But the door leading outside from the old eighteenth-century kitchen was locked too. I was left standing there among old copper pots and pans hung on hooks around an ancient hearth. I lifted one of the largest pots from its place, intending it as a weapon. The glass here proved similarly invulnerable to my swing, so I merely held the pan in front of me, waiting for Hare, who I could hear stumbling and growling his way through the house toward me.
That’s when I spotted the door to the cellar. It was standing open. I had no idea if there was any way out from there, but perhaps it would offer me a place to hide. Better to chance the unknown than face a certain pummeling by Hare.
So I hurried down the steps, still carrying the copper pan in case I needed it. Immediately I was hit by the thick, fruity smell of old soil. It was a damp, dark place, constructed with stone in some places, with rotting wooden posts and earth in others. The ceiling was low and the corridors narrow. Yes, there were hiding places here. But for how long? Hare would know all of them. He would trap me down here. Kill me, probably.
The only light came from small windows cut into the earth. Even if the glass was breakable, the windows were too small for me to crawl through. I paused at one point, crouching behind an old rolltop desk to listen for Hare. There was no sound of him following me. In fact, as I strained to hear, I detected his footsteps above. He was in the parlor. He hadn’t pursued me into the cellar.
I took a moment to breathe, to think. What would I do now? Had I made my situation worse? What if night fell and I was still down here, trapped in utter darkness? What might Mr. Craven do to me then?
I leaned against the desk and the weight of my hands caused the top to roll upward. Inside were revealed several old, flaking newspapers. I looked at the dates. 1969.
My eyes quickly scanned the faded type.
LOCAL COUPLE MISSING
I lifted the newspaper and held it toward the faint light of the window. Two photographs. I recognized them.
My father—the same photo I’d kept for years, the only photo I had of him, in fact. Handsome, smiling, his broad shoulders extrending beyond the frame.
And the woman—his wife—Megan—
I gasped.
I saw immediately it was the creature who had attacked me, who had tasted my blood.
He looks so much like Phillip! Please! You must give him to me!
My hand went instinctively to my neck. The wounds there were nearly healed.
He had made her into a thing like himself. My father’s wife. So what had happened to my father?
Without even knowing why, I suddenly took several steps down the corridor. Ahead of me light flickered. Candlelight. I followed its tremulous dance without any conscious thought. I turned into a small room. There, in the middle of the floor, a candelabra set atop it, rested a plain wooden coffin.
I didn’t hesitate removing the candelabra or lifting the lid. I felt no fear, only a deep repugnance as I stared down at her face, sleeping peacefully. She was beautiful, no doubt about that. But she was also dead, and her face shouldn’t have been soft and supple. It should have been sunken and rotten, her eyes eaten by maggots. I tried to summon compassion for her, but could find none. This thing drank my blood.
I left her exposed as I hurried back to the rolltop desk. I tipped it on its side, disturbing its contents and making a loud bang as it crashed against the wall. I didn’t care if Hare sensed the vibrations or not. What I needed to do had to be done quickly. I had no time to lose. I gripped the leg of the desk and with all my might pressed down on it. After a second or two of hesitation, the wood snapped off in my hands, in a perfect pointed break. I grabbed the copper pot with my free hand and returned to the coffin.
I looked down at her. Her eyes were now open, returning my gaze, though her body remained immobile.
“You took my father away,” I whispered.
I positioned the wood just above her left breast. With my other hand, I lifted the pan and swung it in an arc through the air. I brought it down on the tool I was using to pierce her heart, and it made a loud clanging noise on contact.
That’s when I felt the pity. That’s when the tears flowed for me, dripping down my face as I kept pounding that stake into her heart. My tears fell upon her cheeks, and I could see why my father had loved her, why he had preferred her to my mother. She was a gentle soul, turned into this thing against her will. Her eyes opened and closed as I killed her, but she made no sound, just shuddered with each thrust of the wood gouging deeper into her flesh. There was surprisingly little blood. Nothing like you see in the movies. It was over in less than a minute. For a while she kept twitching, little spasms of her arms or her legs, but soon enough she was still. Her skin went gray, then a deep shade of blue.
I stood back to catch my breath. Why hadn’t Hare stopped me? Why hadn’t he rushed down here to protect her, as surely he’d been ordered to do?
It struck me then why he hadn’t pursued me down here. He wanted me to kill them. He was as much a prisoner of this place as I was.
“Leave the stake,” I whispered to myself, remembering some folklore from some old Dracula chronicle. You have to leave the creature impaled or else it comes back to life—unless, of course, you cut off the head. And as numb as I might be feeling, I hadn’t the stomach to attempt that.
Or the time.
I returned to the desk and broke off another leg.
I had another coffin to find.
I walked a few feet until the corridor emerged into a much larger room. A stone staircase led back up into the house. This was Craven’s sanctuary. His coffin was far more ornate, set up on a pedestal, but with the same candelabra ablaze on top.
Then I noticed the smell. Faint at first, then thick and pungent, threatening to choke me. In the flickering candlelight I struggled to find the source of the odor. I nearly tripped over it, straining my eyes to look down at the floor.
Dead animals, piled in a heap. Calves mostly. There were four, maybe five of them. And a deer. Its glassy black eyes were still open, glaring up at me.
All at once I understood why they were here. Hare had brought them for his master to feast upon. Not their flesh—no baked veal or broiled vension for him. Instead he fed off their warm blood, sipped from their veins as they still lived, kicking and screaming. Their bodies looked deflated, as if they were rugs, animal skins thrown carelessly upon the earthen floor.
I looked over at the coffin and thought of the monster sleeping inside.
Surely Hare would stop me now. Surely he wouldn’t just allow me to kill his master the way I’d killed the female. He might even be waiting in the shadows, ready to pounce.
But there was no sound, no disturbance, as I lifted the candelabra from the coffin and set it on the dusty floor. I gripped the lid of the casket. I paused, filled once again with that chill that had come over me before. I took a deep breath and raised the lid, the creaking of old hinges echoing against the stone walls. I looked down. There he was. Bartholomew Craven.
Except not the old man I had met. This was a young, handsome, attractive man. I couldn’t take my eyes from him. He was beautiful. He quite literally took my breath away.
His hair was black, his skin smooth, his lips full. I stared down at him. I felt frozen, unable to think, let alone move. Even asleep—or dead—he had some power over me, the same magnetic pull that had kept me in this house these past few days. I realized standing there, looking down at him, that such was his power: the allure, the magnetism, the enticement of the senses. That is what gives the vampire his strength. I wanted him, Minter. Standing there, looking down at him in his coffin, with a stake in my hand ready to kill him, I wanted him. Sexually. I wanted to kiss him, make love to him, not pound a stake through his heart.
I screamed out, trying to break the spell. I forced the broken desk leg up and into the air, aiming it at his chest.
And then his eyes opened.
I gasped. His body didn’t move, not so much as a shudder, but his
eyes were open and looking at me. Such dark eyes. Such beautiful eyes.
I couldn’t do it, Minter. I started to cry then, looking down at him, because I knew I had lost. I dropped the wood to the floor, let the copper pan fall with a clatter. I backed away from the coffin, covering my face with my hands. I began to sob.
That’s when I felt an arm around me. A gentle, reassuring arm. It was Hare. He pulled me close to him and held me in his arms, my nose pressed into his musty, torn coat. He led me slowly up the stairs and back up to my room, where he brought me some food and some water, tenderly touching my face once more before securing me again in my prison. Yes, he must have wanted me to kill Craven. He must want to escape as much as I do. But we are both prisoners. Both trapped.
I will get this to you somehow, my love. Somehow you will read this journal and know what happened to me. For I fear we shall never see each other again, Minter. I expect this will be my last night alive. Know that I love you forever, and that no matter what happens to me here in this house of blood, that will always be true.
May 9, 1:30 a.m.—I am still alive. And while I live, there is still hope.
But what I am about to write, Minter, fills me with shame. Forgive me, sweets. Forgive and try to understand.
As expected, I received a summons after sunset to meet Mr. Craven downstairs. Hare came for me, and I pleaded with him, encouraged by the compassion he had shown earlier. But there was none of it in evidence now, and he just grunted at me, pointing at the stairs. This time he stayed close behind me, but I was cooperative. I knew running would be pointless.
Mr. Craven waited in the parlor.
In the candlelight he looked even more handsome than I remembered. He smiled at me, a dazzling smile, filled with the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. His body had filled out, with magnificent shoulders and a small waist, and the clothes he wore were expertly tailored to reveal his impressive taper. He shook my hand firmly, and his touch was no longer icy. It was warm. And just that simple touch from him was enough to plump up my cock, though I fought the feeling. Fought it hard.
“I trust you enjoyed your little tour of the house this afternoon,” he said.
“It was informative,” I replied, holding my ground, not wanting to look directly into his eyes. “At least I finally got the answers I came here looking for.”
“Really? You mean to say you’ve learned all you need to know?”
“All that I care to.”
He smiled, lifting the glass top of the decanter of port. “Will you join me?”
I said nothing, so he poured me a glass and handed it over to me. I accepted it. He poured himself a glass as well and we drank. Thick and rich.
“It’s my only weakness,” Craven said. “A good port.”
“But it’s not port that’s given you such a youthful glow,” I said, daring him to admit the truth.
He just beamed. “Why, thank you, Jeremy.”
“But why animals? Why not some girl from the village?” I smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Or some boy?”
Mr. Craven sighed, looking out the window. “You think me a monster. You think of me as some devil who takes delight in death.”
“I saw what you did to my father’s wife. What you made her.”
He looked over at me, pained. “I had no other choice. She found me—she was a threat—”
“The animals must have been just for her sustenance in the beginning, for she was still young and beautiful. You didn’t let her go hungry as you did yourself.”
His eyes reflected sadness. “I could not condemn her, cause her any more suffering, than I already had.”
There actually seemed to be some guilt in his words, some measure of accountability. The truth became plain. “You loved her, didn’t you?” I asked.
“I have never discriminated in love. Men, women—”
“But in loving her, you turned her into something vile.”
Again I saw the pain and guilt on his face. “You did her a great favor. You have given her the peace that I never could.”
“And my father? Did you make him into some undead thing too just so you could have his wife?”
“Oh, no. Your father was fortunate. He escaped that fate.” He smiled sadly. “Though whether he would have thought himself fortunate is unlikely.”
“What do you mean?”
He set his glass down on the table and took a deep breath, pressing his hands together in front of him as if he were at prayer. “For more than thirty years, Jeremy,” he said thoughtfully, “I have gone hungry. I learned to ignore the urge, to suppress the desire that ate away at my soul. Too much harm had come to this village because of me. So much death and misery to my family, my friends, all because of the curse the she-devil cast upon me when she stole Jebediah away. I wanted no more death, no more suffering. So I stayed here, away from all human contact, with Hare as my only companion.” He drew close to me, letting his hands fall upon my shoulders. “Then you arrived at my door.”
I just stared up at him, into those compelling dark eyes.
“You, with your talk of love,” he continued. “You rekindled something in me, Jeremy. Something dormant. Something too long forgotten.”
I felt the swelling in my loins again. He was so close I could see the tiny red veins in his eyes. I could smell his breath, no longer rancid but sweet. His warm hand came up to caress my cheek. I wanted him to kiss me, to drink my blood if he must—anything, just to have him.
“Do you feel it, too, Jeremy?” he asked. “The desire that lives between us?”
I tried to deny it. I managed to move my head away, breaking eye contact.
“No,” I said hoarsely. “I feel nothing for you.”
“But you do not tell the truth,” he said, his hand dropping to my crotch and pressing against the fabric of my pants. My erection only lengthened and hardened. Mr. Craven laughed gently. “Oh, Jeremy, the truth is evident. Why do you fight it?”
“Because . . .”
“Because of Minter?”
“Yes!” I shouted. “And because of what you are!”
“What I am? Tell me what that is, Jeremy. What am I?”
“A—”
“Say it, Jeremy.”
I couldn’t.
“I’ll tell you what I am, Jeremy,” Mr. Craven said, moving still closer and turning my face gently into his gaze again. “I am the man of your dreams. Of your deepest, most profound yearnings. I am the man you dreamed of when you were a young boy, the man you hoped was out there waiting for you, when the stirrings of lust were just beginning to take root down deep in your soul. I am the man you have looked for every night since, searching for me in the darkest corners of your world. I am the man you see in those deep and roiling dreams, when you awaken flushed and aroused, unable to explain the sensations to the man lying beside you, a poor substitute for me.”
I could say nothing in defense. What he said was true. Oh, God, I’m sorry, Minter. Really I am.
He kissed me. And it was the most erotic kiss I have ever known. I submitted without any further struggle, my lips surrendering to his, my heart pounding in my ears, my mind floating somewhere outside myself. Consciousness was gone. There was only lust, carnal lust. Sensations I cannot describe here. He eased me down onto the daybed, and his hands explored my body. And when his lips moved down my neck and I felt his teeth puncture my throat, I orgasmed in my pants without even touching myself.
I don’t remember much of the immedate aftermath. I know I lay there dreamily, aware of him in the room, moving about. He finally sat beside me and stroked my cheek, bring me back to clarity.
“Tell me about your life in Boston, my love,” he said softly.
“My life is only with you,” I said, not even aware of the words until they were spoken.
He smiled. How gorgeous he was, sitting there in the candlelight. “Of course, my love. I am your life now. But tell me. Tell me about Boston. Where do you live there?”
“The South End,�
� I managed to say. “It’s the . . . the gay neighborhood.”
“Ah, so there are many like you there.”
“Yes. Many gay men.”
“What street exactly? What is your address there?”
“Why?” I asked. “Why do you want to know?”
Mr. Craven looked at me with kind reproach. “My love, such things needn’t trouble you now.”
“Clarendon Street,” I said. “At the corner of Columbus.”
“Clarendon at Columbus,” he repeated to himself, as if memorizing the words. “Do you enjoy living there?”
“Yes. Well, I did . . . before you . . .”
“And Minter? Does Minter enjoy living there?”
It was like a stab into my heart when he said your name. I couldn’t answer at first, so he asked the question again.
“Yes,” I said. “Minter likes living there.”
“And what do you do? Where do you go?”
“What do you mean?”
“He enjoys riding. And he takes pictures. What else does he like?”
“Well . . . we go out sometimes. Dancing.”
“Dancing. But of course. How he loved to dance.”
“And the gym . . . we work out, play basketball, swim . . .”
“Yes. Athletics. Yes, I can do athletics.” He was looking at me with wide eyes. “And a dog. You have a dog, yes? Does Minter love this dog?”
Thinking of Ralph shook me up again. “Why are you asking me all this?”
Craven kissed my forehead. “Enough talk for now. You should rest, my love.” He ran his hand down my face. I held it there, not wanting him to take it away. Ever. But he stood up. “Hare. Help Mr. Horne up the stairs. He should rest.”
“No, I’m not tired,” I said, but once on my feet, my knees buckled, and Hare had to hold me up under my armpits.
“Take him upstairs,” Mr. Craven said brusquely, dismissing us. I felt horribly rejected, and had to fight back the tears as we headed back up the stairs.
In my room, once again Hare was gentle, looking at me with compassionate eyes. He handed me a cold damp towel to press against the wounds on my throat.
Masters of Midnight: Erotic Tales of the Vampire Page 5
