome,” André says.
“Renfield.” I roll the name on my tongue, the taste familiar. “Isn’t that Dracula’s helper?”
“Yes. He was enthralled by the vampire and developed a craving for blood. Grégoire Marteau liked to drink blood, too.” André rolls his eyes. “He thought it would give him powers or something. Make him immortal.”
“That is . . . different,” I say, landing on a neutral description.
“But listen, don’t bring it up to the family. Not even Lyam or Luci.”
“Of course,” I mutter, rubbing the chill bumps on my arms.
André returns to his post, watching the tunnel. Then we hear Luci call his name. Her whisper-shout carries a long way in the empty tunnel.
“Merde. She’s going to give us away.” André hurries outside to find Luci, leaving me alone to consider this new information.
Renfield Syndrome. I read about it once, when a friend auditioned for the movie inspired by the Renfield character. The disease is also known as clinical vampirism and involves an obsession with drinking blood. Sometimes, people with the syndrome suffer delusions of immortality or superhuman abilities.
A strange illness and one I can see inspiring gossip. The route from Renfield to vampire is a short, straight line. It’s a logical explanation, and much better than the horrors I’d had in mind.
But as I stare out at the yellowed-tinted light, a question remains. It scrapes around the back of my brain.
Where did Grégoire Marteau get the blood?
32
Where are they?
I’m still waiting in the alcove for Luci and André. It feels like they’ve been gone forever, but I’m not sure if five minutes have passed or fifteen. Time is shifty down here in the dark. And minute by minute, I grow more claustrophobic. I can almost feel the weight of the earth above my head.
