by M J Marstens
She and I face off a lot, but I like to think deep down, she knows of my profound love for this building and my obvious adoration for books. And even though we are constantly at odds with one another, we are actually kindred spirits of the literary world, enjoying the written word in this cozy cocoon of old-time décor and outdated interior design. . .
Then I think of Grinch’s face when I asked if there was a Fuck It sequel.
Nope, she definitely hates my guts.
I’m just a delusional, yet hopeful, twatwaffle.
(I really need to look that word up in the urban dictionary. . . mentally adding it to my Google list. . .) I doubt Mrs. Gerty would help me find its definition, but thinking of her face while asking it has me cracking up. Still chuckling, I set up shop on the bench ledge. I’m not worried about her coming up today as she never saw me go upstairs. I while away my remaining time with reading. So many series, so little time.
At 4:00 on the nose, my phone vibrates. I knew this person was prompt. I answer the phone in a normal-volumed voice. The central heating in this place sounds like someone left the TV on at the highest volume- on a static channel.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is Ms. Delsol available?” A warm and friendly voice asks.
“Speaking, but please call me Zahra.”
“Zahra with a Spanish pronunciation?”
I almost blow the older sounding woman a kiss. She totally gets my name. Do you know how rare that is? It seems like people cannot say your name correctly unless it fits some societal profile of normalcy. For example, my best friend is Ember, but everyone calls her Amber. God, we are a pair with our unusual monikers- but how damn difficult is it to call someone by their correct name?
I have been called Zahra, with a hard ‘z’ and rhyming with Sarah. Or I’m just Sarah. See, my dad’s grandpa was originally from Spain. So to go along with our extremely Spanish sounding last name (Delsol means ‘of the sun’), my parents thought it suitable to give me an unpronounceable-by-Western-society name that I would forever be correcting. Oh- and did I mention I’m super white looking? That’s right, I’m the white Zahra Delsol. (And its pronounced SAR, rhymes with tar- AH. The rolled ‘r’ is optional.)
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for pronouncing it correctly.”
“You’re welcome, dear. Such a lovely, unique name. I’m Mary, and I’m the head coordinator here at Miraval for the board of CEOs.”
“Nice to meet you. Thank you for taking an interest in my application.”
“Ah well, yours has been the most well-rounded and coherent yet. I had almost lost hope. Let’s begin. According to your resume, you have been practicing astrology for over a decade?”
“Yes, I started interpreting charts and doing tarot readings when I was fourteen. In college, I actually made a side-profession of it,” I hesitate. “How proficient are you in astrology?” I don’t want to lose her in the technical jargon.
“Not overly.” I nod like she can see me and prepare my ‘types of charts’ speech.
“So, I start with natal chart readings, this is a birth chart, which is basically an abstract picture of the heavens at your time of birth. Depending on the client, I then recommend doing a Secondary Direction reading. These are also called Progressed charts and show you how your natal chart has evolved for every year of your birth. I also use transits, which are the planets’ current locations in the heavens compared to your natal chart and Solar Revolutions, which are done yearly at the time of a person’s birthday in relation to their current location to get an idea of the year ahead. Of course, there is so much more I can do, but this is a basic outline of my services.”
I hear Mary make a humming sound of approval and the sound of a pen scratching notes over paper.
“Very interesting and well explained. Although, I thought transits were general?”
“Oh, they are when the planets and asteroids are viewed at their present position in the sky above. It’s when overlaid on a natal chart for comparison that transits become personal. For example, in a few weeks the sun will transit, or enter, into Aries breathing new life and vitality to our world. This general transit brings springtime and warmth. . . unless you’re from where I live,” I joke.
“Clemenston not exactly a warm place in Minnesota?” Mary queries.
“Well, I do not think there is any warm place in Minnesota in winter, but here in our neck of the woods, it’s especially cold. One of last week’s highs was -33. . . without the wind chill.”
I hear her audibly shudder.
“Well, thank goodness you’re coming here! Our Arizona sun will warm you right up!”
I forget to breathe for a second. What did she just say? This interview has not even reached the ten-minute mark and I’m already advancing to the in-person interview?! I do my impression of a happy dance inside the library bathroom and thank god no one can see me. I hear Mary clacking away at her keyboard and wait for her to continue.
“It looks like your closest airport is in International Falls. They have a flight leaving this Sunday at 1:00, arriving at 5:00 with no stop and returning on Thursday. Is this too soon, or do you want me to look into next weekend?”
It does seem a little rushed, but maybe she knows how badly I want to get out of here. . . and who am I to turn down a four-day stay in the Grand Canyon state? With my approval, she buys the airfare and schedules a company car to pick me up and take me to the resort. I have a 10:00 meeting Monday morning, but the rest of my stay is at my leisure and on the house.
Go ahead and reread those last three words.
I swear I’m grinning like the Cheshire Cat atop the Queen of Hearts’ head. All I have to do is drive to Falls International Airport to board- which is the only potential glitch in this whole plan. But come hell or high snow, I’m determined to make it to Arizona. I ask if I need to bring anything.
“Yes, please bring examples of your services, such as sample charts, and be prepared to do a Tarot reading. I’m emailing over the confirmation reservation for your flight and your tickets to scan. If there are any problems, I’m forwarding my personal contact information. Please do not call the company number, but me directly. And I’ll see you on Monday!”
“Thank you so much!” I squeak out before disconnecting.
Man, that lady is efficient. I bet she could take on the Head Grinch any day. I needed to recruit her to my side.
The Gert was going down. (Please ignore my idiotic ramblings, I’m in a state of shocked bliss and cannot be bothered to make sense.)
I check the time: 4:08.
I just nailed a phone interview in eight minutes.
Either I’m totally badass or the other applicants were really incompetent. Mary did allude to the latter, but I like to base my success on my badassness (which is very much a word).
CHAPTER 5
ZAHRA
I take a moment to text Edgar to see if he can come to pick me up. I send him a kiss emoji as an incentive to come back for me- not because I’m leading him on further. It’s a friendly kiss emoji. Besides, how literally can someone take emojis? One is an actual pile of shit.
I rest my case.
Edgar writes back that he’ll get me when the library closes, which is not until 6:00. He’s out salting county roads due to drifting and icing. He also sends an emoji:
A throbbing heart.
That could be friendly, too, right?
I don’t ponder on it further but grab one of my books from my duffle bag and settle myself on the ‘reading ledge’ of the bay window, the blinds tightly closed. I always bring a spare blanket and traveling pillow, and I look like a cat all curled up. The only light is the soft glow of the lamp next to the sink. The book is interesting, but full of scientific data, and I find myself drifting off, enveloped in warmth.
Like always, my dreams eventually coalesce into that same vivid, recurring nightmare. The rooms are different, the women are different, but the man is the same. And I’m an invisible force, watching
the scene unfold- like the world’s creepiest voyeur. Because these scenes are definitely X-rated. The man always has his back to me and is screwing the brains out of some ridiculously good-looking woman. Then, as if he senses me, he focuses on where I’m. . . uh. . . hovering, I guess. And I freak out and start darting around the room.
Every.
Single.
Damn.
Time.
Because let me tell you something about this man- I’m not sure he’s one.
I say ‘man’ because it has a penis and very clearly uses it like a human man, but that is where the resemblance ends. This guy is a freaking giant, like seven feet tall! His dark, inky hair spills down his back in a straight waterfall of black, and I’m a little jealous of it. His skin is a muted cranberry red, which off-sets his creepy-as-fuck red eyes, and there is a sickle tattoo over his left pectoral. Add in some fangs, a defined body that Channing Tatum would be envious of, and inhuman movements, well, it seems pretty damn obvious to me that he’s some kind of vampire.
I mean, fangs, right?
Where was I?
Oh, yes, I’m freaking out because he found me.
I start ping-ponging around the room to hide and end up inside the woman. (The really good-looking one he’s currently fucking.) As if that is not messed up enough, it’s like I become one with this chick and whatever she feels, I feel. . . . and it feels fanfuckingtastic. Every leisurely slam into her/my body lights up all my nerve endings in pleasure. This vampire/demon/monster guy is scary as hell, but he sure knows how to give it to a lady- and I use that term loosely.
Monster Man (another great alliteration on my part) seems to want to keep his distance, but I want to feel him on me, over me, deeper inside me. Manipulating the woman’s body I’m inside of, I tighten my legs together and grab his elbows to pull him closer. Then, I always try and do something else to shock him. Today I reach out and touch one of his fangs. . .
Ouch!
Fuck!
Stupid woman’s body listening to me inside her!
Those suckers are sharp. I look down at her cut finger and whimper. The man looks at me in disbelief and exasperation, like I’m the world’s dumbest person. Honestly, I’m a little offended by that look. Narrowing his eyes, he picks up my (her) finger and gently licks the blood off and groans, as if it’s a decadent treat.
Definitely a vampire.
I have never seen him be gentle, and I watch as he softly strokes the fingertip with his tongue, the rough surface causing tingles to erupt down my back. A low moan escapes my lips and he starts sucking a little harder on my finger. And, like the lady I’m obviously not, I start moaning louder. Monster Man starts bucking his hips in tandem with his finger licking and the entire experience is like sensory-overload. I mean, I don’t know how this is possible, because it’s a dream, but I swear I see this chick’s gray matter when my eyes roll back in her head. No real-life fuck has ever been this good.
(Quick confession time: I fake all my orgasms. Don’t be horrified, I’m the one getting gypped. The secret is to not be too over the top; subtlety is a forgotten art. I guess there’s the question of why I even pretend, since the other person doesn’t even deserve the pretense since they obviously can’t get me off.
Oh, and another quick sidebar tangent: Who else is a little pissed that guys have to get off to procreate? Men literally have to enjoy the process to its fullest to perpetuate the species. Proof that god is a dude if there ever was any. I mean, where is the justice in that? And don’t tell me that women have double the nerve endings down there than men have- it’s little consolation.)
Sorry, back on topic:
I’m getting dream railed and enjoying the ever-living-fuck out of it, because this guy screws like a champ.
I don’t even care that it’s not my body, the sensations are real (which is a weird thing to think, since it’s a dream), and I ride the high of her/my/our orgasm. It bursts inside me out of nowhere and paints the room in sparkly, little cascades of light. I feel the woman’s pussy convulse around the man, igniting his own completion, which he growls out against her neck like a heathen barbarian.
My breath is coming out in panting huffs and I wait for him to make eye contact again and deliver his famous line. Slowly, he lifts his head from the woman’s heaving chest and looks into my eyes, but instead of his normal I’m-going-to-have-to-kill-you-now look, his eyes are smug and a sense of unease prickles through me. He looks decidedly wicked, as his mouth kicks up in an evil grin.
“Found you.”
What.
The.
Fuck.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, ‘I’ll find you’ is a scary sentiment, but ‘found you’ is even scarier.
What in the hell does he mean?
I don’t like this hot nightmare anymore. (Let’s not point out that most people do not enjoy nightmares right now, please, because most are not getting excellently boned by a potential vampire.) My brain races for a way to extract myself from this situation and I feel my eyes light up with victory.
“Tapioca!” I yell through the woman’s mouth.
Take that, Monster Man!
Except, he doesn’t look defeated. . .
He looks puzzled.
“You know, tapioca, the safety word.”
Again, no response.
I close my eyes and cross my arms. If he isn’t going to play by the unspoken rules of kinky fuckery, then I’m waking up from this dream charade. I hear him puff an aggravated breath above the woman’s head. How dare he feel annoyed. I look up and open my mouth to give him a right piece of my mind, when I feel the weightlessness of waking up. His eyes remain locked on mine as I slowly drift into consciousness. I faintly hear him say:
“Found you, at last.”
The grim satisfaction in those four words jolts me fully awake.
Why does this suddenly seem less like a dream and more like a waking nightmare?
CHAPTER 6
SATURN
I bury my head in my hands, trying to make sixes and sevens of my most recent encounter with her. The woman who hijacks my meals and brings me untold pain and sorrow. And pleasure. She has always been cunning and conniving, but this. . . innocent act. . . is something new. She always did like her games. But I’ll not be drawn in this time. No, this time, I’ll remain impervious. And when she gives me the information I seek, I’ll end her life by snapping her innocent little neck in two.
f
ZAHRA
I bolt upright, instantly awake, and fall gracelessly to the bathroom floor. . .
Of the library. . .
Where I have fallen asleep.
My dreams/nightmares are getting out-of-hand and are far too lucid for my comfort level. I quickly dig into my duffle bag and pull out a dream dictionary. I thought to ask for it a couple weeks ago when I realized this subconscious act was not going anywhere. Of course there is no entry for ‘potential vampire that plows possessed model’. Dammit, couldn’t these books give examples or something? The chiming of my phone brings me out of my mental rant. I have a notification. It’s from the Clemenston Public Library and says they will be closing early due to a potential ice storm.
This was sent at 4:58; it’s now 5:04.
I move in a flurry of activity, throwing everything I own back into my duffle bag and sending a quick text to Edgar explaining the situation. Then I head for the door. I literally cringe to think about what Mrs. Gerty is going to say when she sees that I’m still here, but what choice do I have? I exit the bathroom and walk swiftly to the carpeted stairs across the room. Everything is now dark, except for the emergency lights.
Remember when I said this place was like the Ghostbusters’ library, but not haunted?
That is because I have never seen it at night- alone.
I stop walking. Everything is encased with eerie shadows and darkness. The stairs I used to get up here are the closest to the front door, but also have no lighting. What if something is there, waiting
? More logically, what if I fall and break my leg? I promise you Mrs. Gerty will not call for help.
Insufferable bitch.
I book it to the back, where there is an open wooden staircase lined with windows and more lighting.
Time: 5:06.
I walk down the creaky old stairs. For sure Mrs. Gerty has to know someone is here. I just hope she isn’t within her rights to take me out with a fire extinguisher. As I round the corner, no lights are on down below either, save for the soft glow of a lamp in the library’s back office. My heart starts racing in unease. . .
What if the Gerty turned into a monster and is now eating crickets á là The Girl Who Cried Monster? (I might have read a lot of Goosebumps in my not-so-distant youth.)
My dream/nightmares fuel my nervousness. Monsters have infiltrated my subconscious, but I won’t let those fuckers rule my waking life!
I let out a pitiful war cry and strut boldly to the office. I wrench open the door and find. . . .
Nothing.
Oh, thank god!
I collapse on the floor- I’m not cut out for this kind of intrigue.
Knowing it’s time to face the piper, I softly begin calling out Mrs. Gerty’s name. I don’t yell, because even after hours, that old bat will give me a dressing down. I walk to the front reception area and out to the atrium. . .
To the locked front door.
Son-of-a-bitch!
Here I’m worried about monster librarians and that woman has locked me in! (There really is no need to point out she had no clue. Just allow me to continue hating on her. Thank you.)
Now I’m in a quandary.
How the hell am I going to get out?
I don’t want to stay here overnight. This is the perfect place for a potential vampire to come and kill me.
Sighing in resignation, I text Edgar again, this time explaining the new situation. His response:
