Symphony of Light and Winter (18 page)

I slowed as I passed it, but before I got to the edge of the sidewalk. I heard his voice, low, seductive, and perfect.

“What is a pretty girl like you doing out this late? Might I offer you a ride?”

I did not turn. “What are you doing here?”

I could hear his footsteps approaching. As he reached me, he stepped behind me and kissed the top of my head.

“Light, I’m never far away.”

I turned and shot him an admonishing glare. “I thought we ended this yesterday.” I focused my attention on the road.

“Ah, is that what you think? See, you may have ended something, but I do not believe I agreed. What do you think ‘we’ ended? In order to end something there must be something that exists to be ended. What exactly is it that ‘we’ ended, Linden?”

I scoffed. “Aren’t you chatty tonight?”

“You did all the talking last night. I figured I was due my turn. Let me drive you home.”

“No, thanks. Say what you have to say.”

“Get in the car.”

“Cyril, I smell like puke and I don’t want to stink up your car.”

He chuckled. “You do smell especially rank, but come here.”

He took my hand in his and led me to his car. He unlocked it and reached in to grab his jacket.

“Here, you can wear this.”

I moved to protest and before I knew it he yanked my T-shirt over my head and thrust my arms into the massive sleeves.

“Cyril, what are you doing?”

He stopped and stepped back, his eyes played over me, and he said very quietly, “Doing the impossible; improving perfection.”

I blushed and folded my arms, embarrassed to be standing in only my bra and his jacket. I rolled my eyes at him as he ushered me to the car.

* * *

Several nights later and on the eve of my birthday, I found myself alone in my aunt’s apartment sat upon a hill opposite the cemetery facing the southern side. The full moon, hanging heavy in the sky, cast a luminescent glow over the hillside. Even though it was approaching ten p.m. it looked more like deep twilight. I admired how beautiful and defined the outlines of the leafless trees looked silhouetted against the backdrop of the moonlit night. At the very top of the cemetery were tiny flickering lights. They stood out among the other luminaries that accented gravestones. I watched intently as more and more lights began to appear.

Someone was in my graveyard and I didn’t like it.

I hoped it wasn’t pranksters or vandals lighting fires. The pavement turned to gravel and I approached the memorial park when I decided to veer off the road and snake my way up the hill among the many large tombstones. It would give me a way to obscure myself so I could watch without being noticed. Intruders might be watching the roads for uninvited guests, if they were up to no good.

I rounded the corner and ducked behind a very large obelisk-like monument. I took a deep breath before peering around the side of the stone to catch a glimpse of the would-be intruders. I caught my gasp before it could betray me. It was Cyril. He paced and counted to himself just like he did the first day I met him. When he stopped, he lit a candle and placed it at his feet. He was surrounded by dozens of candles, standing stark naked.

Beyond words, his skin bathed in moonlight made him look as though he were carved from stone. Each muscle clearly etched. His movements were fluid and graceful despite his size. His buttocks firm, and his flaccid cock hung low and thick between his legs. Perfection. The sight of him made my mouth run dry. His hair resembled hematite in the moonlight. His back was covered in the pattern I had seen weeks earlier on his arm and my book. He had a different black pattern on his chest, but unlike the light-colored relief of the markings on his arms and back, these looked as if they were painted on him. The pattern on his arm looked more like it was part of his skin, even deeper than a tattoo. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the markings, he looked powerful. Like an ancient Greek god.

He continued chanting to himself in an unknown language, and dropped candles in place. I thought the candles made some type of pattern, but it was hard to tell. Finally, he stopped moving and made his way to the center of the candle formation. He stood there for a moment, then raised his arms and head toward the sky and started chanting again. The chant sounded almost melodic. It started to crescendo. At the height of his voice he wrenched forward and cried out in pain. I almost ran to him but caught myself and held position. His groans echoed off the stones. When he stood up, sweat glistened all over his body.

His muscles were taut and his agony tangible. In one sharp movement his back arched and he roared. I wanted to help him, but couldn’t have moved if I had wanted to. The black pattern on his chest ran, confirming it was painted, but that was not what startled me. I shook my head. Surely I was imagining it. It wasn’t possible. When he stood, behind him unfolded two massive black wings.

They stood at least two feet above his head and the tips descended to a point at his feet. He lowered his head and extended the wings. Their span had to be more than ten feet across. He stumbled slightly as the wings stretched wide. It was unusual since he always carried himself with an unearthly gracefulness. The sight was awe-inspiring. He continued to stretch and contract his wings as though he was getting used to them. I wasn’t sure what to do—run away or run to him to see if the dark angel would gaze upon me. I wondered if he could fly. Was he an angel? Surely not. In the next instant one of my questions was answered when he bent his knees, kicked off the ground, and took flight. With a whisper, he disappeared into the night sky.

I stood unmoving, waiting for him to return. The breeze blew softly, no clouds in the sky to trap the heat; it was getting cold fast. The adrenaline of the experience kept me warm for most of the hour, though. Slowly, one by one the candles extinguished. When the last candle died, I turned around and made for home.

I could not sleep or stop thinking about what I saw. How was it even possible? Was I becoming like Aunt Eva? Would I start thinking the bats were coming to suck out my soul? It was the only logical explanation. It would explain everything—Cyril’s existence, the wings, my strange attraction for him, his godlike appearance. I spent all night trying to will myself sane.

It made sense now why I never told anyone of Cyril. Somewhere deep in my mind I knew he didn’t exist. Tomorrow I would return to the cemetery as a therapy lesson. I would unthink him and return to my life. It was odd to feel grief over an illusion. It wasn’t like any of it could have happened, so I was unsure why I felt a foreboding pit in my stomach.

* * *

Sometime overnight it snowed, just enough to blanket the ground. It was no more than five inches or so. Flakes still flurried from the sky. The snow absorbed ambient sounds, causing the world to sound hushed and muffled. The roads were not yet plowed and my pristine footprints were evidence of my path. My aunt had left early in the morning, forgetting to wish me happy birthday. I expected to find no sign last night happened.

I took the road to the top of the cemetery and followed the winding path past snow-covered stone after snow-covered stone. The ornate iron gate was outlined in white, and three large crows foraged something dead near the road. With the sound dampened by the snow, the scene was surreal.

Rounding the corner to the memorial park, I closed my eyes and opened them slowly, willing forth sanity. It wasn’t real. Winged men didn’t exist.

Cyril lay bleeding on the ground. I screamed. He did not have wings like I had imagined. He was naked and bloody in the snow. I started toward him while shrugging off my coat. I knelt beside him and tried to gather him in my arms, trying to secure the coat around him. I stuck my ear to his chest, his breathing faint. Blood seeped out from under him, the injury on his back, but he proved too heavy to move.

I started CPR. I didn’t know if I should, but pressed both of my hands to his chest and thumped out compressions like I learned in gym class anyway. I tilted his head back and blew breath into his lungs. He sputtered and gasped. I repeated the process. He coughed and his eyes fluttered open. When his eyes met mine, tears streamed down my cheeks.

“Oh Cyril, I need to get you help. I have to get you help. Stay with me. Oh, God what happened? Did someone do this to you? Where are you hurt?” I caressed his face.

He coughed and blood trickled down the side of his mouth. “No help,” he managed to say.

“What? I have to get you help; otherwise you’re going to die.” Hysteria was evident in my voice.

“I know. Please don’t leave me. Just stay. Keep touching me. It brings me comfort.” It was a plea.

“Cyril, I know you’re real, don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.” Tears dripped from my chin and landed on his face, his shoulders, and his chest.

He choked a few times. “Did you ever get your kiss?” He said it so quietly I wasn’t sure I heard him right.

“My what?” When it registered I snapped, “No,” then went back to assessing his injuries. His eyes began to roll back into his head, but he caught himself before completely succumbing to the darkness.

“Will you allow me the privilege? I may not be a young college boy, but I can assure you I would consider it an honor.”

He mumbled something. It sounded like a chant. I couldn’t make out the words. He was delirious. I stared at him for a moment, searched his eyes, and lowered my mouth to his. He breathed the final words of his chant through my welcoming lips. I would have given him anything he asked for, even my soul.

The kiss was chaste at first but he must have mustered every last bit of energy because his lips started to move urgently. I could taste his blood, metallic and bitter-rich like the darkest chocolate. His tongue swept over my lips. His energy dissipated and our lips stilled against each other before they parted. When I looked at him I could see the trails of his blood and my tears as they ran across his face. There was a little less life in his eyes.

He sighed. “Sorry to make this memory so macabre for you, Light. Thank you for honoring me.” His words and endearment caused a sob to catch in my throat.

“Don’t go.”

He reached up and touched my cheek. “I will never leave you. That is something you should never doubt.”

His eyes closed.

“No. No. No. Don’t you dare leave!”

His breathing faltered. I started CPR again. I felt for a pulse but couldn’t find one. There was no rise or fall of his chest. My despair transformed into anger. I knew he was gone, but I could not accept it. My compressions were brutal and, the mouth-to-mouth fueled by desperation.

Something sharp caused me to gasp in pain. I sat up, bringing my hand to my mouth. There was blood; it could have easily been his blood. I was covered in it, but felt the laceration on my lip. I reached down and touched Cyril’s lip. Hooking a finger in his upper lip, I gasped. Razor-sharp fangs protruded from his upper jaw. What the hell was he? Vampire? Angel? Vampire-angel?

I wasn’t going to rule out any possibility. My desperation was a driving force. I tried to think of all the legends. CPR didn’t help, but was there something else I needed to try. I looked for something, anything.

The only creature I knew of with fangs was a vampire, and they needed blood to live, right? But the wings? There were no wings today.

Rowdy, drunken teenagers often frequented the cemetery. I stood and stumbled from the weakness of shock and the force of the wind. After searching desperately, I found a glass bottle stuffed inside the opening of one the cannons. I smashed it against the cannon’s barrel. The shards fell to the pedestal the cannon was seated on. I retrieved the largest and rushed to Cyril’s side. He still was not moving or breathing. I checked again—no pulse. But he had wings and fangs, for God’s sake; he should be able to heal. I reached down, pulled back his lips, and opened his mouth.

With my right hand I clutched the shard, slicing it across my left wrist. Too numb from adrenaline to feel pain, I watched as blood bubbled to the surface. It emerged from the wound and flowed down my hand. The thick liquid cooled quickly in the breeze. I instantly pressed my wrist to his lips, allowing the liquid to hit his tongue. The flow was steady and I saw it coat his mouth, but nothing happened. I squeezed at the wound when it started to close to bring forth more.

Nothing happened.

I waited for the miracle. I waited for the fang-baring, sometimes winged man to sit up. I checked one final time for a heartbeat or a pulse; there wasn’t one. My chest tightened even more at the grief of knowing he was gone. I held his head, placing light, tear-filled kisses all over his face, and said all the things I never dared to say before.

“Open your eyes.”

Kiss.

“I love you.”

Kiss.

“I need you.”

Kiss.

“Don’t go.”

One long, lingering kiss on the top of his head, and he was gone. I lowered his head back down to the snow. The snow was heavy now; no longer flurries that flitted through the air. He was no longer warm, and the flakes fell and started to linger on his skin, covering the russet-colored markings that adorned him. The wind blew hard, whistling past my ears. My tears were thick and stung as they cooled in the breeze. I stood and faced the wind.

The vista of the snow-covered mountains was a vast contrast to the brutal scene surrounding me. I closed my eyes, hoping when they opened the scene would be erased. But what greeted me was the pool of red surrounding him, our blood upon his lips, rivers of frozen tears, and drips from the tip of my finger leaving small crimson droplets in the snow. The wind ruffled the dark hair on his lifeless body and the image coalesced, forever etched in my mind. One last look, one silent prayer, and I ran to get help.

* * *

I arrived at my aunt’s house in record time; I called 911 and told them they would find Cyril in the cemetery and that I had no idea what happened.

I ran upstairs. After locating the book Cyril gave me, I grabbed a pen and opened it, smearing the cover with blood.
Only happy thoughts
, he’d said. Only happy thoughts. I wrote
Cyril will come back to me. Cyril isn’t gone. Cyril will love me, as I love him. Cyril will save me.