Hunger (32 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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He was so pale, so lifeless. Even as I told myself that I had gone too far, I heard the insatiable laughter in my mind.
“That was good, my love. But why stop so soon? He's strong; there is more to be had.”
“Any more and he would be dead.” The disgust in my voice was not directed at Max alone. If this man died, I would be the one left with the blame. Brushing my hair back, I laid my head on his chest. To my relief, his heart was still beating; he was young and would probably be strong enough to live.
I sat up and slapped Robbie's face, none too gently; his head bobbed back and forth on the pillow. Finally he sighed, opened his eyes, and looked at me.
“Don't go,” he said weakly. “That was wonderful. As soon as I get my strength back, we could do it again.”
I looked down at him in loathing. The entire situation was pitiful, and the fact that he was begging for more, ludicrous. I wanted to laugh, but the sound that escaped my lips was more of a choked sob. I brushed my bloody tears away and began to get dressed.
When I was fully clothed I sat next to him and took his head into my hands, relieved to see a natural color returning to his skin. The glance he gave me seemed aware and alive.
“I'm feeling better now. Let's do it again.” His voice had regained some of its strength and I felt reassured as I met his eyes.
“We can't do it again, Robbie. We never did it at all. You see, it was all a dream.”
“A dream?” he repeated stupidly.
“Yes, it was just a dream, and tomorrow you won't remember it or me. Do you understand? You don't know me; you've never met me. I'm just a dream.”
“Just a dream.”
He was asleep before I closed the door. I hoped that the suggestion would take hold, but it really made no difference. Tomorrow night at this time Chris and I would be out of the country. Soon I would be with Mitch.
Tears began flowing again as I took to the streets. I hurried through the night, wrapping my cloak tighter around a body that never felt the cold, in the futile attempt to warm the soul within.
Chapter 3
I
didn't turn on the lights when I arrived at my house; instead, I locked the door and climbed the stairs, dropping my clothing as I went. In the shower, I set the water at its hottest and attempted to purge my mind and body of all their contacts that evening: the remains of sex and the taking of blood, the tears, the thoughts of Mitch and love.
The room filled with a billowy steam, obscuring the pale moonlight. I watched it curl and dance, tried to imagine what it would be like to merge with the mist, to transform myself as legend said I could. Before he died, Max had hinted of powers as yet undeveloped and undiscovered within me, beyond human understanding. But in the past two years I had made no attempt to cultivate these mysterious powers; the thought of abandoning what little humanity I had for the unknown terrified me absolutely.
The idea entered my mind that now might be the time to experiment, in an attempt to reach my true powers. But as I ran hands over my naked, tangible flesh, feeling the familiar curves of breasts and thighs, I denied the seduction of those thoughts, taking comfort in what I still had. This body, although corrupted by its appetites, was untouched by age and death; I would fight to keep it as it was; it was all I had left of my lost human life.
“And so you deny your birthright and refuse my gift.” From out of the mist he came to me, his white, undead flesh glistening with drops of moisture. His face was tender, almost loving, and he reached his arms out to me, forgiving, pleading.
“Oh, Max.” I gasped the words. “I'm so sorry. I didn't want to kill you, but you gave me no choice.”
He smiled at me, the pointed tips of his canines showing briefly, his hard, muscular body gleaming through the steam. His left side bore a scar, presumably unknown for one of our kind, a small, jagged cut marring the perfection of his skin.
A part of me wanted to touch him, feel the tissue that had somehow formed over his death wound, but instead I backed away from him, putting my hands up in denial. “You gave me no choice,” I repeated, my justification sounding hollow even to me.
He threw his head back and laughed, as if his death were of no importance. “I know, little one.” His voice was steady and smooth, reassuring. “I asked too much of you; it was too hard a test. Just come to me now and I'll make it right for you.”
I took a step in his direction and he caught me in his arms. His eyes glinted in the mist, revealing his true intentions. His mouth came down on my neck and with his bite he infused me with the chill of death and of the grave. I felt the heat of my body flow into him; his every touch burned my skin with an intense cold. Crying out in pain, I slumped against the shower wall, feebly pushing him away as I slid down into the tub.
When I opened my eyes, he was gone and the water had run cold. “Damn,” I swore, shivering as I stood up and turned off the tap. I wrapped myself in a large towel, went into my bedroom, and lit the fire laid in the hearth.
The flames soon gave the room an appearance of warmth and normalcy, but still I sat, shaking and trembling with the spiritual cold he had inflicted upon me. Tonight had been one of the strangest I had spent since Max had died. True, I was accustomed to his presence in my mind, had come to expect his appearance during the hunt and my feedings. But he had never seemed so real before, so alive. And he had never touched me, except in dreams, nor had he attempted to touch the living through me. Was the arrival of Chris the catalyst, the final event that unbalanced my mind? Would I eventually go mad, out of control, to be hunted down and killed like a rabid animal? I felt sane, but no doubt so did a thousand others who justified their actions by the authority of the voices in their minds.
“Damn you, Max,” I said aloud. “You're supposed to be dead. Why don't you act it?”
There was no answer; my phantom chose his own time. I laughed at my own fancy; I knew Max was dead. I did not believe in ghosts and I did not truly believe that he had taken possession of me. I thought myself to be a rational, relatively modern creature, however ridiculous that seemed, and knew that there must be a rational explanation. Both for me and for Mitch.
“Mitch,” I whispered, “I'll be there soon.” I sat staring at the flames, and the thoughts of him calmed me and the unnatural chill finally subsided.
Relaxed, stretching my body before the fire, I did something I had not allowed myself to do for two years. I called his features to mind, his intensely blue eyes, his hawklike nose, the small wrinkles that formed on his face when he smiled. I remembered his hands, their strength and slightly rough texture, molding themselves into my cool skin; his body, scarred but beautiful, lying warm and alive next to mine. I could taste him now, his flesh and blood, hear his voice in love and in anger. Why did I ever leave him? And when I returned, would I have the strength to leave again?
“Damn,” I swore again, and went to the window. I could sense the approaching dawn, and knew that I must sleep. From force of habit I pulled the blinds down, closed the heavy drapes, and climbed into bed, wrapping the covers around me. The warmth of my rejuvenating body enclosed me, and I focused entirely on the life and vibrancy now coursing through my veins. Oblivion came quickly, and I slept.
The cemetery gates swing open soundlessly. The gravel paths pull me forward and I follow as if in a trance, allowing them to lead me to the grave that I long, and dread, to find. In my tightly clenched fist I hold a rose, his rose; the thorns drive themselves deeply into the flesh of my palm. My blood, so long ago violated and invaded, contaminated beyond redemption, drips onto the earth, blackening its once-pure surface.
There is no need to call his name; the blood calls for me, drawing him up close enough to draw me down. The moist smell of rotting flesh assails my senses, so much death and corruption surrounds me. I open my mouth to scream, but it fills with the soil of his grave and I drop deeper into his domain, helpless in the power of his grasp.
Suddenly my limbs are free, and I am cleansed from the stench of the grave. I hover, disembodied, in a clear, starlit sky over an expansive field. It smells green and young and beautiful, and I inhale its fragrance deeply.
But I am not alone. Above me hangs another shape, darker and more defined. It swoops; I struggle to avoid it before it merges with my soul. Too late, the shock of penetration overcomes me and we are one. I am forced to see through his eyes; his voice, my voice, speaks words of reassurance.
“Do not fight me, my love,” it advises. “It will be made right.”
Far below, unaware of our approach, lies a body reveling in the warm spring night. She is naked but unashamed, and like the aroma of the field, she is young, beautiful, and wholly desirable. We circle above her, then descend with the currents of the wind, slowly spiraling down, until she senses our nearness and opens her eyes.
She smiles and opens her arms to us. I want to warn her, to call to her to run and hide, but the lightning shock of recognition makes it impossible for me to speak.
“But see,” his voice urges. “See how it was for me.”
And I am in his mind; I see how I was, for it is my human self who lies before us on the altar of our hunger. She draws me to her and I want to take her for myself. She is so young, so alive, and her knowledge of that life is childlike and pure. Oh, how I long for that innocence again, and so I claim her. And in that claiming, that rape of myself, the innocence is lost.
Her tears are mine as I break through the surface of the grave and lie panting, sobbing, on the violated earth.
 
When I awoke the next afternoon it was shortly before sunset. I shook my mind clear of the dream images; already vague and fading, they left only a faint residue of sorrow and bitterness. With a sigh I turned myself to the tasks ahead of me.
I remained in bed and phoned the airport, reserving two one-way tickets on the next flight back to America. The departure and arrival times were perfectly timed. On my previous trip I had been forced to take a private jet to avoid any touch of sunlight; on my return, it seemed, the night would fly with me. Even with unexpected delays, we should still arrive in the evening hours, allowing me ample time to find a secure daytime resting place. I wondered with a fleeting smile if my old suite of rooms would still be available.
When the travel arrangements were made, I got up from bed and went to my closet. Most of my clothing was unsuitable for this trip, designed as it was for the seduction and capture of my unsuspecting victims. It was always my habit to start each segment of my life with a new identity; everything from my existence as Deirdre Griffin had been discarded, traded in for clothing to fit my new persona. Finally, I removed two pairs of jeans and a few loose-fitting sweaters and threw them onto the bed, along with my pairs of contact lenses and the few personal items that were always with me: several old books, some letters, and, a relatively new acquisition, the scrapbook detailing my life compiled by Larry Martin. I did not look through the book, but placed it on the bottom of the suitcase, shuddering at my remembrance of our final confrontation.
Poor, maddened Larry, who in reaching out for immortality, demanding vampire's blood at the cost of my life and his sanity, had ended his life with Mitch's bullet through his heart. I had not escaped unscathed: the shot had gone straight through Larry and grazed my shoulder. He had died, pinioning me to the floor with his body, his blood staining my clothes and skin. My physical wound had healed quickly, but for some reason his death still haunted me. Not as much as Max's did; still, I knew that I shared the responsibility of guilt, perhaps even carried the largest portion. Larry would never have lost control of his emotions or his mind but for me. I led him along the path to his death as surely as if I had pulled the trigger myself.
Yet, I thought, rationalizing the event once more, had he lived, I would now be dead. Mitch's arrival had saved my life, and now I would attempt to do the same for him.
Covering the book with my clothing, I closed and locked the suitcase, then dressed. When I checked my image in the mirror, I laughed softly to myself. If Deirdre had any friends remaining, they would hardly recognize her in this outfit: black leather miniskirt, black knee-high boots, and black lace hose. And although the effect was softened slightly with a pale peach angora sweater, I doubted that my fashion-designer acquaintances would approve. But Mitch might, I thought with a mischievous grin as I surveyed the view of my body from the back.
If, my mind cautioned, he could be healed; if he could be returned to his former self; if he wanted me back in his life. I only had Chris's word on the endurance of his love; there had been no contact between us since the day I received his letter telling me he could not accept the conditions of my life. And although I fully understood his decision, knew it had been his only logical choice, my feelings for him remained unchanged. Even after two years of trading my body for sustenance from strangers, I still felt his blood in my veins, calling to me, crying for his presence.
I jumped nervously when the phone rang, then picked it up.
“Wake-up call.” Chris's voice sounded cheerful and normal.
“Hello, Chris. Pack your bags, we leave at nine tonight.”
“Great. Somehow, I knew you'd help. He'll get better, you'll see. Just having you there should make a huge difference to him. He's missed you so much.”
“Well,” I said noncommittally, “I suppose we will see about that soon. Just meet me at the pub around seven; we can leave from there. I have a little business to conclude.”
After hanging up with Chris, I neatened the bedroom and bath and went downstairs, gathering, as I descended, the clothes I had discarded on the stairs last night. Rolling them all into a ball, I threw them into the front closet, found my cloak, and wrapped it about my shoulders. After checking to see that the back door and the windows were locked and secure, I put the one extra front-door key into my pocket, picked up my suitcase, and went out onto the street. I looked back at the dark house for just one moment, wondering if I would ever return. This place had never seemed like home to me; I could leave it with no regrets, no memories. It had been nothing more than a stopover—a rest from my travels.

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