Sips of Blood (7 page)

"A Goth place. It's a place where people who
are into the darker side of life go." Lucy said this with
sophistication.

"Certainly not a place for me," Sade said.
"However, I would like to hear more about it."

All the way back to the car Lucy educated
Sade about the Goth life. "It may be silly to you, but one never
knows when one may meet a dark spirit, like a werewolf or a
vampire."

"Do you still want to drive?" Sade had the
car keys in his hand.

"Honestly, I'm way too tired."

Not tired enough to keep still on their ride
to New Jersey.

"I plan on going to France my junior year. Do
you ever go back?"

"It has been many years. Ah,
mais
I
feel that soon I will."

"You have family there?"

"No, the ones I am close to are here."

Lucy cocked her head to the side in order to
lean against the car door. Sade glanced over and noticed two ruby
dots on her neck. She had been playing at vampire, but he did not
play games.

"You've gone way to far!"

"Pardonnez-moi?"

"You've passed the exit for Jersey City a
while back."

"Je m'excuse.
Perhaps a little farther
up we will find a place to stop and check a map."

Sade pulled into an empty parking lot and
drove around to the back of the office building.

"Please, look in the glove compartment; I
should have a map there." He stopped the car, and Lucy fumbled to
open the glove compartment.

"It's either locked or stuck."

"What is this?" Sade asked, reaching out to
touch the pseudo puncture wounds. "You like
donner ton
sang?"
His fingers skimmed her neck in search of her
carotid.

"Oh, those things. It's kind of a sexy idea
to be bitten on the neck and become someone's sex slave."

"An idea that can well become true if you so
wish."

He drew an arm about her, and she did not shy
away. He stared into her round painted eyes and invited her into
his world. She moved closer to him and gently his grip tightened.
Her fingers touched his smile. He slid his lips down her fingers
and kissed the palm of her hand. The smell of sugar and chocolate
penetrated his senses. The odor of human fear hid under the sweets.
But it was there, and he had to move before she could regain her
senses.

Quickly he moved to her neck; she screamed
and hunched a shoulder. Taking his right arm from around her
shoulders, he used his right hand to grab a hank of her hair and
pulled her head back.

Suddenly she was out the door running toward
the front of the building, her head covered with bobby pins and
clips.

"Sacrebleu!"
Sade looked at the droopy
wig he held in his hand. He threw it to the floor like a dead rat.
His hands were stained and slippery. She had obviously used a cheap
die to attain the deep ebony color.

Should he chase her? he wondered. He would
definitely be swifter than she. He looked down at the wig lying in
a puddle-like mass. Somehow his appetite for this girl's blood had
been vanquished by a head of hair.

"A fake Goth," he muttered, starting up the
car and driving out of the parking lot onto the freeway. A car had
already stopped for the girl, and she was too busy hesitating to go
near that car to notice Sade drive by.

Chapter 13

Sade couldn't bear the feel of the black dye
on his hands, not to mention the fact that the dye was streaking
his steering wheel. He pulled the car into the parking lot of an
all-night diner. Once inside the diner he headed straight for the
men's room.

"Hey, our rest rooms are just for customers,"
a male voice yelled out.

Sade didn't bother to turn to look at the
man.

"Fine! Pour me a cup of coffee." He pushed
open the door to the men's room and was sorry he had. A stench of
vomit hit him immediately, and the person responsible was not
finished yet, as Sade could tell from the retching inside the
single stall.

After turning on the tap water, Sade spilled
some liquid soap into his palm. Before putting down the bottle he
spilled a bit more. A little water and
voilà,
soapy foam
covered both his hands.
Perhaps I took too much,
he thought
as he worried about getting the slippery, smelly soap off his
hands. He knew, however, that he often did things in the
extreme.

He heard the stall door open.

"Imbibe a bit too much,
monsieur?"

"No, food poisoning."

"Ah! You must be married."

"Why do you say that?"

"Already you are thinking up excuses."

"It's true. I couldn't have had more than a
couple of glasses of wine. And perhaps one or two martinis before
dinner."

"Port? Cognac?"

"Just one snifter at the end of the
meal."

"Sounds like food poisoning." Sade made room
for the man at the sink. He glanced at the man's profile and then
looked into the mirror to see the man's face in full. Even beneath
the dripping water that the man was splashing on his face, Sade
could see the incredible similarity.

"The British
espèce de crétin,
Stuart."

"Excuse me." The man crossed in front of Sade
to retrieve some paper towels from the machine.

"Stuart?"

The man tossed the soaked paper towels into
the trash. "Are you speaking to me?"

"I am Louis. Louis Sade. And your name?"

"David Petry." The man put out his hand to
shake Sade's.

"Incredible," Sade said, ignoring the
proffered hand. "You look so much like someone I met once."

"Just once? He must have made a strong
impression on you."

"He changed my niece's life."

"Oh! I didn't do it, whatever it is."

"If I thought you had I'd..." Sade thought
for several seconds. "You look
très
pale. You don't look
like you should be driving."

"I'll hang around for a while before I drive
home."

"Anyone waiting for you?"

"That wife thing again. Naw, single. Used to
have a hound, but he ran away. Must have found a better home
someplace else. At least that's what I hope happened."

"You like animals? My niece has a rabbit that
she refuses to feed from."

"She won't cook it and eat it?"

"So to speak." Sade was thinking about what a
better meal David would make. There was an edge to Sade's hunger,
but this mortal could potentially bring Liliana back into the fold
of vampirism. "Perhaps she would change her mind if you came home
with me. Besides, you do not look well, and I am not sure a brief
rest will make you whole."

"Wait a second. Are you asking me to go home
with you so that I can talk your niece into cooking a rabbit?"

"No, into feeding."

"She anorexic?"

"In a way, yes."

"I think she needs a psychiatrist more than
an accountant. Good luck, though." David reached for the door
knob.

"Wait! I would feel, how you say, guilty if I
didn't do something to assist you."

"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. Sounds
more like your daughter--"

"Niece."

"Niece is the one who could use your
help."

"That's what I'm trying to do. Help both of
you."

"Don't need any." David opened the door and
exited.

Sade looked into the mirror. "Where is your
charm, your
charisme,
your
savoir-faire?"

Sade stormed out of the men's room.

"Hey, here's your coffee." The man behind the
counter waved with a dish towel. He had practically no hair on his
head, and his features seemed to resemble a clown's. His eyebrows
were too bushy, his nose too red, bulbous and pitted; his mouth
turned downward in a sulk.

"Coffee? I don't drink coffee,
monsieur."

"Oh no you don't. That jerk before you ducked
out without ordering, not you too. Pay for the coffee you
ordered."

"I would gladly pay for something to drink,
but I fear that you and I would differ over the price to be
paid."

"I got this menu here." The counter man
tossed a stained plastic-coated paper on the counter. "Even got a
Gallo jug under the counter."

"Gallo? No
Château Lafite?"

"Whatever you said we don't have. At least it
doesn't sound familiar."

Sade walked to the counter and picked up the
menu.

"No, I don't see what I enjoy to drink on the
menu."

"I'm sure I can come up with something."

"Yes. Yes you can." Sade leaped over the
counter and grabbed the man around the throat. When the man reached
behind him to find a weapon, Sade grabbed his wrist and broke the
arm over his knee. There was a high-pitched scream before Sade
jammed his thumb into the man's voice box.

* * *

Sade cleaned up in the ladies’ room. The soft
pink tiles and the smell of menstrual blood was far preferable to
the stink of the men's room. Neatly Sade cleaned the counter man's
blood from his lips. He rinsed his mouth several times to eliminate
any blood stain that might be on his teeth.

The meal may not have had the delicacy Sade
preferred, but it certainly had been sating.

Sade remembered the name.
David Petry.
He used his limited-edition hand-painted Namiki fountain pen to
write the name on the cuff of his shirt. He meant to replace the
shirt anyway; besides, this way he wouldn't lose the name.

He walked back to the dining area, over to
the counter, where he left money for the coffee, then went to the
door, flipped the "open" sign to "closed", and left.

"You must be fully cognizant of the death you are
going to undergo: this perverse blood has got to be made to seep
out of you..."

Justine

by the

Marquis de Sade

Chapter 14

Garrett had visible bruises from the last
visit, bruises that kept him away from his wife. He worked late. He
offered excuses why he could not bed his wife, and she became
suspicious. He had wanted to explain all this to
La
Maîtresse,
but he feared losing her completely to another
client, to another submissive.

La Maîtresse
spoke infrequently to him
now. Instead she demanded that he reveal secrets of his matrimonial
bed. If he halted in his stories,
La Maîtresse
did not
notice right away. Her mind wandered to someone else, he knew.

She still sought his blood. Often she seemed
starved for his blood. The infliction of pain had lessened, as if
she feared truly hurting him.

"Maîtresse,"
he called.

Her blonde head rose from the crook of his
neck. Blood spotted her chin. Her lips quivered and her nostrils
flared. But her eyes were vacant, lost to Garrett. Slowly her hands
reached up to touch her own lips.

"Garrett," she spoke as her eyes focused on
his features.

Who is it that she sees when she is with
me?

She stood. Small, he thought, with hands as
strong as a workman's and a mouth more foul than any he had heard.
Yet she was small. The black corset cinched her waist into an
abnormally small circumference. The stiletto-heeled boots increased
her height by at least six inches. Still he towered above her. Her
hips and bust swelled in sensuous curves.

From the wall she took a long peacock feather
and, waving it in front of him, she began to speak. "You must stay
away for a while." The feather touched his cheek, his forehead, the
eyelids, the nose, the mouth. "I want you strong. I want both of us
to heal." The feather swept his neck and stung the wound.

He shook his head.

While beating his chest with the feather, she
demanded that he not talk back. The feather roamed down his abdomen
and over his belly. His wrists were manacled together behind his
back, but his legs were free. He drew his thighs apart, and she
circled his cock with the light touch of the feather and dragged
the feather down the inside of each thigh.

La Maîtresse
leaned forward to whisper
in his ear.

"Come back to me bloated with life, with
fresh blood. Ready to feed the desires of
Maîtresse la
Présidente.
Your perverse blood shall feed me afresh."

Chapter 15

Marie drove onto Keith's property. It had
been several days since she had seen Wil, and she meant to change
that. In her arms she carried a straw basket filled with scones and
preserves. Her special peace offering. She shifted the load in
order to rap on the door.

"What do you want?" A yellow tinge on Keith's
right cheekbone reminded her of their last meeting. He did not open
the door wide.

"I brought some food."

"We're not hungry. They have a soup kitchen
in the next town over, give it to them."

"Even managed to collect enough blueberries
to make a favorite spread of mine." She lifted the white linen
cloth covering the basket and attempted to move closer to Keith. He
merely closed the door another quarter inch.

"Dad hasn't had much of an appetite since we
last visited you."

Marie turned and saw Wil leaning against the
front fender of her car. He stood shirtless, with a tuft of hair
rising above the waist of his low-cut jeans. Grass clippings
speckled his bare feet.

"It's been several days, and I wanted to
invite you back."

"For what?" Keith's voice rasped behind
her.

"I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding."
She turned back to the father.

"This 'old fart' got the message," voiced
Keith gruffly.

"I was over-playful."

Loud laughter spilled from Wil's lips.

"See! Your son understands it was a
joke."

"My son gets off on people sticking needles
in him. Not to mention the tattoos covering his hairy legs. Christ,
he comes out of the shower looking like a walking mural."