Haunted Honeymoon (7 page)

“I’m still friends with most of Oswald’s family, but they’re careful not to mention certain things.”

“
C’est la vie
,” she said. “I wish you’d marry Ian because I bet his mother has a tiara she could give you as a wedding present, and I think a tiara would be wonderfully sparkly against your hair.”

“You are quite inspirational, you know, Nancy.”

“Yes, I know.”

Although Ian must have returned, he hadn’t called. When I thought about him being close by, I felt like a junkie trying to ignore a poster for free heroin on a liquor store window. And, like a junkie, I gave in to my desire.

Since Ian often saw me in my gardening clothes, I decided to wear something special. I changed into a black silk bra and thong, a garter belt and stockings, a lace-trimmed black slip, a clingy wrap-around plum-colored dress, and black heels.

I put my hair up to expose my neck and wore dangling Victorian garnet and gold earrings that Ian had given me. I stroked
on dark eye shadow, layers of mascara, and glossy plum-red lipstick. As I got ready, I became aroused as I imagined how Ian would undress me and the many interesting ways I’d let him violate me.

I didn’t call him first in case I came to my senses at the last minute. It was likely that I’d stay the night, so I took Rosemary with me so I wouldn’t have to return to my loft early in the morning.

When I arrived at the California Crapsman after sunset, cars were in the drive. I rang the doorbell and a moment later Mr. K answered the door.

“Good evening, Miss Milagro.”

“Hi, Mr. K.” Rosemary scampered by me into the house, but Mr. K didn’t open the door farther. I could hear music and voices from inside. “Ian’s back, isn’t he?”

“Yes, miss. If you would wait a moment, I’ll announce you.”

“No need for us to be so formal,” I said, and stepped by him.

“Miss,” Mr. K said, but I was already through the foyer and then I turned toward the sunken living room.

It took me a moment to register the scene. A three-piece jazz band played while people chatted. A few had the too-smooth color of spray-on tans as they quaffed dark red drinks. Among the others, I saw bruises and scabs, the marks of blood tastings.

Ian wasn’t in the room. Someone whispered, “That’s Milagro,” and someone else said, “Mmm, mouthwatering.”

I ignored the comments and walked out of the room.

Mr. K said, “Please, Miss Milagro, allow me—” He tried to block my way and I moved around him, heading to the master suite.

The door was ajar and I pushed it open, saying, “Ian …”

He stood by the stone fireplace, facing out to the room, and Cricket was in front of him, her back to him, in a filmy pale
yellow spring dress. His mouth was on her shoulder, his hands gripping her arms.

Cricket’s head was thrown back and her eyes were closed like a martyr in spiritual ecstasy, the thin straps of her dress falling off and exposing most of her breasts. Her hips were pushed back against him, moving in a slow grind.

Ford sat in an armchair, clutching a tall cut crystal tumbler, transfixed.

I felt as if I’d stepped off a cliff.

I wanted to kill Ian and I wanted to cry, but I was paralyzed, telling myself,
This isn’t happening
.

Ian lifted his mouth from Cricket’s tan shoulder, showing a red gash on her golden skin. He licked a spot of blood off his lip.

“Hello, darling,” he said, and gently urged a dazed Cricket toward her husband.

She fell into Ford’s lap and took his drink from him.

Ian came to me and I stayed stiff in his embrace, just as he remained stiff from Cricket’s friction. His warm lips nuzzled my cheek, my neck, and I could smell the blood on his breath, his subtle spicy cologne, and the scent of his flesh.

I knew he drank from people, from women, but I hadn’t witnessed him doing it since we’d been together. Although we never discussed it, I’d hoped he’d stopped. I thought I would be enough for him.

A stray blond hair was on Ian’s dark shirt, and I felt queasy. “You’re busy,” I said. “I should have called.”

“You’re always welcome. Let me introduce you.”

“No thanks. I’ll leave you to your friends.” I turned to leave and Ian grabbed my wrist, sending unwanted sensations through me. I stared at his hand, and he let go.

“Milagro, tell me why you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry.” I heard the words as if at a distance, spoken
by someone calmly, yet all I felt was rage and hurt. “How you convinced them to do this …”
His mouth on her, his hands on her, her ass rubbing him, her body open to him.

“Come now, Milagro, you’ve had sufficient time to accept my nature,
our
nature. You can see that we’re
all
enjoying this.” He glanced back at Ford kissing his wife as she snuggled against him.

Yes, that was the problem: they were all enjoying it too much.

Ford smiled goofily at me and said, “I like to watch.” He ran his hand down his wife’s arm, and I saw the bruises and scabs there. Ian must have been drinking from her for days. What else had he done to her,
with
her?

Cricket’s eyes flicked to mine and she gave me a confident, bold gaze, a “wouldn’t you like to know?” look.

I walked out of the room as fast as I could, needing to get outside and away.

Ian caught me in the foyer. “Milagro!”

“What?” I snapped.

“Don’t run away,
querida
,” he said quietly. “Cricket means nothing, but can’t you see that Ford is special? He’s very fond of you. He would be thankful to be your thrall.”

“Why do you keep pushing me toward him? Maybe it’s you who wants to watch. I don’t want a thrall.” I was mesmerized by the gold hair on Ian’s charcoal shirt.

Cricket and Ford came into the foyer. She rolled a scalpel in her manicured fingers. Oswald had used a scalpel on me and I associated the surgical instrument with his affection, with the happiness I’d once had.

Ian said to Ford, “Milagro doesn’t believe that others take pleasure in offering what she craves.”

The gawky young man stepped to me and put his hand on my shoulder, sending a warm fizzle through me. “Milagro, I’d really
like it if you, um,
vant
to suck my blood. It would be totally awesome for someone who grew up on Bela Lugosi flicks.”

“Those are pictures on a screen,” I said. “Cuts hurt.”

“I know, but only for a second, and you’re a lot cuter than Lugosi,” he said.

Then Cricket lifted Ford’s hand and deftly slashed his palm with the scalpel, making him wince before he gave me an abashed smile.

She held Ford’s hand out to me and the cut filled with glossy red blood. “Be my guest,” the bitch said, daring me.

She had taken something from me and now the copper tang of fresh blood and the eagerness on her husband’s sweet face muddled my thinking even further.

“Please, please, please,” he said playfully.

I took Ford’s hand in both of mine and put my lips to his palm. I looked up at Ian, but I couldn’t read his expression, and then I licked Ford’s blood. It was mild, yet delectable, a healthy-young-man’s blood.

Ford was gazing down at me. I gently moved my tongue along the cut. My mind was clouded, but my body hummed with pleasure and Ford sucked in his breath and then said, “Oh, yeah, harder,” and I nipped gently to increase the blood flow.

When I saw the corner of Ian’s mouth twitch upward in a smile, I dropped Ford’s hand.

“Holy shit,” Ford said, and laughed. He glanced around at his wife, who looked pleased. “That was so cool!”

“I told you,” Cricket said. She handed the drink back to him. “Let’s find Mrs. K and have her clean that up.” She led him back toward the party.

Ian spotted the blond strand on his shirt and plucked it off, letting it drift to the floor. “You see how pleasing it is to have an eager friend. Come join the others. They’re dying to meet you.”

“‘Dying’ being the operative word. If you’d wanted me here in the first place, you would have invited me. Instead you were drinking from Cricket, and I can imagine what else you were doing, although the thought of you and her …”

He stood as close to me as he could without touching and said in a low voice, “I am not doing this for my pleasure alone, Milagro, although I’m not going to deny that, yes, I like drinking fresh, warm blood.”

“That’s not all Cricket was giving you.”

“She’s a novice putting on a show for her husband’s pleasure. For me, it was a garnish on a cocktail.”

“Emphasis on the first syllable.”

“If you want to know if I had sex with Cricket, then ask me.”

If I asked and he said yes, I wouldn’t be able to endure it. If he said no, I wouldn’t believe him. “I don’t want to know. I don’t care what you do, or
who
you do.”

Ian stared at me with his languid, hooded eyes and said, “You’re very conflicted about who you are, what we are, as you’ve always been. But what is amusing in a girl becomes tiresome in a woman. Grow up.”

“So says a man who spends every waking hour in pursuit of pleasure.”

“Remind me again, Milagro, what it is that you do to contribute to society, besides your decorative value, which is considerable.”

His criticism burned like salt in a wound. “I don’t do enough, and I don’t think I ever will if I keep seeing you. I compromise myself every time I’m with you, Ian.” I stopped speaking because he looked as if he was going to hit me and I realized that I wanted to brawl with him. I wanted an excuse to strike him and bite him and tear his flesh.

Ian and I stared at each other for long moments and then I saw him relax fractionally.

“My voluptuous beauty,” he said as he put his fingertips to my jaw and ran them along my throat, sliding underneath the neckline of my dress, touching the lace trim of the slip against my breast, making me tremble with desire and rage.

For a moment I thought he would at last tell me that he loved me, but he said quietly, “Stay and destroy the furniture with me.”

His hands on Cricket, his mouth on her.
I shook my head.

He put his face beside mine and I felt his breath on my ear as he said, “I would never do anything to hurt you, my own girl.”

I jerked back, away from him. “Not intentionally, Ian, but you do hurt me.” Before I started crying, before I put my arms around him, before I gave in to him again, I turned away and left the house, Rosemary at my feet.

I got in my truck, gunned the engine, and drove too fast down the hill and away from my own awful lust for blood and Ian and blood and Ian.

I stopped at the market. I bought juicy steaks and a bottle of Russian River zinfandel.

When I got to my loft, I tore into the packages, devouring the raw meat and sucking at the juices in a frenzy while Rosemary greedily chomped down a ribeye. I drank the wine from the bottle, the dark liquid spilling down my lips and throat, staining my dress red-black.

The blood was still roaring through me when I looked at the ripped packages and mess around me. I threw everything in the trash. I went to the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it. As I pulled away the shower curtain, I caught sight of my blood-smeared face reflected in the mirror before steam saved me from looking at myself.

But nothing could save me from my own circular thoughts about Ian and Cricket, about sweet Ford and savory blood, about
Mr. and Mrs. K, about my own monstrous appetites. Why did I feel so betrayed when I knew what Ian was, what he did?

I’d walked away from him before and it hadn’t hurt like this. Yet I still wanted him too much to think that our relationship was over.

I tried to expend my energy by cleaning the loft, until my neighbor banged at the wall while I was running the vacuum cleaner. I looked at the clock and saw that it was almost four in the morning.

My mind was still replaying the same agonizing scenes of Ian and Cricket when the phone rang at seven o’clock. I thought it must be Ian and grabbed it up so I could scream at him.

“Is this my pretty little bat?” asked an accented voice in chipper tones.

Only one person used that endearment and his accent was as fake as his name and his memoir. “
Don
Pedro Nascimento,” I said, using the honorific as sarcastically as possible.

“I am not forgotten!” he said happily. “I hope I am not calling too early, but I had a dream about you. You were in a field of flowers, drinking nectar from a lamb who was your friend.”

Don
Pedro’s bag of con-man tricks included dream-telling, and he was especially gifted at inventing dreams that were easy to misinterpret as prophetic.

I said, “I’m not likely to forget the man who sold my manuscript for seven figures and goes on talk shows pretending to have written it himself.”

“I am terribly sorry that you have misunderstood events.”
Don
Pedro never used contractions in his speech, and I assumed he thought this made him seem more exotic and foreign than the SoCal car mechanic that he’d been. “I was most astonished when a publisher heard of my humble memoir …”

“It’s not your memoir. It’s my
fauxoir.
I made it all up, thus the faux.”

“And told me he wanted to publish my book. I thought of how joyful you would be for me, but knew you were establishing your own writing career and would not want your serious work associated with my small tale of spiritual growth.”

“You ripped me off totally. You told me the book was only for your family and students.”

“So it was, lovely girl! The world turns in fantastical ways. On the day I was born, a jaguar was seen in the village by my family’s hut …”

“You were born in Chula Vista, California.” Mercedes had investigated
Don
Pedro’s background more thoroughly than did his publisher or the reviewers who raved about him. “I concocted that jaguar story. Everything about you is a lie.”

He made a
tch
ing sound and then said, “
Mi amor
, what terrible thing has happened to make you so unhappy?”

“Gee, I don’t know,
Don
Pedro, maybe some two-bit con artist took advantage of me, causing me to become bitter and cynical.”