Sips of Blood (3 page)

"Please,
Maîtresse,
may I now
come?"

Her brown eyes glared into his own eyes, and
she shook her head, denying him his release.

The safe word.

"Hyacinth," he shouted.
La Présidente
freed his cock and his semen spurted out, hitting the tops of her
high leather boots. He would be made to lick the boots clean before
he left the dungeon.

Chapter 3

The Celtic chant droned on for several
minutes before silence replaced Bride's voice. And along with the
chant the fire died.

Louis moved back to the doorway of the room.
Smoke was settling its ash on the bodies of the five women. Bride
lay before the altar, arms outstretched. The others had fallen in a
pile on the center of the carpet. The searing stench of the
synthetic carpet had used up the oxygen in the room, replacing it
with an acrid gas. He had no doubt that the women were unconscious
and perhaps close to death owing to the carpet's poisonous fumes.
He should really drag each from the room and attempt to get
help.

Louis sniffed. The fumes had no effect on
him. He sniffed again and remembered the shattered window. Fresh
air would eventually replace the repugnant odor. As he sniffed he
caught the odor of something else. Coppery, ruby, young. Lora's
body caught his eye. Heloise's dagger had slipped from its scabbard
and Lora had, "unfortunately," fallen on it. Her wound was not
deep, merely a slender cut on her right forearm. Next to her
Heloise lay, slivers of glass from the windowpane embedded in her
face. Blood trickled in slender rivulets down her cheeks. Louis
licked his lips.

Perhaps they were already dead. Not Bride, he
thought, when he heard a moan come from her corner of the room. And
not Lora, whose plump breasts rose and fell in a weak but steady
breath.

Could he now reenter the room without
bringing down the wrath of the northern guardians upon himself? He
sniffed again. Lora's blood was rich, healthy, inviting; it was
worth the chance. Louis crossed the threshold and nothing happened.
The oppressive suffocating feeling was gone. He reached to his
right and turned on the ceiling light. His eyesight was good in the
dark, but he hadn't noticed the wall hangings: a unicorn, naked
lovers entwined in each others arms, a needlepoint pentacle
surrounded by intricate needlepoints of various herbs.

Standing at least three feet high was a
golden statue of Puck, looking very impish and singed. The velvet
drapes lay on the floor, no longer red. Arterial red, he recalled.
No. Now instead the drapes were blackened and tattered.

His blood hunger spiked and his fear
withering, Louis moved closer to the cluster of women. The elderly
Amaranth was still. Very still. Either she had died quickly from
the fumes, or she may have suffered a heart attack in all the
excitement, he thought. He felt Heloise's pulse at the neck. Her
heart still pounded, and so did Zaira's. But Zaira probably had
bitter blood, and Heloise's would lack the sensual thrill.

Ah! But Lora... Louis raised Lora's right
forearm to his lips. His tongue drew a trail upward across her
wound. Heady, slightly sweet, but not too. The taste full-bodied
with the freshness of youth. However, in his experience he had
found that the little bite of blood could vary from one part of the
body to another.

Louis gently rested her arm across her
abdomen. Using his hands, he worked her knit top up over her
breasts. No bra. The
impétuosité
and
frivolité
of
youth. The round, bulging mounds reminded him of the casks that had
been kept in the cellars of his friend, Joseph de Fumel, the
propriétaire
of Chateau Haut-Brion. The wine had been beyond
heavenly, even if it did need a long time in bottle to further its
heavenly scent, he thought as he closed his eyes, savoring the
memory and anticipating the delight he held in his hands. He leaned
forward and with his tongue ringed her breasts with his spit.
Finally he settled his lips on the hard nipple of her right breast
and bit down. The blood flowed out in rivulets. Each suck brought a
new stream. The smell of her flesh added to the delectable flavor
of her blood. But the unhurried fluid motion didn't satisfy. He
wanted more.

Louis raised his head and peered at Lora's
face, tracing her features with two of his fingers.
"Quelle
belle femme!"
His fingers roamed down her neck, then paused. A
smile shaped his lips, and he bent forward. Again he smelled the
odor of her flesh mixed with her blood, and it increased the closer
he came to her artery. Quickly he took her, the gush of her blood
causing his own breath to momentarily halt. His cock ached for
fulfillment; adroitly he satisfied that urge, easing himself
smoothly into her body.

By the time he left, Lora and Heloise had
been drained dry. Dear Heloise, who had tried earnestly to satisfy
his curiosities and who happened to be the only woman in the room
able to identify and locate him.

Chapter 4

Marie stood in front of her Federalist-era
stone house. It wasn't the kind of home she was used to, but she
did find it charming, and she appreciated the isolation it
afforded. The nearest house was two miles away and inhabited by a
disgruntled old man who left her alone as long as she did the same
for him. Once she had made the mistake of knocking on his door.
After several seconds, a flabby man of about seventy-five had
opened the door.

What little white hair he had on his head
stood straight up like stalagmites. What he lacked on his head was
abundant on his eyebrows. Murky grayish-green eyes squinted at her.
His nose was bulbous and pocked, the lips thin and heavily lined.
But what shocked her was the fact that he had answered the door in
a yellowish-white T-shirt and blue boxers that retained a water
spot near his genitals.

"Hi. I'm Marie Masson. I've moved into the
Rathbone house just--"

"Two miles away." His voice was gravelly,
hoarse from disuse.

"But you do seem to be my closest neighbor."
She smiled. She had dressed for visiting, with her white silk
blouse and navy linen suit.

"So?"

"Well, I thought we should meet. You know, in
case of an emergency."

"In an emergency it's every man
and
woman for him or herself."

Her shoes pinched a bit, but she had not
expected to be standing for long. After all, a neighbor would
certainly invite her in for perhaps a cup of tea or a taste of
sherry.

"At least we should exchange names and
telephone numbers, since we are quite cut off from other
people."

"Listen, you decided to move into that old
Rathbone house. Now suddenly you decide it's too lonely for you.
That's your problem, not mine."

"I rather like the isolation," she
indignantly replied. "But if there were any kind of emergency, it
would be useful to have at least a casual acquaintanceship
with--"

"Name's Keith Bridgewater. I'm not telling
you my telephone number, and I ain't listed." He slammed the door,
leaving Marie furiously pissed off.

Since then she had driven by the old man's
house. Occasionally he sat on his front porch smoking a cob pipe
and reading thick hardbacks. The temptation to stop was strong, but
somehow his indelicate attire, which seemed to be the usual for
him, put her off.

Just as well,
she thought.
Wouldn't
want to have an old man running after me.
Marie gave her age as
sixty-two, but she probably could pass for ten or fifteen years
younger. In her business, age seemed to give her clients more faith
in her. Her bleached spun-gold hair was cut short to emphasize her
delicate features. Her brown eyes were dark and penetrating with
the sense that she was always in control. And her body was in
pretty good shape. Not the same as when she was in her twenties and
thirties, but still more zaftig than obese. The past
century-and-a-half had been good to her.

Marie tossed her foam kneel cushion on the
ground. Her Blanc Double de Coubert and Frau Dagmar Hastrup roses
needed trimming, while the Hansa roses needed trimming
and
love. She missed the purplish-red color of her Hansas. The buds
just never bloomed completely. She had made a careful examination
for aphids but only found a few. During the winter she had built
mounds around the bushes and laid straw atop the mounds. The white
and pink roses were doing fine; the Hansas were being
disobedient.

"None of that," she said out loud. Marie
knelt down and began her work.

An hour later she heard a car coming up the
driveway.
Must be Louis,
she thought,
wanting to use the
basement again.
The car door slammed.

"I really wish you would set up your own
place. Some of the equipment is in need of replacement, and I
expect you to pay half the cost."

Silence. No rants. No raves. No hissing at
her purposeful derogatory statement.

Marie turned her head to view Louis. Only it
wasn't Louis; instead Keith Bridgewater stood by the oak
tree--dressed. Legs covered in old-man polyester pants. T-shirt
hidden under a cotton earth-toned plaid shirt.

She stood.

"Mr. Bridgewater, or may I call you Keith?
Certainly you should call me Marie."

"Plain Bridgewater is fine."

"And what will you call me?"

"Damn if I know. There don't seem to be any
man living here. At least I never saw you drive by with any man in
your car. So I don't know if you're a Miss or a Mrs. I don't like
Ms."

"Oh, I'm tickled to know that you noticed me
drive by your house. I kept meaning to stop, but our first
encounter wasn't--"

"That's fine, keep going. Ain't asking you to
stop."

"I wouldn't mind stopping, especially if you
were wearing those trousers that you have on."

"I dress as is most comfortable for me on my
property." He seemed to stand taller.

I could break you before you even knew I
was trying,
she silently said to Keith.

"Come in. I made fresh éclairs this morning,
and I have some lovely imported hot chocolate." Marie moved toward
the front door of the house then stopped and looked over her
shoulder. "Unless you'd prefer an expensive French cognac."

"Don't drink hard liquor. Have a beer once in
awhile."

How sophisticated.
"Out of beer, Mr.
Bridgewater."

"That's okay. I'm here to let you know my
son's coming to visit me."

"How wonderful for you!"

"No it ain't. He's a pest. Wants to check up
on how I'm doing."

"That is considerate."

"Wants to put me in some old-age home and
sell the land."

"He said that?"

"I've known him all his twenty-seven years. I
can read his mind."

"Your wife?"

"Dead. Died giving birth to the shit."

"I'm certainly glad you dropped by to tell me
the latest news. If there's anything I can do--"

"There is."

Marie's gut knotted.

"See, he thinks I have friends."

"And you and I..."

He nodded.

"I'd be delighted to be your friend. However,
since we are such old buddies, I must insist you come in for some
hot chocolate,
dear."

She saw Keith wince.
I dare you to correct
me.
He didn't. She threw open the antique oak door and invited
him in with a crook of her finger.

"If the éclairs are too rich for you, I have
some angel food cake."

"Nothing wrong with my stomach."

"Good."

Chapter 5

Louis had stopped at a pet shop, where he had
selected a beautiful white rabbit. The animal was plump and
healthy.

"I'll take it," he had said.

"I have to warn you, sir, he has a nasty
temper and has nipped several people."

No problem,
Louis thought,
Liliana
can be far nastier when hungry.

His niece, Liliana, had sworn off human blood
ever since she had fallen for the British
espèce de crétin
Stuart. Melodramatic, he thought. He couldn't understand her
constant whining about lost youth, when forever she would look
seventeen. And she would never have babies. She never would have
brats that would keep her locked away in an insane asylum, as he
had had.

Suddenly the Jaguar was filled with an
offensive odor.

"Alors!
You were too well-fed. You'll
have to sit in it until we get home,
Monsieur Lapin de
Garenne."

In answer there was a steady beating against
the walls of the animal carrier.

"Ah, Liliana, obviously I would do anything
to see you happy again. However, mortality cannot be my gift to
you. Instead I gave you eternal life and received tears from you in
return.

"Lapin,
is that fair? If I were to
give you eternal life..."

A loud fart came from the carrier.

"Jamais!
Never! If Liliana does not
suck you dry, I shall make a stew of you."

* * *

The cup slipped from her fingers and crashed
into pieces against the porcelain of the sink. Liliana's hands
shook. She needed fresh blood. The blood extracted from cadavers
kept her going only for a short while.

Three years before, she had gotten a job near
the city at an embalming company that serviced several funeral
homes. She would position a dead body on the embalming table so
that the blood would flow into the gutters that ringed the table.
From there the blood would drip into pails. Most times she worked
alone, but when another worker was present she would have to take
great care to save the blood before someone could dispose of it.
The blood was not rich in the nutrients she needed but did afford
some assistance in staving off starvation.