He raised himself slightly, attaining a sitting position propped against the pillows behind him with a great effort and accepting the smoke gratefully. She had not dressed, and her skin gleamed in the moonlight that shone in through the still open glass doors. All other light had been extinguished.
Dragging heavily on the cigarette and letting the soothing smoke slide through his lungs, back out, he spoke. "Who are you?"
"Does it matter?" she answered, turning slightly away so that the silhouette of her breasts stood out against the window beyond. Incredibly, he felt himself hardening yet again. "I am, and I want you. Is that not enough?"
"No," he said, blowing another puff of smoke through his teeth and trying to calm himself. "You are different. I need to know."
"And what good would this knowledge be to you?" she asked, turning back to him. Her voice was sophisticated, smooth – perfect in an oldworld sort of way. The wild laughter was back in her eyes, surrounded by the haunted, almost tragic beauty of her porcelainhued face. A face that models would die for, that plastic surgeons dreamed of creating, that a king might make a queen. Except for the eyes, a king would not stand to be mocked.
He looked deeper, and something whispered to his mind that she wanted to tell him, that she wanted him to know. He pressed on.
"You appeared, you disappeared, three times. You invade my mind. You make love to me, and yet your eyes laugh. I need to know why.
"I want to know who you are."
She did not speak, not then. She reached out, unerringly laying her hand on his erect penis and brushing it lightly with cool fingers.
His head swam. She looked at him, the laughter muted, as though she understood his confusion, but she did not speak. He saw other emotions warring with that laughter. Loneliness?
Emptiness? They were haunted speaking eloquently beyond the need of words.
He reached out for her again, and this time she did not fight him. This time when he pulled her close, she came willingly, melting into his embrace. His questions swam in the forefront of his mind, blinking in and out of focus, blurred by the sensations that pulsed through his body.
He pressed her tightly against himself, felt her breasts flatten against the hardness of his chest, felt her legs slide out to encircle him, felt the soft tickle as her pubic hairs slipped over him, up to his navel, back down again.
He reached behind her thighs, squeezing the flesh and rolling, flipping her beneath him. Her hair cascaded over them both, like a silver tent, then slid like silk off his shoulders to frame her face.
He held her like that, hovering above her and drinking in the sight of her, until it felt as though he might explode from his own need. He wondered what she saw in his eyes, wondered if his hunger was even a pale mirror of that trapped in her gaze.
She pressed upward against him, not struggling, but molding, molding her body to the shape of his own, arching to meet as many inches of his skin with her own as possible. He held her tightly, knowing somewhere deep inside that he could not hold her if she didn't allow it. He remembered, even through the growing heat, the strength of her arms as she'd clung to him, remembered the senseless abandon of her eyes.
This time he moved across her skin, exploring it in slow, circling motions, grinding himself against her and sliding up, then back, then up again, meeting her tongue each time, then pulling away, teasing.
He searched for warmth explored every inch of her with his questing tongue found nothing. There was no spot of heat, no indication of passion. Only her eyes, burning and pleading, begging him to go on, spoke of desire, melted with need.
He wanted to stop, to ask his question again, holding her there where she couldn't back out of it, where she'd have to answer, but he didn't have the strength. She slid her legs higher, wrapping them more tightly about his waist, pulling him close. He felt the softness of her, felt the smooth, icy shock of penetration, and he pressed onward, more and more deeply, trying to bury himself in her flesh.
She carried the rhythm, squeezing him with her legs, bucking up against him with her hips. Every time he was certain it would end, that he would lose himself in the swirling passion of the moment, she shifted, changing the beat, dropping the passion off for just a second, then heating it up again in a different direction, a different motion.
He still held her, his fingers now entwined in the long, silvery locks of her hair, wrapped so tightly that it had to be tearing nearly from its roots as she worked at him, but she had once again assumed control. He was her plaything, rising, falling, and moving to the rhythm of her own passion.
As she finally led him up the final peak, as he felt himself tumble beyond all control, she lifted her head, arching up to his throat. He slipped downward, meeting her halfway, and he felt the soft, icy touch of her lips once more, locking onto his skin, drawing him downward.
Then the grip of icy softness shifted, became a bite of pain, as if icicles had been driven through his skin, and he arched back, trying to pull away. He could not. She held him closer still, shifting and bucking her hips, driving his concentration from the intrusive pain to the excruciating pleasure of his climax.
They seemed to blend, pleasure with pain, her mouth, his skin, their arms and legs digging into one another so tightly and violently that they became one mass of flesh, one writhing, moaning entity.
He could feel himself inside her, filling her, could feel the fluid draining from his throat, the warmth siphoning away. He felt her own skin changing, warming to his touch, heating as his own cooled.
With a wrench that drew a shudder from her frame, she yanked her face away, turning from him, yet holding him even more tightly in her arms. He felt release, but at the same time, she possessed him totally, completely.
She would not meet his eyes, and he had a sudden need, now that his movements were his own once more, to see those eyes, to know whether they laughed, or mocked, or yearned.
Pulling suddenly on her hair, which he still gripped tightly, he spun her face upward, startling her. Her skin was darker, less pale, and her eyes were bright with fear? anguish? not laughter, that much he saw at a glance.
He also saw the blood, his blood, trickling from the corner of her mouth and running across her cheek. His blood.
Hypnotized by the sight, in slight shock, he released her with one hand, reaching out to touch the sticky fluid, bringing his finger to his own lips. The salty, rusty taste slid down his throat. For some reason, he did not pull away. Instead, he cupped her cheek in his hand, holding her gaze steadily in line with his own, and asked, "Who are you?"
* * *
They walked hand in hand through the moonlit night, passing empty streets and abandoned houses. It was a darker side of town, a dangerous looking side of town, but somehow it didn't matter. With her by his side, he felt as if he belonged, as if the shadows opened up on all sides to let him in, welcoming him.
She had spoken very little. The mocking laughter of her eyes had melted to haunted, sorrowful pools of melancholy. After they'd made love, he'd held her close for a while, not speaking, letting the question echo through her mind.
She had risen, finally, slipping back into her clothes in silence and motioning for him to dress and follow. He did as she bid, never letting his eyes stray far from her perfect figure. He tried to win a smile with several of his own, but the most he got was a bleak, cynical twist of the lips. Her energy seemed drained.
Now they were beyond the limits of the city completely, crossing a vacant field with trees beyond. He followed closely, not wanting to get lost in such a desolate place, not wanting to be far from her side. The skin of his throat ached, but he ignored it. His head felt light loss of blood?
They passed through a line of trees, and he saw that they had entered a graveyard. It stretched off through the woods, overgrown, all but forgotten. It was there that she led him, trailing through the crumbling headstones and creeping vines, her silver hair gleaming in the bright moonlight.
She stopped in
front of a small, insignificant stone, barely the height of his knee. Reaching down, she brushed off the dust, clearing away moss and slime so he could see what had been inscribed there. She stood back, off to one side, staring into the trees as he read.
"Madeline Greve, 18121845."
Turning back, he shrugged, pointing at the stone. "Who was she?" he asked. She shook her head, smiling wistfully at him and reaching out a hand to take his. Pulling him closer, staring into his eyes with an intensity beyond anything he'd ever experienced, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.
"Haven't you figured it out by now, Jason? This was my grave. I have not been alive, as you are alive, in over a century."
He pulled back slightly, but not away. She was crazy. After all she had shown him, she was crazy, and that was that.
"Your name is Madeline?" he asked lamely, not knowing what more to say.
"You must believe," she said, shaking him and driving her eyes even deeper into his own. "You must understand. I want you, therefore, you must know what I am. You must make a choice, and you must make it soon."
"How could you be here," he said, trying to sound at the same time reasonable, but not condescending, "if you are dead?"
"Blood." she answered simply. "Your blood, this night, that of countless others before. Only blood keeps me here. Already I have taken much of yours."
"That bite on the neck?" he said, trying to laugh it off, but remembering the sensation at the same time, reliving the moment in her eyes. "But, I feel fine. Are you saying you are a vampire?"
"Feel my skin, Jason," she said, pressing herself against him again. Now the chill was more apparent, sending shivers rippling through him.
"Look into my eyes. Do I seem to have lived long enough for pain this great, for hunger this deep?"
He felt her pressing against him again, and again he repeated, "I feel fine. If you are what you say, why am I not dead?"
"I do not kill indiscriminately," she answered. "I do not offer myself as I have without discretion.
"Your soul spoke to me, even as you departed the bus, as you moved to the cab. You have a great emptiness inside you, as have I. It echoes within you. When I first sensed you, when I caught your gaze, your eyes stared, but your heart cried out. You were lost, Jason. I felt it."
"But," he began, trying to sort out what she was saying, trying to deny the images that were resurfacing the mindless, wanton hunger that had washed through her eyes, the icy puncturing of his throat, the abandoned pain of her eyes as she'd turned her face away, trying to hide the trickling blood, the unbelievable strength with which she'd controlled him.
She stopped him from speaking, moving forward to brush his lips with her own almost tenderly, letting her arms snake around his shoulders and stepping up on her toes to reach him. She did not control him, this time, only offered herself, freely. He pulled her close, returning her kiss softly.
"What choice," he asked, finally, not sure whether his question was an admission of his belief or not, not sure of anything. "You want me, I am yours. Everything else is empty. After you, there is nothing for me. What more could there be?"
"I must feed," she whispered, her lips butterflysoft against his earlobes, her tongue flicking over his skin like that of a snake, tantalizing him, "soon. I need not choose you. I can take what I need elsewhere, disappear into the shadows, leave you with only my memory."
"And the choice," he said, dreading the answer to come, but at the same time thrilling to it.
"You are the choice, love," she whispered. "You can join me, hunt with me, love me, but it is your choice. I have waited a long time for you for one like you. There was one other, years before. He chose life. He still wanted the bright emptiness of the living world, still craved the lesser pleasures of the world of light. I have been very lonely. The others, they are empty worthless. I know you feel it too, it is in your eyes."
His thoughts whirled away from the grasping fingers of his logic. He drank in the scent of her, the feel of her, burying his head in the soft luxuriance of her hair, feeling the brushing feathertouches of her fingers, her tongue. It was as if he was coming home, coming full circle to a sort of completion that had been lacking within himself.
She did not tease him, did not prod him onward, but waited, hovering, shaking with her need, as he deliberated. He lowered his lips to meet hers again, and he realized that there had never really been a decision to make, not for him. It had been made in her eyes, in the wild abandon of her hunger as it had seeped through him, infecting him, driving him beyond the limits of pleasure he'd known, far beyond.
There was no going back, no living with a memory of what might have been, of those eyes, smiling, haunted eyes, floating in his dreams for a lifetime of loneliness. Nothing in the plastic emptiness of Iowa, or even the bright neon and promises of San Valencez, could fill the void he was now so acutely aware of, the empty chasm within him that she filled so completely. No choice.
He drew her closer, letting his arms slide around her and down to the zipper that ran the length of her leather suit, pulling it downward.
"You are certain," she breathed, her control slipping, "you will not hate me when this is done?"
He ignored her, continuing to peel the clothing from her body, and she moaned, pressing up against him. They were naked and slipping to the earth in moments, pressed together heat to ice, hunger to passion.
There was no slow exploration in this coupling, no tender tongues or sliding fingers. They ground together recklessly, twining their limbs and emotions, bathed in a surreal wash of moonlight. They moved in exaggerated, slowmotion passion, a chiaroscuro film of ecstasy and release.
Jason desperately sought her eyes, sought answers she had yet to give. The loss, the pain, they were unexplained. The mocking laughter, now muted, barely discernible, still lay in their depths controlled now, but waiting, certain to resurface.
When he met them at last, they seemed childlike, wide and glowing, filled with a different light. Hope?
She reached up and pulled him down upon her, rocking her hips into his, grinding their torso's together. The blood pumped through him rapidly, pounding in his head, flooding to his erection.
She slid lower, maneuvering herself beneath him and enveloping him once again, pulling him inside, arching to push him deeper, impaling herself on him as she rocked and moaned, writhing in the dirt and leaves.
He felt all control slipping from his mind. She controlled his body, his thoughts were bright, glittering webs of sensation, disconnected from his physical form. He could follow those threads with his mind, upward, twining through the trees like gossamer and drifting in lazy, arcing paths toward the blazing white brightness of the moon above them.
She moved her lips to his neck again, and he pressed against her without hesitation, allowing her to envelope him in her embrace, pressing himself further inside her. The rocking, cajoling rhythm of her hips never slowed, never faltered. She was locked to him, attached at both ends, her eyes rolled wildly to white.
He felt himself growing weaker, but at the same time, felt an odd peace descending. It insinuated itself within the webwork of light, reaching deep within him and drawing more heat to the surface, more pleasure. It was a numbness, a soothing wash of release, building more slowly than he would have thought possible, concentrating in his loins and sliding sinuously upward toward Madeline.
Everything was flowing toward her. He could see nothing now but the bright, winding trails of light, could feel nothing but the two points where he and she intersected, where the lights were the brightest.
He could feel her sorrow washing away, could feel the empty, vacant place inside her that was a hundred years deep, and flowed within, filling it, sliding through and over her.
He knew, somehow, that those two spots of light were all that mattered, that he was losing himself, and gaining – something more, and yet less different.
He floated for what seemed an eternity on a soft, wavering cloud of blackne
ss. He felt nothing. No sensation at all reached him, not from his body, not from his mind. His thoughts drifted, searching, tumbling about in a void from which there seemed no escape.
When he awakened, it was to the vision of her eyes. They were not laughing, but the haunted, frightened look had returned to them. He tried to sit, fell back, then tried again and succeeded. She put a hand behind his back to steady him, holding him upright until he'd had a chance to clear his eyes and take in the situation.
He did not know where they were. That was his first coherent thought. It was dark, but somehow he could see anyway. There was no movement of air, no sound. He thought it must be cold, but he did not feel it. Though the sensation of touch had returned, it had changed. There was no hot, no cold, only sensation.
The trails of light remained, muted now, twining between them, across the empty expanse that surrounded them, wrapping and binding everything. He turned to her, his eyes questioning.
"Where are we?" he asked.
She answered slowly, softly, "Home. This is home, for now, Jason. It was once the tomb of a very, very rich man he has since vacated. Gone to dust."
He shook his head again, but it did nothing to change the odd new sensations, or to clear away the clinging webs of light.
"You were telling the truth," he stated. It was not a question. He knew the warmth was gone from him as surely as he had never felt it in her. He lived, but he did not.
Dimly, still submerged, but growing steadily in strength, a hunger had begun to itch at him, gnawing away at his concentration. He looked at her again, and she saw it in his eyes.
"You must wait here," she told him. "I will go, and I will feed, and I will share with you. You must work your strength up, not try too much at once. Soon we will walk together, freely."
"You will leave me here?" he asked, knowing the thought should frighten him. It did not. It did not hold the emptiness he'd known when others had left him. The void was filled.
A Taste of Blood and Roses Page 7
