Tenderly, Lucien gathered up the hem of her white chemise. She raised her arms so he might slip it over her head, which he did, and it billowed to the ground as it fell from his hands.
Her long confinement had paled her skin’s tawny hue. Her complexion, now cool and blue-white, reminded Lucien of milk in a porcelain saucer.
The lusty curves of her body were angular now…her waist so nipped he could hold it between his hands. Her breasts were as round and lovely as ever he remembered.
She was changed, yes, but in her waif-like frailty, she possessed an ethereal beauty as unearthly as...one of his own kind.
She patted the blankets, inviting him to join her, the corners of her mouth turning with a sweet smile.
He heard the beating of her heart quicken and felt her gaze sweep over him as he removed his clothing, leaving them in a crumple on the floor beside her gown. He stretched out on the cool of the coverlet, and she came to him, sliding over his body, resting her head in the crook of his arm.
Her flesh on his was like a baptism. Her body seemed a holy thing to worship, and he bowed in reverence over it, showering upon it an adulation of tender kisses. Her touch anointed him, her fingers caressing his arms…his shoulders…his face.
“My angel,” she sighed, guiding his head to that hallowed altar between her thighs, her musky incense rising from the catacomb of her cathedral.
Never had he known pleasure this sublime. His very cells seemed awash with a transcendent radiance. He put his mouth to that sweet, sanctified place, and there he took his communion.
His tongue lapped the juice spilling from her chalice, and she rewarded him with a tremble and a moan. He sucked her tiny spire between his lips, polishing it with his tongue. She writhed beneath him, and he’d have been content to worship at her holy hall forever, pleasuring her with his mouth. But she pulled him toward her, and he kissed her, his jaws still wet with her musky wine which she sucked from his lips. She filled his mouth with her tongue, and he tasted her again.
He hovered over her, his arms supporting his weight, fearful she might break if laid his weight on her. She stroked his hair, and he gazed into her eyes.
Her legs moved beneath him, and she opened them, inviting him in. He longed to enter but wasn’t certain he should.
“Are you sure?” he asked, still fearful of hurting her.
“Yes,” she said. “I trust you.”
Lucien sat on his heels, bringing her with him, her weight as light as dandelion fluff in his arms. He held her there for a moment, her legs around his hips. His fingers traced the scars on her back, and he wished he had the power to heal them by touch alone.
The storm had passed. He heard the soft plop of raindrops falling from freshly sprouted leaves, as he gently lifted Summer’s hips and slowly lowered her onto him. Her arms trembled about his neck as he ever-so-carefully entered her.
The sensation was exquisite, like sliding into warm honey, and she must have felt it too, he thought, because she buried her face in his neck and released a long, sweet sigh.
She clung to him, rocking slowly up and down on his shaft. He helped by holding her round the hips and lifting her to the pace she set. He only supported her while she rode him, he didn’t thrust. This moment wasn’t for him. Her breath came faster now, even though the strokes grew ever slower.
The sway of her body was beautiful as she undulated against him - gently rolling waves of bones and flesh. Her perspiration, like flecks of mica, shimmered on her skin in the flickering candlelight.
She sank deeper, taking more of him in, her breath coming in short, dry gasps. He knew she was close because she was so wet that every stroke made a soggy, sucking sound. He tried his utmost not to thrust, but he was close too, and it was damn near torture. He wanted to roll her on her back and pound it out, but he couldn’t - he wouldn’t.
Her body started to quake, and he felt it vibrate deep down inside of her--all the way to his cock. His legs trembled as his climax rumbled like an active volcano. His fingers found her clitoris, making rapid little circles on it to help her get there. Shuddering, she lowered herself onto the full length of his cock. The cries of her orgasm sounding like a choir of cherubs, her tight pussy milked his organ. He felt the charge of his ejaculate advancing up his shaft and pounding down the door like a battering ram. He couldn’t help it. He thrust, but just once, and he came like fucking Mount Vesuvius.
Thy Eternal Summer Shall not Fade
The pain attacked her with a vengeance, as if to say, Stupid Girl, did you think a little pleasure could keep me away? This is my house, and you’ll have to die before I leave it!
The bed wasn’t a bed anymore, but little goblins with thumbtack shoes playing kickball on her back. Only the ball wasn’t a ball, it was a spiny sea urchin.
Lucien held his hand out, his palm filled with pills. “Here, take these,” he said, his face creased with worry.
She could almost hear the pain laughing at that handful of powerless little pills. Nothing had power over it now. Pain reigned supreme.
“They don’t work,” Summer said, pushing his hand away; a few pills bouncing from his palm and rolling onto the floor.
“I don’t know what to do for you,” he said, sitting on the bed so gingerly she barely felt the mattress move.
“I think I’d feel better sitting up. Would you carry me to the chair?”
He scooped her up, cradling her in his arms, and, even though his steps were light, each one was like a cigarette burn to her spine.
Pillows, footstool, fussing with blankets, all of this just to be able to fucking sit down, she thought. She was so over it.
Lucien sat opposite her, looking like he just hit somebody’s grandma with a car. She felt as if she was the one who’d urged him to mow the old gal down.
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “The pain’s always bad. It’s just worse now because…” her words trailed off. No sense in saying it; they both knew why it was worse.
“It can’t happen again, you know.” It wasn’t an admonishment, just a statement. She knew what he really meant was not to ask him again, cause it wasn’t gonna happen.
One more thing she couldn’t do anymore.
“It’s late,” he said, weariness weaving through his voice. “You should try and get some sleep.”
Sleep was a commodity that didn’t come easily these days. She’d trade all her money for a few hours’ sleep - that is if she had any money - which she didn’t. The hospital bills had taken everything. If it wasn’t for Social Security Disability, she wouldn’t even be able to afford an aspirin. Lucien tucked the blanket all around her, making sure she was good and snug. Then he kissed her forehead. It was when he moved to leave that desperation caused her to act. Seizing him by the arm, she uttered only two words.
“Turn me.”
He looked at her, the muscles of his face drawn tight, and his eyes searching to and fro as if he hadn’t heard her right.
“Don’t make me say it again,” she pleaded, and she could tell by the soberness of his facial expression that he saw the seriousness in hers too.
He turned and pulled his chair close to her, sinking into it and gazing at her with a quiet earnestness, his hand thoughtfully stroking his chin.
“What you’re asking,” he said softly, “is a difficult decision for me. I’m not certain I can…comply.”
She opened her mouth to voice the thousand reasons she had prepared, but he raised his hand, bidding her to wait. Biting her lip, she waited, her heart like a bass drum throbbing in her throat.
“This is a serious matter, irreversibly serious,” he said. “I need to know some things from you, and I need for you to know some things as well.” He crossed one leg over the other, sitting back in the wingback chair, his hands resting on the arms, appearing for all intents and purposes like a Mafia Don holding court. “Only then will I be able to make my decision. Do you understand?”
He gazed at her, his eyes the color of indigo
, his face the picture of calm composure.
Summer hadn’t imagined it would be this way. She’d prepared for angry outbursts and vehement refusals. She’d never expected Lucien would be so…civilized. It was with a mixture of shock and gratitude that she nodded her head. “I understand,” she said.
“Tell me,” he said, leaning forward, his hands pressed in prayer position. “Why do you ask this?”
She lowered her eyes, gazing blankly at the pattern of the quilt on her lap. “So many reasons,” she said. “I am so lost in this pain that I can’t even find myself any longer.” Her chin quivered, and she felt the promise of tears burn her eyes. “I will never be well, I know that. My injuries have made me a useless, dependant lump of flesh.” She raised her eyes, fixing them on his. “Vampires aren’t the only thing that can suck the life out of you.”
His eyes flashed - a moment of understanding, perhaps?
“Every damn day I grow more bitter, more withdrawn. I hate that I am dependant. I hate that I am crippled, and I hate that I have no purpose,” she cried, all the emotions she’d bottled bubbling to the surface in a rush of release.
Lucien, her silent confessor, remained as still as the night. If she were to burden him with ending her mortal life, she knew she must trust him with the darkest secrets of her soul.
“Like a slow leak of air from a tire, I can feel the life oozing from my body…and my heart,” she acknowledged. “I don’t know which will take me first.”
His face was as unreadable as Mona Lisa’s smile. All she could do was tell him what was in her heart and hope he would comprehend and grant her request.
“Night after night I see you sit by my side in this damned room, when you should be out enjoying the world. Do you know how guilty that makes me feel?” It was those words, above all others, which broke the dam of tears behind her eyes. She covered her face, wailing the grief into her hands in a torrent of choking sobs.
“Oh, my love,” he said, his voice mournful as a coyote bay.
“I love you too much,” she cried, the words strangling her tightened throat, “to see you imprisoned by me.”
Sniffling, she stroked his hair, the act calming her somehow.
“Lucien,” she murmured, “give us both our freedom.”
Placing a kiss on her hand, Lucien rose from his chair. Pacing the room, his thoughts turned in his mind.
Her request had blindsided him - but only because he’d considered the very thing himself. Lately, when he’d come into her room, the scent of damp earth filled the air. He knew she was dying. He knew that before the first snowflake of winter fell, he would put her in the ground - his lifeless heart buried in the coffin alongside her corpse.
Yet still, he could not bring himself to change her. It was not his choice to make. If…and it was a colossal “if”…he decided to do this thing, he wanted her to choose this life with a better understanding of it than had been afforded to him. Only then, would he make up his mind. He could not allow his own selfishness to influence his decision.
“I know that was difficult for you, mon petite.” He stood behind her chair, his hands cupping the curve of her shoulders. “Thank you for opening yourself up to me.”
Her hand patted his. “Thank you for listening,” she said. “I suppose there’s not much more I have to say.”
The slow tick-tock of the mantel clock drummed a reminder in his ear that there were fewer than two hours to perform the conversion - if he were to perform the conversion. There was so much yet to say. “Summer,” he began, “there is more to this life than you know. I can’t begin to prepare you emotionally, but what I can give you is awareness, and only you can know if it’s still what you want.”
“I’m ready to listen,” she acknowledged. “I’ll promise I’ll try to keep quiet.” The corners of her mouth turned up in a smile, his heart melting at the sight of it.
“Let’s get the elephant in the room out of the way first,” he said mostly to himself. “Taking life to maintain your own…this would seem like the most troublesome issue, but it isn’t.” Turning to the window, he looked out upon the dampened landscape. “In fact you will find it remarkably easy.”
He recalled his own first time, the hunger, the thirst, so blindingly demanding. “Hours after the kill you will feel something akin to remorse… only lasting until the next feeding when the cycle begins once more.”
The rustle of her blankets caused Lucien to glance in her direction, their eyes meeting; he detected no note of revulsion in them. Her blue orbs gleamed with intent interest.
“I promise you,” he winked, “after only a few months, it will feel no different than what killing a mouse in a trap feels for you now.”
He thought he saw her cheeks dimple with a glimmer of a grin.
“I caution you to never take it lightly, though,” he warned, sending a stern look in her direction. “As a neophyte you will need to feed every night - you’ll go mad if you don’t - and by the time a year has passed, you will have piled up enough corpses to fill a small concert hall.”
Her eyes glazed over a bit, looking more inward than out it seemed. “It’s not as glamorous as you’ve been led to believe. Vampires are opportunistic hunters. For the most part, we are bottom feeders. Our kills are the kind that won’t be noticed.”
Thankfully, he thought, the world provided an unending supply of thieves, addicts, whores, drunks, runaways, and the occasional organized crime member.
“Now, onto other matters,” he crossed the room, leaving the subject behind. “If you think that your life will become less complicated, you couldn’t be more mistaken. There are more practicalities than you could dream of.”
Taking the seat opposite her, he gathered his thoughts. “I’ll try to get through these as quickly as possible,” he said, the chime of the clock hastening his speech.
“First, there are three ways to die for good.” Recalling the causes, he ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke. “First, the sun…as a young one you must avoid it at all costs unless you want to spontaneously combust, which provides a nice spectacle for humans, but serves no purpose for you. Number two.” He held up two fingers. “Beheading…rare but a favorite method of vampire hunters...”
“Number three, stakes!” she added, her head tilting to one side.
He laughed. “Stakes are bullshit.”
“What’s the third then?”
“Fire…a very unpleasant way to go...it was how my Maker met his end.”
The mention of his Maker caused Lucien to recall that he would be her Maker; they would be forever bound together, no matter what may occur. He would always be able to locate her, and to read her thoughts. Unlike so many Makers he’d known, who created and then left the poor creature to figure things out on their own, he did not take this responsibility lightly. If he brought himself to do this, he would carefully train her, educate her in the art of the hunt, take her to the secret places where she could learn from the ancient texts and give her opportunities not afforded to him. His blood warmed at the idea, but then chilled to ice when he realized the thoughts he entertained.
“When I sleep,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically timid, “will it be as if I’m…?”
Lucien looked at the sunken hollows, as dark as coal mines, encircling her eyes. Perhaps she yearned for the dreamless sleeping most of all.
“No, my dear,” he replied with a reassuring pat on her knee. “Sleep is more like hibernation. You are aware of sounds, smells, movements in your environment, but your powers are weak and your reflexes as slow as molasses in January.”
“Oh,” she merely said, her facial muscles softening.
Leaning back in the chair, he searched his mind for other things she needed to know. Mentally gathering the list, he recited it to her in no particular order.
“Money - you’ll need lots of it,” he said, “but not so much you’ll be noticed…no private jets, no purchasing whole islands. You’ll need it for things like bribes and
frequent relocation, because you will never spend many years in the same place.”
It seemed a banal thing to discuss at a time like this, but he’d seen what happened to his kind when they failed to plan well, living in basements of foreclosed properties, sharing an old crypt with its skeletal occupant, wearing the rumpled and blood stained clothing stolen off the backs of their kills. It was all too uncivilized for his taste. Investments accrued astoundingly over hundreds of years. He was grateful to have many homes in many places. It made life so much easier. The thought of this made him think of another topic.
“Travel.” he said. “Very difficult nowadays with all the added security, impossible to predict flight delays and such, and travel by ship over moving water is used now only as a last resort.”
She furrowed her brow. “Why?” she asked.
“Vampires are nearly helpless when in moving water and should you be thrown in the drink, you won’t die, but lie at the bottom of the sea waiting for a miracle.”
“I had no idea,” she mumbled, nervously picking at her fingernails.
“My point is,” he continued, “pick a continent and learn to like it, because you may be stuck there a long time.”
“There’s so much I never thought of,” she said, her eyes wide with either wonder or apprehension; he could not tell which.
“Changing your mind?”
“No,” she denied shaking her head. “No, only a little overwhelmed.”
“There are a few more things I’d like to touch on. What you will need to know as you go along could fill volumes. I want you to be aware of these few basic things because, in a hundred years or so when you come shrieking at me for having done this to you - and believe me you will …” Her mouth opened in protest, but he cut her off before the first syllable. “I will be of clear conscious that you were alerted to the major downsides of the choice you were so eager to make.”
Only the Lonely Page 16
