Where A Witch Goeth

Chapter Eight: Minnie

When I woke, I was lying on my back on an old-fashioned brass bed, staring at a ceiling with a lovely plaster medallion at its center. The electric chandelier hung beneath was dark. The only light came from the bedside table— a small lamp with a blue satin shade and gold tassels. On the opposite wall, lace panels billowed like specters, thanks to open windows.

For a long moment, I simply lay there, appreciating the charm of the room as if I were touring some historic home. The cornflower blue damask wallpaper was a blend of decorative elements of the time—columns of art deco diamonds outlined in navy alternated with uniform boughs of tiny gold flowers. Crochet doilies covered the tops of the mahogany side tables and the dresser on the opposite wall. A dressing screen in the Asian style decorated claimed left wall, flanked on either side by a door. One shaker-style rocker sat before a small fireplace to the right of the bed.

Individual fireplaces in the hotel rooms might well be the reason this joint burned down, but I supposed there was no better way to heat a building this large, especially when it was sectioned into such small rooms. Not in 1924.

Was it 1924? I assumed so, based on what Abraham had said. But it was possible I was allowing him too much power or influence.

Okay, so the first order of business was to find out exactly when I was. I sat up, intent on doing that, but my arm insisted on expressing its displeasure at being mauled, bitten, and self-mutilated.

I gave the puffy, inflamed puncture wounds on my forearm a tentative squeeze. What came out of the wound was a pinkish ooze, streaked with alarmingly yellow pus. What came out of my mouth, obviously, was my favorite exclamation of dismay, the f-word.

"Don't say that too loudly around here, Little Miss Witch," a cheerful, throaty voice called as she bustled in the door from the hallway at the opportune moment to hear my hissed expletive. "If a vampire doesn't hear it and take you up on the offer, one of those goddamned Vanderbilt cousins will."

A shapely brunette sashayed toward me with a fluffy stack of snow-white towels, topped with what might possibly be a nightgown. The bringer of these welcome necessities was dressed herself in roaring twenties glory. A spangly, black-and-silver number, dark hose, opera length necklace, stacks of bracelets, sequined headband. No shoes, but I imagined she'd already kicked those off to dance the Charleston.

Though she was probably a decade north of the age of most flappers and had maybe had a handful of years on me, she was far past pretty enough to carry off the fashions of youth. And if she were to be judged by her opening sentiments, I thought she was agreeably sassy, too, which was even better than pretty.

I was curious about her mention of Vanderbilt cousins. Everyone who lived in North Carolina in 2021 knew that our state laid claim to its very own French Chateau, called Biltmore House, built by one of the Vanderbilt heirs in the nineteenth century. It operated as a profitable tourist attraction in my time, but in the early part of the twentieth century, I was guessing it was still very much a private residence to the Vanderbilt family. Asheville, where Biltmore was situated, was a solid hour south of Sanguine Springs in modern times. I wondered why Vanderbilt relations were here at this resort, at a considerable arm's length from their family at Biltmore, considering the castle had something like three dozen bedrooms.

"Which is the shadier set?" I inquired with a smile. "The vampires or the Vanderbilt cousins."

"Oh, the Vanderbilts by far. I'm not convinced they are Vanderbilts, to be honest. None actually bear the Vanderbilt name."

I wanted more of this story, but it seemed like introductions were in order first. Particularly since this girl seemed to know a bit about me and the vampires, too.