Hunger (23 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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“Well then, I'll see you later.” I moved from his grip and went into the viewing room.
The first thing I noticed was the profusion of flowers and was thankful their fragrance balanced out the smell of death that was so pervading at the entrance. They also helped to alleviate the smells of life; even so, in a crowded, hot room with so many humans gathered together, I could always scent their individuals odors, some sweet, some bitter, all intriguing to me. But masking it was the overpowering scent of the funeral baskets, and I thought that I could stay without losing my control.
Gwen's mother was the first person I recognized out of the sea of people. She stood guard next to the casket, a small, dark haired woman dressed in black, worrying the beads of a crystal rosary in her hands. Mrs. DeAngelis was a woman, strong in her faith, who had already buried her husband and two sons. But Gwen had been her favorite, and I knew this death would break her heart. She looked up, our eyes met and, giving me a sad smile, called me to her.
I slipped through the other mourners and reached her, but said nothing. Instead, I hugged her against me, giving and taking comfort. Finally, she broke away and gently led me to the kneeler in front of the coffin. I knelt, my head down for a time, then lifted it to look at Gwen's face.
She looked better than I had imagined she would. The undertaker had done his job well, applying color to her bloodless skin. Her hair, I noticed with an irreverent smile, had been styled, not the way Gwen liked it, a mass of unruly curls that often hung down in her eyes, but as her mother liked it, smooth and sculptured. On the occasions I had accompanied her to her mother's house, Gwen's hair had often been the topic of heated but unmistakably loving discussions. I resisted the urge to reach out and toussle it slightly; instead I stood up and laid my hand on her cold ones and leaned down to kiss her forehead.
A tissue was pushed surreptitiously into my hand, I used it to wipe away my tears then turned to Mrs. DeAngelis.
“I'm so sorry,” I said simply, not being able to produce anything to justify this death.
“I know, my dear.” She twisted the rosary in her hand again and her voice became distant. “She was a good girl, she never did anything to deserve this.” Her fingers caressed the silver crucifix attached to the beads. “I know the Lord has His own reasons, but why He needed to take her now, and this way, I'll never understand.” Her words were angry and drew attention from the people gathered. A young man, tall and well built, rushed to her side, giving me a dark look.
“Mother, you've been standing all day, let me get you a chair.” He walked her across the room and sat her on a sofa. She was crying helplessly now, and I made a step in her direction. The man stopped me and gestured for several ladies to sit with her. When she was settled in he came back over to me.
“Hello, Nick.”
“Deirdre.” There was anger in his voice, directed at me. “I'd like to talk to you outside, if you don't mind.”
“But,” I looked over to where Mrs. DeAngelis sat, “I can't just leave her like that.”
“Of course you can. What's it to you, anyway?” He took my arm and led me, not too gently, through the people and out of the room.
He looked around to see if we were unobserved, then hissed at me, “This is all your fault, you know.”
“My fault?” I knew that it was, that Gwen would still be alive if she had not been associated with me. But how had Nick reasoned that out?
“You had no right to take her away from us, from me. I know you never liked me, never thought I was good enough for her; but I loved her and you had no right to introduce her to your friend or to interfere with our plans.”
“But, Nick, I never introduced her to anyone. She met Larry on her own; I had nothing to do with that. I tried to talk her into going back to you, to try to set things straight.”
“There was nothing to set straight. We were going to be married.”
I looked at him intently. “That's not what she said.”
He met my gaze defiantly for a minute, before his anger faded and was replaced with sorrow and guilt. “I know we had a little disagreement, but I never really expected her to go out and pick up some other guy. Why would she do that?”
“It just happened, Nick. There was nothing anyone could have done about it. And she loved you, you know that, don't you? She loved you very much.”
“Did she?” He began to cry silently, with just the horrible trembling of his shoulders and his head to indicate it.
“Of course she did.” I gently touched his shoulder. He didn't push me away so I wrapped both arms around him and held him tightly while he cried. I could feel the tension in his body slowly relax and when he stopped, his face, though tinged with tears, was lighter somehow.
“I'm sorry,” he said, disengaging himself from my embrace, “I didn't really mean to take this out on you. I know it wasn't your fault, or mine even. I just feel so helpless without her.”
“As do I, Nick. And if it is any consolation, the bastard that did this to her is dead too. No parole, no life sentence; just a nice cold slab in the morgue. And no one deserves it more.”
“Jesus,” he said, in a surprised tone, “you really hate that guy.”
“I would have killed him myself, if I had been able to.” Perhaps it was the look on my face, or the determination in my voice, but Nick shivered slightly.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Deirdre.” He gave a shaky little laugh. “I don't think I'd like it much.”
“Probably not. Do you feel better now?”
He thought for a moment. “Yeah, I don't know why, but I do. Thanks, I wasn't able to cry before.”
“Well, I think you should probably go back in now.”
“Yeah, you coming?”
I shook my head. “I don't think so.”
“Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?”
“No. Look, I brought some of Gwen's things from the office. They're in those boxes.” I pointed. “Can you see that her mother gets them?”
“Sure. See you around?”
I smiled and kissed his cheek. “Maybe, who knows?”
Nick left, and I stood for a moment watching until he disappeared into the crowd, then walked out the door and into the fresh night air. As promised, Mitch was waiting.
“Who was that guy?”
“Guy?”
“You know, the guy you were practically necking with in the hall.”
“Damn, Mitch. You've got a real problem. That was Gwen's fiance, Nick. Didn't you meet him?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said sheepishly. “I guess I did. I'm sorry Deirdre, I wasn't thinking.”
“Obviously.”
My dry comment drew the first smile out of him that evening. “Let's get out of here and get something to eat.”
“Okay, but I'm not very hungry; I ate before I came.”
His smile disappeared. “Well, humor me anyway. I would guess we could find something you can choke down.”
I looked at him sharply, but said nothing. He opened the car door for me, closed it behind me and got in behind the wheel.
“Where to, lady?”
“Your choice, Mitch. Remember, I am humoring you tonight.”
“Just see that you remember it.” As I watched his unsmiling profile, he pulled the car out of the parking lot and turned onto the street, and I thought that it was going to be a long night.
Chapter 18
W
e went to the same restaurant he had taken me to before. We had the same waiter and ate the same meal, but the atmosphere was charged with the unspoken between us. All of my attempts at conversation were brushed off with a shrug or a one syllable response. Eventually, I quit trying and concentrated on my steak and the second bottle of wine. Mitch had turned from a witty and exciting companion to a sullen child, and ordinarily I would have gotten up from the table and left, never to see him again. But even in the tense silence, I realized that I still loved him; enough that his anger, combined with the events of the last few days, finally reduced me to tears. I excused myself and fled to the ladies' room.
When I returned I was more composed, having reached the decision that our relationship was now at the point I had always feared. No longer would I try to salvage what we had; instead, I would cut my losses and get out. It seemed best, but when I sat back down, he looked over at me with concern on his face and love for me in his eyes once again.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and touched my hand across the table.
I pulled away and noticed the extra glass, now half empty, on the table. I picked it up, sniffed and set it back down. “Scotch, Mitch? On top of all that wine? Do you think that's wise?”
“No, but at this point I don't much care.” He took another drink and looked away. “What's happening with us?”
“Us?” I laughed more shrilly than normal. “After tonight, I don't think there will be any us. You were the one who said we should talk; so here we are, let's talk. Or let's just give it up.”
“But that's the problem; I don't want to give it up. When I'm away from you, I have all these doubts and questions. Nothing about you or your reaction to situations makes any sense to me. I've never seen you in the light of day, never seen you eat anything substantial. And I have heard some pretty unsavory things about you from various people.” I gave him a questioning look and he continued. “But I don't really want to talk about any of that. It can all be explained, I'm sure.” He glanced at me, with a sheepish smile. “Nothing about you is as it seems, but when we're together, nothing else matters but you.”
“You certainly have a strange way of showing it.”
He shrugged. “I've been fighting you all evening, but I didn't realize it until I made you cry. I know these past few days have been rough on you, and you've taken it all pretty well, considering. I should be treating you better than this, we both know that. But everything seems so uncertain. I just don't know what to do, what to say.”
“So you say nothing.”
“Exactly.” When he touched my hand this time, I did not pull away. I closed my eyes and began tracing the outline of his hand with my fingertips, softly touching his fingers, his close trimmed nails and the callouses on his palm. When I reached the soft part of his wrist, he shivered and I raised his hand to my mouth and kissed it. I opened my eyes and looked him square in the face.
“Pay the bill, Mitch, and let's get out of here.”
 
Frank was there to greet us at the door of the hotel, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “Miss Griffin. Detective Greer.”
I smiled at him as I passed and he gave me a wink that seemed very out of character. When the elevator doors closed on us, I burst out laughing.
“What's so funny?”
“Frank. He winked at me.”
“So?”
“So, you've ruined my reputation, Mitch. Less than a month ago I was a mysterious, unapproachable resident. All anyone knew of me was the little they read of me in the papers or magazines. They may have gossiped about me behind closed doors, but wink at me? No one would have dared. Now suddenly I am an ordinary person, carrying on a perfectly ordinary affair.” I laughed again and he still looked puzzled. “I'll have to move.”
The elevator doors opened and we walked down the hall. Mitch was still unamused by my predicament. “Why?” he asked, his expression petulant. “Because all of a sudden you have a personal life? It's really nothing to be ashamed of, living like an ordinary person.”
“But I have never been . . . oh, never mind, it is not important.” I opened the door of my room and he walked in ahead of me.
“Besides,” he said, “I don't really think that what you and I have could ever be called ordinary.” He took off his jacket and his gun holster and hung them over a chair, then turned around and smiled.
I stood against the locked door and lazily began to unbutton my dress. “Mitch, you have never said anything truer in your life.”
He watched until I reached the bottom button and dropped the dress on the floor. Then he crossed the room, his eyes intense and blazing, took me in his arms and switched off the light.
 
He lay sleeping with his head pillowed on my breast, one hand lightly grazing my hip. I could not sleep, but had stayed perfectly still for what seemed hours so as not to disturb him. Eventually when he stirred and rolled over, I slipped out of bed and pulled aside the heavy drapes.
The night curled in perfect darkness, the slivered moon and the stars were blotted out by thick clouds, rushing through the sky. Dawn was perhaps two or three hours away and I felt the night calling to me. For there, in the dark, I would find what I needed. I had drawn no blood, mine or his, when we made love, but the desire to feed had arisen strongly. To lie next to him now, with my hunger full and strong, would be a great mistake.
I turned and looked at Mitch; his skin seemed to shine faintly in the darkness. Sighing, I quietly pulled my robe from the closet, put it on and gently closed the bedroom door. Once in the other room, I went to the small refrigerator under the bar, remembering an opened bottle of wine that would help alleviate, though not fully satisfy, my thirst. When I opened the door, I also saw what else I had stored there: the nine remaining bags of blood I had taken from Larry's apartment.
“Damn!” I reproached my carelessness. Mitch could have seen these, easily, had he decided he wanted a drink. Thank God he had not. Looking over my shoulder at the still closed bedroom door, I listened carefully. Mitch's regular breathing reassured me. I stood the blood bags against the back wall, supporting and hiding them with the bottles inside, adding additional ones from the bar. I left the scotch in the front, should Mitch awaken and decide he would like to have a drink at some point in the evening. Hopefully, he wouldn't ask me why I was now storing the liquor in the refrigerator.
With my glass of wine poured, I sat down on the couch. With each sip I visualized the blood, remembered its taste and texture. My body trembled and I broke into a sweat, trapped where I sat. I could not go to the bedroom—my desire to feed was too strong now. And I could not risk using one of the bags for fear of Mitch discovering me. But, he was, after all, in a deep sleep, wasn't he? And I was practiced in stealth and silence. I should be able to feed and return to the bed and he would never know. And yet, should he awake and find me, what then?
My body made the decision for me. Getting up from the couch and opening the door, I dislodged one of the bags. The bottles clinked very faintly and I froze, but there was no accompanying noise from the bedroom, only Mitch's rhythmic soft snoring.
Knowing that I could not drink it cold, I went into the darkened bathroom and turned on the hot water. This might wake him, but it was such an ordinary noise, it would not seem unusual. I held the blood under the faucet and the water splashed out, soaking me to the skin. Swearing under my breath, I slid out of the wet robe and pushed it into the corner of the room. When the plastic of the bag became pliable and the liquid inside seemed the right temperature, I removed it from the sink, then realized that I had brought no scissors with which to cut it, and no glass from which to drink.
I might have laughed but frustration had taken hold. I had to feed, I thought. I had to! The bag was awkward in my hands, but I held it to my mouth. The plastic was more resistant to my bite than human skin. But eventually I managed to puncture it, somewhat messily, then drank with ease.
The taking of blood, even in this fashion, is a rapturous event; I become aware of nothing more than its nourishing flow, the heat of the liquid warming my throat, my stomach, my whole body. Except for sleep, it is probably the only other moment that one of my kind is defenseless and without protection from the outside world. There is only the blood and the drinking of the blood; nothing else, at that moment, exists.
When the light flicked on and Mitch entered, I was at the peak of this experience. My eyes fastened on him, still glowing with the hunger and it took me more than a minute to recognize his presence, to realize what had happened. My naked body was exposed in the glaring light, tiny rivulets of blood trickled from my mouth, and elsewhere there were small splashes of blood from my clumsy attempts to puncture the bag.
Mitch stared at me, his face white with shock. The half-empty bag dropped from my hands onto the white-tiled floor. Two small fountains spurted up from my fang marks, then settled down into a small spreading pool.
“I see,” he said, his tone flat and emotionless. “Oh yes, I finally see.”
He walked out and closed the door behind him. I stood motionless staring at myself in the mirror. Turning on the water again I scrubbed at my face frantically to wash away the traces of blood, then struggled into my wet robe. By the time I left the bathroom, Mitch was dressed and putting his shoulder holster back on. He did not look at me when he buttoned his jacket, nor when he crossed to the front door and kicked my discarded dress out of the way. I shivered for a moment and wrapped my arms around myself.
“What,” I croaked, my voice scratchy and hoarse, “what will you do?”
Mitch looked at me at that moment, and I wished he had not. Then without a single word, he opened the door and left.

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