“I don’t know what to do with that!”
More peals of laughter. Sid was not sure if the humour had vaguely caught up with her or if her vague smile was a nervous twitch. Then Terri pretended the handle of the whip was the microphone and Dawn really started hitting the keys. Was the audience laughing because it was really funny, or was it because Terri was greatly charismatic? Sid wondered, but didn’t laugh.
Terri was singing, generously whirling the black whip over her head, totally unaware of Dawn’s behaviour. Dawn was rather weary about the length of leather lashing about. She was leaning as far as possible as playing the keyboards permitted, wondering if she could avoid the threatening lashes forever. To the patrons’ great delight.
Suddenly, Dawn stopped playing, removed Terri’s mic stand to the confines of the opposite end of the stage, grabbed the shoulders of the bewildered singer now silent but still open-mouthed, moved her to the same direction, and went back to her keyboard-playing.
Terri, still miles from understanding the musician’s utterly baffling behaviour, tried to move her mic stand back to the middle of the stage. But Dawn rushed to intervene again, the audience enjoying the unplanned vaudeville. Unfortunately for Sid, the vaudeville was only starting, even if they never finished this song, and it left her with open-ended thoughts about s/m rushing and screaming all through her mind. She just didn’t know what her position was on the subject. She only knew her lack of comfort. While Second Look engulfed into their next Doris Day cover, some punters engaged in a bout of dirty dancing.
“Get them off the floor!” Shouted Terri in between lyrics, but no one paid heed to her words, amalgamating them with her collection of saucy puns.
And the dancers, a man and a woman, who had never met before, but were both familiar with fetish clubs, kept on dancing close and drunkenly, hands following the rhythm to body parts Sid wouldn’t dream of touching in the middle of a public place. By the end of the song, the two dancers were on the floor, the woman on top of the man, and kissed with a hint of passion, despite their different sexual inclinations.
Terri, bemused, couldn’t help laughing.
“Dawn, have you seen that?”
But Dawn had been playing her keyboards, as oblivious to the world as music always got her. And Sid felt hate for the world, and confusion. The confusion, so ever-present in her life, the confusion that bruised her emotions, pushed her from one end of the spectrum to the next, jostled her from one thought to the next, how am I supposed to behave, the Olympic gold medal and greatest favourite of the competition. If she hadn’t been standing frozen cold on the side of the dance floor, she would have puked.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Thankfully, Sid didn’t spend her days thinking about every little detail of the Second Look’s gigs. Besides, she had better to do, in her characteristically disorderly ways, than tossing Doris Day round and round her mind. She was more into losing herself into the memory of her encounter with Death, over and over again. To the point that she could hardly think about anything else, hardly dream about her favourite keyboard player, let alone remember to take the reduced dose of the prescribed drugs. What was the point of enhancing her natural mania when all she wanted was Death herself? What was it that the copper-skinned woman had told her: she’d have to put up with the side effects of her SSRi a while longer? Well, no thanx, Darling. The music could go on but there were things she was not willing to put up with.
The memory of this extraordinary meeting felt surreal. Sid was getting to wonder if it had really happened. Or maybe it was just hallucinations, courtesy of the bloody anti-depressants. Ha ha, anti-depressants, what a joke. Only one thing would ever soothe the pain inside. It was not a thing, it was not human either, it was Death herself.
So, the hell with rumours, even if creating rumours had a fun side to it, the only one Sid had the hots for was Death, again and again Death, Death who knew how to please her, Death and her pocket computer, Death and her Native American looks, Death who probably was too busy to care.
Drat, the effects of the drugs were really fading away now. Gone the manic talent, gone the attractive shine of her aura. The rock singer had just about said hi at the latest gig and Joy the vampire, if she was a vampire, if she was really named Joy, hadn’t appeared.
Sid felt confused. She was losing touch with reality, losing her ground, doubting. Maybe if was just a fantasy. Maybe vampires didn’t exist, and thus couldn’t offer death on a silver tray. Or maybe she didn’t want to die after all; and her belief in suicidal tendencies and immortality were delusions. She remembered writing in her diary: The people who kill themselves are the ones who want a life so badly but cannot take anything for granted anymore.
But Death……. Hang on a sec. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way. If Sid could talk to Joy and convince her to stage a “scene”, would Death turn up and call their bluff?
Another gig came and went. Sid was still focused on the elusive and extraordinary keyboard player while the rock singer oscillated like a wild pendulum between tequila and Chardonnay. Sid had recycled one of these things hanging from cats’ collars into an earring. Unscrewed, the device would reveal a tiny strip of paper rolled tightly. On it, Sid had written: If found, call Death, she’ll know what to do with Sid.
Sleep started to elude her, hinting at a different kind of mania, a mild strain of insanity.
* * * * * * *
It was the Black Crow again. Joy was wearing one of her usual little black numbers. It suited her hair cascading down her back like a night waterfall. It suited her long legs sheathed in knee-high boots. She was scanning the packed venue for a potential prey. She could certainly feed without leaving trails of bloodless corpses for the cops to decipher, but the kill was a thrill. And Second Look’s fans were always such tasty morsels.
She was considering the purchase of an alibi drink when her eyes caught the unmistakable mohican of the writer, still green even if paler. Usual combat trousers and biker boots, tattoos down both sleeveless arms. With the hint of a smile curling her lips at the corners, Joy watched Sid studying carefully the animated crowd. The hunger struck more fiercely. But this tasty prey was forbidden, under the protection of Death herself, and probably Life, too. Joy snarled silently, resentfully. Sid’s eyes suddenly reached her, and stared, intensely. Joy stared back, amused and frustrated. Though shortsighted, the writer had spotted her on the other side of the crowd and was now making her way towards the vampire. Joy felt intrigued. What could the woman want? She turned away and walked to the bar. By the time she was proffered a glass of satisfyingly red Bordeaux, a remarkable colour, Sid was at her elbow, expectation in her deep, brown eyes.
“Well?” inquired the vampire. “What did you track me down for?”
Sid kept silent, suddenly fascinated by the gypsy eyes, suddenly wanting more than just a word. She had a lifetime to entertain before sinking into Death’s warm embrace. Why not……. But why not what. The supernatural magnetism of the vampire felt suddenly overwhelming.
“Cat got your tongue?” Joy’s voice sounded icy. She moved away, thinking that maybe she would go for a taste of the sexy and charismatic rock singer and forever dissipate her disputable musical inclinations. She could sense Sid’s presence at her back, tailing her. What the hell did she want?
On stage, the keyboards roared to life, matched by the powerful voice of the red-haired woman. It was a powerful and animal rhythm, calling for the feet to dance and dance. Joy turned back to Sid.
“Come on, let’s have a dance.”
She abandoned her glass of wine on the last table and grabbed Sid by the front of her T-shirt and gently, even so firmly, pulled her to the empty dance floor. No one ever wanted to be the first to swirl and whirl to the music. The floor was theirs for the taking. The beat was theirs to course their veins like an unending and undulating snake.
And their dance was like an essential and intimate component of the song, for the onlookers to watch, as powerfully attractive to
the eyes as the performers.
They were moving very close, without touching, teasing and tantalising, never smiling, ignoring the audience. Just dancing, hips swerving. Sid going down on her knees and coming back up to meet Joy’s eyes and snake around her.
At the end of the song, when they stepped back to the edge of the crowd, the vampire disappeared before the writer could utter a word.
* * * * * * *
Sid stayed until the end of the gig, dancing on every number, regardless of the pace, disappointed by Joy’s abrupt departure. When the last note of the last song eventually died in the throat of the amazing singer and out of the speakers, Sid didn’t have the heart to wait and catch a hug from the performers. She slithered out of the pub, feeling down, feeling let down. Damn, where the hell had Joy gone to. It was no longer a need to stage a return of Death that inhabited her, it was a longing for the vampire’s presence, proximity and magnetism. She turned left out of the door, hands in her pockets, the strap of her helmet locked around her left wrist, heading towards the faithful bike waiting for her just round the next corner. Sweat cooling down on her skin, she was hardly aware of the quietness of the night and the slight breeze.
She looked up at the corner of the pub and never had to acknowledge Joy. With non-human speed the vampire had already grabbed her by the shoulders and swept her away to a dark corner of the parking lot backing the venue. When she breathed in next, she was pressed hard against the wall by Joy’s body, her intake of oxygen short by obligation.
“So,” the vampire whispered with a silky voice, a finger playfully tracing the writer’s nose. “I believe you were looking for me.”
Sid let the finger go on and follow the lines of her lips, feeling the attentiveness of her body, waiting, waiting, with an almost choking knot of anticipation in her throat, desperately wanting more than a finger tracing her features.
“Cat still got your tongue?” The vampire’s eyes followed the playful finger along the edge of the jaw, slowly down the side of the throat. Sid’s eyes were riveted to the pouting mouth of the predator. The finger seemed to like her jugular vein.
Joy suddenly looked Sid in the eyes. Her voice struck icily:
“I’m still waiting for an answer. My patience is wearing thin.”
It would have been so easy, to slightly move her head forward, and Sid’s lips would have touched the vampire’s lips, and kissed.
Motionless, Joy studied the brown eyes. She smiled, slowly, amused, and moved a step back, pacing herself:
“You want me.” A rippling of silent laughter. “What about Death, my darling, isn’t she the love of your life?” More rippling laughter, but not as silent.
Sid took a deep breath. Felt Joy’s powerful right hand around her throat, tight. Wondered if it was time to feel fear, but she couldn’t feel any fear. The hand released its hold.
“Aren’t you ever scared? Or at least a tiny bit frightened?” An index finger and a thumb slightly apart from each other in front of the brown eyes.
As swiftly, her tongue was on Sid’s throat, licking with soft strokes. Sid breathed into the long, black and white hair. She felt the sharp tip of a fang on her skin, teasing.
Then, the vampire’s hands went down to her hips, the arms circled her waist, pulling her to the almost cold body while the fangs ripped open the shoulder of her T-shirt and kisses burning like fire started to dance on the unveiled skin. Sid gasped, her own hands moved up Joy’s back, her fingertips touched the bare shoulder blades and passion swept them away, deeper into the darkness.
* * * * * * *
Deeply amused, the blonde, short-haired, muscled woman grinned, her eyes riveted to the computer screen.
“Death!” She eventually exclaimed. “I’ve got something for you here!”
A copper-skinned woman with raven hair falling down the waist of her jeans outfit looked up from another screen where names were filed in neat order.
“What is it, Life?”
“Come and see! A good friend of ours is learning how to have a good time!”
Death joined Life in front of the monitor and smiled, too.
“About time,” she muttered.
“Do you really think they’re made for each other?” Teased the blonde.
“At least temporarily.”
“Good. Now that we don’t have to worry about this writer anymore-“
“Temporarily.”
“For a while, we can deal with more serious business.”
* * * * * * *
Sid opened her eyes slowly. Her bedroom was still dark, courtesy of the heavy, black curtains. At first, she didn’t move. Trying to remember the dream, and remembering it so well. Was it a dream? It felt so real. She breathed slowly. She felt a wetness between her thighs, grimaced. With her left hand she investigated, brought back the fingers to her nose and sniffed. Yep, sure it was, her period was just a bit early. At the same time she realised someone was sharing the space of her bed, still entirely covered by the black velvet quilt. Her companion insinuated a hand between Sid’s legs, and soon, Sid felt the vampire’s tongue licking the menstrual blood. Blood is blood.
TONI
A sequel by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh
"I can't live without the lightening cause only love is that exciting
I light the flame and hold the torch and feel the burning passion scorch" (Girlschool)
“Dreaming means we exist twice.” (Veronique Sanson)
(Not dated)
(This was written just before Sid’s first encounter with Joy, and thus also with Death)
I am an outsider, she wrote in her diary. No matter how much I long to belong, the label still clings true and rings like destiny. What about vampires, werewolves, slayers, wizards. Do they have an inside where to recoup their losses. Or are they forever loners with no societies or clusters, where to share and boost on the latest kill, the latest trick, the latest moon. I am in and I am out, she kept writing on the white pages of her black book. I am no longer the simple audience, the innocent punter, walking into the music venue. But I am not an insider of the groupies’ circle. I walk in and I feel like running out, to escape from all their heat, thoughts, energy, auras. I’m trying so hard to keep them out that a single variation can make me jump out of my skin. I’m trying so hard to keep what is my identity when they talk to me and intrude into my being. It’s so hard to tune them out. I wish I was a vampire, I wish I was a werewolf, to express outside the difference inside. I won’t give in. I’m struggling, they keep giving out. And the music comes out, spreads out in the enclosed space, spilling out of the worn-out speakers, it comes into me, infiltrates through my very pores, courses through my veins. Once it’s in, I cannot get it out. No matter how much I shake and swing. I’m possessed. I’m no longer myself. They can manipulate me like a puppet dangling from a bunch of strings. I am at the mercy of the voice roaring into the mic, I am at the mercy of the fingers running across the keyboards. They’re inside me, I’m outside. I can only watch on, helplessly.
Of course, I try to fight it off. But it is useless. I would resist the mesmerizing gaze of a vampire. I would prevent a werewolf to sink fangs into my flesh. But I am powerless with music. I am inside and I am outside.
A wizard passes by on his broomstick, oblivious. He is an insider of the world of magic. And I am an outsider.
CHAPTER ONE
“Vampire Rule #3: Fictional vampires wear white shirts. / They drink from gushing veins / And sleep in coffins full of dust. // In reality those who must wear white, / Make friends with dry cleaners / Who work all hours of the night.” (Tippi N. Blevins)
Her white shirt billowing in the wind, she was taking a walk down Railton Road. Despite the early hour of the evening there was no living soul crossing her path. She was always up and out at dusk, desperately trying to catch up with a life taken away from her, still refusing the unlife she had never asked for. Despite the mildness of the weather, people preferred the winter in central-heated indoors. She c
ouldn’t care less for the cold. A pair of tight, faded blue jeans revealed the shape of her elegant legs while her shirt, which would have perfectly fitted with a tuxedo, opened on a black and blue dragon hugging a red sweatshirt. She was as thin and gangly as the last time she had graced the streets of London, 22 and angry, a dozen years or so ago. Flagellating her expressionless face with wild strands of her blond hair, the wind was relentlessly trying to grab at the carrier bag her iron fingers wouldn’t let go off. At last, her grey eyes spotted the shop window surrounded by green concrete. She had found the dry cleaner recommended by her landlady. She pushed the door in, ringing an ancient bell.
A man looked up from a grey blouse spread out over the plastic-coated counter. He smiled engagingly at his prospective costumer. She didn’t return the smile. He persisted, as his profession required –costumers are kings and queens:
“Good evening, Madam, what can I do for you?”
His pale yellow-brown skin and his grey receding hair gave him fifty-odd years for the telling. Dealing with textiles, he generally wore an elegant three-piece suit of bottle-green wool and a matching tie, often discarding the jacket to feel more comfortable. He swept away the previous object of his attention, making room for the three shirts she shook out of her carrier bag. He noticed that the white shirt she had on was of the same cut. A masculine cut.
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