Hunger (29 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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“Soon, my little one, you will learn that human lives are worthless, next to the power we possess. The power of life eternal, savagely drained. And the power of death. That night at the club, when I said you had changed, I thought that you had finally awakened and come into the power that is yours by right.” He smiled at me and I saw that his canines had grown sharper and longer. “I know now that was not the case. That you had only been in love. In love,” he repeated with scorn and grasped my face roughly between his hands again. His face glowed with a fury and a love that I had never seen before. “You have no idea what that word means, until you taste what I have to offer.” Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice was crying violation and rape, but I was again drawn into him against my will, and when he bent his head to drink at my neck I welcomed his kiss.
“Ah,” he said as he withdrew his bloodied mouth. “She walks in beauty, like the night.”
I caressed his cheek and smiled. He kissed me again, I could taste my own blood on his tongue and was deeply aroused. “Tell me more,” I urged huskily. “About our power.”
“We are gods, you and I. They can mean nothing to us; they are here for our sustenance, nothing more.” He spoke insistently. “Your initiation has been delayed for too long, little one. But now your time has come. You will be my mate, my love, my passion through all eternity.” He turned me in his arms to face Mitch. He was struggling to rise from the floor, to reach us, to stop us. “Look at him, Deirdre,” Max commanded. “Look at your human lover. Pitiful, isn't he? You could break his neck with one blow. You could crack his spine easily, without a second thought. But we don't want him dead, not just yet, do we?” I looked at Max questioningly, I was a child in his hands. “Go to him, Deirdre. Take him, he is yours. Take all of him. I suspect he'd rather suffer his death at your hands than at mine. But just to show what a good sport I am, Greer, I will let you die in private.”
Max laughed and gave me one more kiss, still holding my gaze. “Soon, my love, we will begin our life together, we will roam the earth together, the night will be ours.” He closed the door softly and I walked slowly toward Mitch.
“Deirdre,” he said weakly. “You have to stop him.” I knelt down next to him, took his uninjured hand in mine and stroked his hair. “He's crazy, you know that. He's got you under some sort of spell, don't you realize that?”
“Don't worry, Mitch,” I said. “Everything will be fine.” I was startled by the expressionless tone of my voice; he heard it too and tried to crawl away from me. The horror on his face was terrible and yet somehow gratifying. I remembered what Max had said, that he was mine to take completely. I smiled, knowing that my canines were exposed to his view.
His face grew ashen with fear. “Deirdre,” a note of pleading entered his voice. “You don't have to do this. He can't make you kill me.”
“Oh, but he can, Mitch.” I lifted him gently in my arms.
“Look at me, Deirdre. Really look at me.” I heard him as if from a distance, but the words made no sense. The veins were throbbing in his neck, calling me, pulling me. I put my mouth on him, nuzzling and licking the skin, his scent was fear and blood.
With one final burst of strength he grabbed my chin and pulled my face up. His eyes drew me; I could read fear there, but beneath it I could see his love for me still. “I love you,” he whispered and I heard the truth in his words. “And I will love you even as you do this.”
I shuddered and began to lose some of the urgency of Max's words. “I love you, Mitch, and I won't hurt you. It will be painless, I promise.” He shook his head weakly, the desperate grab had drained him. “If I don't,” I continued in a panic, “Max will. You know that. He won't be kind.”
“I don't give a damn about the pain, or even my death. But I don't want him to turn you into someone you're not. You can't be like him, Deirdre. It would kill you eventually.” He looked at me again, his eyes that intense blue I so loved. Somewhere, deep inside me, his words were being heard.
“You are not afraid of me, then?”
“No,” he said, never taking his eyes from mine. “I know what you are, but I am not afraid. I trust you with my life and my soul. You won't hurt me.”
Tears began to stream down my face and I knew that the battle had been won, if only temporarily. “But I don't have the strength to fight him, Mitch. He's fed on me and he is strong, fortified by my blood. He's weakened my body, knowing that my mind will follow. When he returns, he'll force me to kill you or do it himself. You must leave.”
He tried to smile. “I can barely sit up, Deirdre, how could I leave?” He looked at me again and shook his head. “No, there is only one way, you must take me, take my blood. Take it all if you need, my death won't matter if you can rid the world of that madman.”
“No, I won't.”
“You must. I want you to. It's the only way out for you. And you're all I have now. I don't want to live, knowing that he will always be there, to corrupt you, to twist you into a creature like him. You must kill him and you must take my strength to do it.”
“Are you sure, my love?”
“Yes, now do it quickly, before he returns.”
I kissed his mouth and slowly moved to his neck. “Now, do it now,” he whispered and I sank my teeth into his skin; he never even flinched, but sighed and smiled as his blood flowed into my mouth, warming and strengthening my body and my resolve.
When I had finished, I gently stroked the hair from his pale face. “Forgive me, Mitch,” I whispered to him. His eyes fluttered weakly but I hoped that he would hear. “I never meant for this to happen.” I kissed his cold lips and rose from the floor.
I quickly surveyed the room. It was exactly as I remembered it; how many nights had I sat here with Max, drinking and laughing? And yet how changed it was, now. It had acquired a nightmarish quality and I knew that I would never be free of the dreams that had occurred here tonight: dreams of love, passion and death. “Max.” I called his name aloud and it echoed around the room. “Max!” I screamed it in fury and paced around the room. I tossed a barstool at the wall to see it shatter into pieces. Picking up the largest splinter, I turned it over in my hands. It was one of the legs, about two feet long and the end that had broken was sharp and pointed. “Max!” I screamed again, knowing that he would hear. “Come and see what a god has done.”
He burst through the door, and saw me, my arms hidden behind my back. His eyes took in the crumpled heap that was Mitch and lit with a devilish glow. “Good, Deirdre. You have done well. Come to me and I'll reward you. Tonight you will feed on me.”
I moved toward him, slowly and sensuously. He closed the door and leaned against it. He looked at me; then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. His neck exposed, he beckoned to me. “Come to me, Deirdre,” he said forcefully. “Tonight is our wedding night. I will share my essence with you once again.”
I felt a moment of panic as I came closer to him—his power over me was still formidable. Had I taken Mitch in vain?
But at that second, Max closed his eyes, reached for the light switch and turned it off. His power over me was gone and I found him in the dark, as he once found me. I kissed his neck; he gave a low, passionate moan. “Put your arms around me,” he said huskily. “Hold me close to you.” I could feel his heart beat next to me. I placed one hand firmly on his shoulder, pinning him to the door. “Now your other arm, Deirdre. Ah, I have waited so long for this, so long for you.”
“So have I, Max, although I never knew it until tonight. Thank you.” I bestowed one more kiss on his neck, then his mouth. He was silent in expectation. “Now,” I said quickly and he caught his breath in passion. I brought my other hand from behind my back. The stake found him quickly; I used all my borrowed strength and drove it deeply though his heart. The force of my blow lifted him from the floor and impaled him firmly on the door. He gave a choked cry and flailed his arms about in an attempt to free himself. One of them caught the switch and the lights blazed on.
The sight was horrifying: Max writhing, blood spurting from his chest, his lips foam-flecked and his face grimacing in pain and surprise. When he tried to grip the stake, to remove it, I pinioned his arms to the door. His eyes frantically searched about the room for release; finding none, they fastened upon mine. I could not fathom their expression; was it disbelief, fear or hatred? Perhaps it was even relief, or love. No matter, he held me there as compellingly as I held him. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Was he saying my name, pleading with me?
Tears began to flow down my face, but still I held him, and was forced to watch the life slowly drain from him. And as he died, I saw the years accumulate, not in his face or body, but in his eyes. “Dear God,” I whispered softly. “How many years, how many centuries?” I loosened my grip upon him in horror at what I had taken away from him and from myself: the knowledge, the capacity to survive for so many years. He struggled no longer, but continued to draw me into his eyes. I shared his pain and despair, his triumphs and conquests; somehow I was pulled into him, deeply pulled into him and felt his power and his pain enter into my own body and soul. Mentally, I staggered back from the invasion, no longer sure that I could hold him or my resolve. No longer sure that I desired his death. But before I could loosen my hold, before I could repair the damage I had inflicted, his eyes glazed over and his mouth fell open in a ghastly grin. His bloodless lips curled back, exposing his teeth, still sharpened, startlingly white. “Deirdre,” I heard his whisper in my mind. Then, as abruptly as the slamming of a door, he was gone.
I let go of his arms and they dropped limply at his sides. His body swung gently back and forth and small drops of blood ran down the length of the stake into the expanding pool at his feet. I wiped my hands on my pants and turned away.
“Is he dead?” The voice was weak but undoubtedly Mitch's. I went to where he lay.
“Yes,” I said wearily. Speaking was an effort; I was tired and shaken. “He is dead.” There was no happiness, no triumph in my voice, but Mitch did not notice.
“Good!” He tried to smile at me but failed. “What a night, huh?” His eyes closed once more. I walked slowly to the desk, and called for an ambulance. Then I sat down next to him and cradled his head in my arms until I heard the sirens. When they arrived, I kissed Mitch and felt for a pulse in his neck. It was there, but so faint that I could have missed it. “Please live,” I urged him. “I have enough blood on my hands. I don't want yours.” I rose then, carefully opening the door that still held Max impaled and lifeless, and fled into the blackness of the night without turning back.
Chapter 24
D
uring the three weeks Mitch spent in the hospital, I completed my plans for departure. The transfer of Griffin Designs went smoothly. Other aspects took longer: the transfer of my funds to Swiss accounts, travel arrangements and living arrangements at my new destination. But by sundown, New Year's Eve, I was packed and ready to go. Most of my effects had been sent on ahead so all I had was a small travel case, plane tickets and a passport with the picture and name of a stranger. The name I could get used to, I had before; but I looked with doubt at the picture and its image in the mirror. I had cut my hair short and dyed it a deep brown, almost black. It was very chic, very modern and I hated it. But I looked sufficiently unlike Deirdre Griffin to proceed with a new life. That, I told myself again, was all that mattered.
I called the lobby and asked Frank to get a taxi for me in about half an hour. My flight would not leave for almost three hours, but I saw no need to linger. The rooms had already acquired an impersonal feeling; it was strange to consider that soon someone else would be living here. I made a final tour to make sure that I had left nothing behind. I was in the bathroom, when there was a tentative knock on the door.
“Come in, Frank,” I called for I assumed he was here to get my bag. “The door is open.”
“Deirdre?” The voice was not Frank's; my heart rose then fell when I realized the confrontation I had tried so hard to avoid had come.
“Mitch?” My voice was tremulous, betraying emotion best kept under control. I walked out of the bathroom and into the hall. Mitch stood, glancing around the room, taking in its emptiness and the packed bag at the door. As I entered he looked at me in shock.
“What on earth did you do to yourself?” he questioned sharply.
Nervously, I ran my hand through my too short hair. “Don't you like it?”
“No.”
“To tell you the truth,” I said with a wan smile, “I don't like it much either. But it keeps the publicity hounds at bay. How are you?”
“Fine.” He looked anything but fine. His right arm was in a cast as was his left leg. His face was unusually pale, from the loss of blood, I assumed, but his eyes were as blue and intense as ever. And at this moment they were angry and defiant. I found I could not answer his gaze; I looked away.
“Would you like to sit down?” He grunted an agreement and hobbled across the room on a cane. After he was seated, I walked over and sat facing him.
“You're leaving.” It was not a question and I could not lie.
“Yes,” I said simply. “It seems best that I do.”
“Oh.” The single word held such anger, such reproach that I choked back any words of explanation I might have made. Instead, I rose from my chair and went to look out the window. A heavy silence descended on the room. When I finally turned around he was still staring at me, but some of his anger had been replaced with resignation and sadness. I would have preferred the anger.
He began to speak hesitantly. “I thought you might like to know the outcome of the other night. I just stopped by to let you know that you'll not be questioned or held accountable in any way for Max's death.”
“Thank you. I was wondering what happened after I left.” My voice softened on the last word.
“I know why you left, Deirdre. And I don't blame you.” He glanced over at me, and gave the nuance of a smile. “At least not too much. I spent three weeks flat on my back rationalizing the situation, knowing that you wouldn't have left me without good reasons, knowing what those reasons were.”
“Mitch, I . . .”
“And still you won't let me finish. I took the blame for Max's death, self–defense in the line of duty. Actually,” and he gave me a cold–blooded grin, “I prefer to think of it as credit, rather than blame.”
“But you were so weakened, so beat up. How could they believe you had done it?”
He shrugged. “The files are full of cases of people performing under duress. It won't be investigated fully, anyway. I heard his confession. There's no family or friends to press any charges and the precinct is happy to have the case successfully solved at last.”
“I am glad, Mitch, that it turned out well for you.”
“There is one thing that bothers me, though.” His voice softened and he looked up at me from his seat at the couch. “Why didn't you come to see me in the hospital? I thought you would do at least that for me.”
“But I did come, Mitch. The first few times they wouldn't let me in. After that I bypassed the nurses' station and came in after hours.” I thought back to those dark nights when I sat by his bed, holding his hand as he tossed and turned in delirium. “You were asleep, but I was there.”
He gave me a smile, genuine now. “I knew it. I knew you'd been there, it couldn't have been a dream. But when I asked the nurses they didn't know who you were and swore there had been no visitors. How'd you manage it?”
I gave a little laugh. “You shouldn't have to ask that, Mitch. I managed, that's all.”
My confession relieved the tension somewhat. “You could have come when I was awake, you know. They do have visiting hours at night.”
“I know, but I wasn't sure what sort of welcome I might get. After all, you were there, in part, because of what I did to you. I was afraid you might not want to see me.”
“Deirdre,” he stared at me with his blue eyes, “you're a fool. If you don't realize how I feel by now . . .” He broke off as he again considered my suitcase by the door. “But I guess you don't, since you planned on leaving without a word to me. I guess I've just been wasting my time.” He sounded bitter and my heart felt torn.
“I am a fool, Mitch,” I said and knelt on the floor in front of him. Reaching up, I took his left hand in mine and held it to my face. “I had no right to get involved with you, and certainly no right to fall in love with you. But I do love you and nothing can change that now. Not my leaving, not your anger.”
“Then don't leave,” he urged. “Stay here, Deirdre. Marry me. How can I convince you that I don't care who or what you are.” He gave me a long, appraising stare then chuckled and reached over and tousled my hair. “I don't even care what you've done to yourself.” He grew serious again. “All I care about is being with you. I love you. I don't doubt that you'd like to get away from here. That's fine, we could go together, start a new life for the two of us. Marry me, Deirdre,” he repeated urgently. “Say yes.”
I sighed and shifted my position slightly so that I could rest my head on his uninjured leg. I gave no answer, no sign of the wavering I felt. Instead, I rubbed my cheek on his knee, considering his words. We could leave together. Another plane ticket could be purchased, another passport obtained. My new home could accommodate two quite easily. I allowed myself to envision a future with Mitch, our lives shared and our loneliness abated. It was a gentle dream and I sighed with the sweetness of it.
“Deirdre,” he asked, his voice low and intense, “will you?”
The phone rang and I got up to answer it without a word.
“No, Frank,” I said, still gazing at Mitch. “I'm not ready now. Ask him if he'll wait a while; if not, you can call another.” I gently put the phone down.
“My cab is here,” I said nervously and dropped my eyes. “I don't know what to say, Mitch.”
“That's an easy call,” he said, smiling uncertainly. “Just say yes.”
I tried to return his smile but began to cry instead. “I can't. It wouldn't work.” I saw him through a glaze of tears. “You and I both know that it wouldn't. The first few decades would be wonderful, but after that . . .” I brushed away the tears and continued. “How could I bear to see you grow older every year, knowing that I never would? How could I bear to see you sicken and die and know that I could never join you after death? And how could you endure what I need to do to survive? Your love cannot change what I am: a creature of night, doomed to prowl and hunt for my sustenance.” I shook my head and repeated, “It wouldn't work.”
“But there's another way,” he insisted. “You say that you can't change, but I can. You could change me, turn me into a vampire. Maybe, after the other night, you already have.” I read fear in his eyes when he said this, but there was also a trace of hope. “Then the decision would have been reached; it would be out of our hands. You'd marry me then, wouldn't you?”
“Yes, but you must know that's not the case, Mitch.” I saw the hope fall from his eyes. “You would need to have my blood to make the change and I won't give it.” I crossed the room to him and took his hand again. “You're asking me to give you something that I have always considered a curse. For so many years I searched for the phantom that caused my life; I hunted him as surely as I hunt my prey. And yet now that he is gone,” my voice quavered and I groped for the right words, “I thought I might go back to what I was before, when he died. But the change in me was too deep, too long-term; I will always be what I am. Max's death has freed me from many things, and one of these is the hope for a normal life. I have accepted that fact, I can live in that knowledge now. I can even accept the fact that I will meet my final death in the same manner. But I do not want that death to be at your hands.”
“Deirdre,” he protested, “I would never do that, I love you.”
“And I loved Max,” I replied. “Not the way I love you, it's true. But for many years he was my only friend, my only contact with what I thought was the human world. And yet I hated him,” I blazed into anger. “Hated him enough to kill him. He changed me, in more ways than one; discovering that I was capable of murder, no matter what the circumstances, was terrifying. I can live with that, I have to, but I will not lead you, or anyone else, down the same dark paths I have had to follow.” I could read pain in his eyes and the anger suddenly drained out of me. “Mitch,” I pleaded with him, hoping he would understand. “I couldn't bear for you to hate me someday like that. Leaving, as hard as it is, and never seeing you again, is easier to bear.”
He started to protest again, but I put my hand gently over his mouth. “Do you really want a life like mine? Never to walk in the sun, to exist in the night only. Is that what you want, Mitch?”
He met my eyes with a fervent glance. “I want you, Deirdre. And if this is the only way . . .” He struggled to rise from the couch and when he did he put his arm around me and held me close to him. “Deirdre,” he breathed into my hair. “Damn it, I don't know.” There was uncertainty in his voice. “I haven't really thought it through, I guess. But the thoughts of losing you have made me half-crazy. I don't know what to do.” He moved back to study my face. “Look, promise me you won't say no right now. So much has happened to both of us. Would it hurt to postpone the decision? That would give us both some time to think about it. Could you do that?”
I considered his words, his proposal. Over thirty years ago I would not have hesitated; he was the answer to my dreams at that time. Even with my new-found resolve, the prospect was beguiling. To share my endless years with him. . . . I sighed and he relentlessly pressed his case.
“Give it—oh, let's say—six months,” he urged, “or a year at the most. This would be different than what occurred with you and Max. I would do it willingly, and you could teach me, help me. We would have each other.”
“No, Mitch,” I began, shaking my head, but his eyes met mine, searching, pleading. I smiled at him finally, reluctantly, and gave in. “Oh hell, Mitch, I have all the time in the world. Six months or sixty, it all means nothing to me. But I will not encourage you in this. The decision will be yours and yours alone. Do you understand?” His eyes lit again with hope; I looked away. “Now I have a plane to catch.”
He pulled me to him again in a fierce embrace that made him wince in pain. “Oh, Deirdre,” he said, “will you still leave? How can I let you go?”
“With love, Mitch.” I kissed him a final time. He stroked my hair and cheek, then slowly began to walk away. “Mitch,” I called to him and he turned. “I left something for you. It will be delivered to your apartment tomorrow.” I thought of the parcel I had instructed my attorney to give him after my departure. He would appreciate its significance. He looked at me questioningly. “It's the Van Gogh,” I explained. “The only sunshine you and I will ever share.”
He gave me a quiet smile and I found that I had nothing left to say to him. Instead, I opened the door and watched as he limped down the hall to the elevators. The bell rang, and he got in. As the doors began to close, he stopped them with his hand and stepped out slightly for one last glance. He gave me one of his boyish, exuberant grins. “See you in six months,” he said confidently. Then the doors shut and he was gone.
Smiling weakly, I covered my hair with a thick scarf, picked up my bag and turned out the lights. Taking one last look at the rooms, I closed the door. “I hope not, Mitch,” I said to the empty hall. “I hope not.”

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