by Alix Adale
“Right on.”
Dez knocked on the little door, its frame stained and painted with loops of daffodils.
An old woman poked her head out, a weather-bitten face that had known better, happier days, perhaps. Suspicion clouded her brow. “What do you want?”
To her surprise—and his credit—Xerxes stepped forward. His leather jacket was folded over his arms, a good sheen of sweat on his brow from unloading the firewood. “We’re friends of Oil-Can Mike,” he said, in that guileless way of his. “And we’re so sorry for your loss.”
“Friends of Mike, huh?”
“Yes. I knew him down in Overlook, where he picked cans and panhandled.” He talked about some of the streets down there, described some of Mike’s peccadilloes, and said what a good friend he’d been.
Good work, Xerk. He knew how to lay it on, too, although in his case, he worked a lot of truth and misdirection into it, not outright lies. He did know Mike. He sounded honest in his appreciation.
Magnolia nodded. “Yeah, that’s Mike all right.” Then her hawk-like gaze snapped toward Dez. “What about you, toots?”
God. Another wave of guilt rolled up on her. If it would only go away. “I’ll be honest. I didn’t know him—for long. Only met him once. I’m—I’m here with him. My boyfriend. Xerk.”
Magnolia sniffed in approval. “I see. Well, why don’t y’all come in? Did you bring any goodies?”
Xerxes piped right up. “We have fresh hamburger meat from our friend, Tricky. Please, let’s eat it up before it spoils.”
Magnolia relaxed when they came in and gave her the meat. Her cottage was decorated with paintings and handmade bric-a-brac: painted pinecones, trash wreaths, colorful murals, and poems written out in felt-tip marker on walls and windowpanes. None of it would win awards but it gave the place dignity, made it a home.
Their hostess cooked the meat on a hibachi grill on her back porch. The smell of fresh hamburger brought a couple neighbors over. The neighbors brought more neighbors, a little wine, and a lot of weed.
Drugs she wanted no part of, but she didn’t mind a Dixie cup full of wine. Xerxes followed her lead, pacing himself a glass of the cheap, nasty stuff, cut with off-brand 7-Up. Mags—her friends called Magnolia that—turned on an old-fashioned record-player and played genuine vinyl albums, some of them once belonging to Mike. The late-night dinner turned into a party.
Even Clipboard Guy showed up, making it ‘official’ somehow. He dropped into a deep conversation with Xerxes about fire safety. The big guy offered up some safety tips and advice on how to deal with the fire department—valuable for a marginal community. Clipboard Guy appreciated the advice so much that he gave Xerxes a key to an unoccupied building, urging them to crash there tonight if they had nowhere else to go.
Xerxes pocketed the key. “Thanks, man. It’s true, we’re out on the streets now, but we’ll be back on our feet in no time.”
“Right on,” said Clipboard. “I appreciate your optimism. But it’s just for tonight, right? I got people moving in there soon.”
“You got it man. We’ll be gone before dawn.”
Gone before dawn, Armando called that the vampire’s song. It was true. She and her amazing man would have to hit the road again, find another sewer to crawl into. What did it matter as long as they were together? It was a strange and heady feeling, liberating in an unexpected way.
As midnight approached, the party became a high-spirited wake for Oil-Can Mike. One by one, those who knew him remembered his life. Most of it made little sense and wasn’t all that memorable on its own, but the love in that room—the love these people had for this marginal guy, this sleeper on the streets—kicked her in the gut. Coming here was crazy—it was only worsening the agonizing guilt, not making it go away. Searching for a distraction, her gaze fell on one of Mags’ wall poems. It read:
The world is dark and the sky is tragic,
Yet in your arms, the night is magic.
It was signed only, “Mike.”
Dizziness hit her. The air had grown too close, the room too crowded. The wine threatened to knock her down. Whatever little of Oil-Can Mike still lingered in her veins, whatever bit of his stolen vitality still fed her unholy life, tingled within. It was like the shadow of a ghost, yearning to be free, reaching out for his friends. She rushed outside before anyone saw the blood staining her cheeks.
Xerxes hurried behind, calling out with that warm, soft voice. “Dez? Dez are you all right?”
“No, I’m very much not all right.” She turned and marched away from the tragicomic little cottage, the music, the everything.
His heavy footsteps followed after. “Dez! What’s wrong?”
She spun on him. “Look at me. What am I? I don’t even know! A vampire? A demon? A being from another dimension? This is insane.”
There he was, his arms open and she melted into them, against his chest. Strong hands stroked her hair, soft words soothed her, whispering. “Hey. Don’t. Stop blaming yourself.”
“But—”
“Stop. The guilt is eating you up alive.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Xerk—”
“Listen.” His finger went to her lips. “You did nothing wrong. If what you said is true—and I believe you, I believe you—then it’s not your fault. Not the turning, not the hunting, not failing to react in time to stop that knife from hitting Mike. You tried to stop it. You’re innocent.”
Oh god, it all came out of her, that night, the memories, the self-loathing, the everything. He was right on so many levels. Her insides heaved, her head spun. Maybe it was the wine, or the second-hand marijuana smoke. But she felt Mike’s presence, all around. Forgiving her, as absurd as that seemed. But there was still that one thing, that one monstrous, vile deed. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Xerk. I drank his blood as he lay there dying.”
His arms crushed her against him, fingers stroking his hair. “I know, but it doesn’t matter. He was gone—and yes, it’s hard to forgive. But it can be forgiven. It wasn’t a crime against a living man. It’s part of your nature, of who you are. That’s all.”
“But—”
His fingertip slid beneath her chin, tilting her face up. Sweet, lingering concern touched his dark eyes, shaped his face into a lingering look of love. “No. No more buts, Dez. Okay?”
My god. He felt it, too. Kiss me, fool. Her heart raced. Her body pressed closer.
Her mouth lifted.
His lowered.
They met in the middle. Their lips came together for a tender, lingering kiss that went on and on, so long she forgot to breathe, forgot to blink, forgot to do anything but just be there, in his arms, in his embrace, wrapped against his strong body with an overpowering, devastating need.
Only after two, three minutes did he pull back. A smile chased over his lips, followed by that warm, fluid laugh. “Dez, I’m mortal. I still have to breathe.”
Her sweet mortal. She crushed against him. “I’m sorry, I forgot. I don’t know what to say.”
“I do.”
“You do?”
“Say, ‘I love you.’ ”
“I love you?”
“I love you, too.”
Love—he’d said it. He said it to her! And she’d said it too, although not officially, all formal like, since she phrased it in the form of a question, like a Jeopardy contestant. What nonsense flicked through her mind, but her body didn’t wait. Her heart jumped and her pulse quickened. Dammit all! She crushed against him, shouting “I love you!”
Chapter 10: Little Blue Cottage
Xerxes
There was no electricity in the little, borrowed, blue cottage, but that didn’t matter. Moonlight streamed through curtain-less windows and his lover could see in the dark. There was no furniture in the one-room prefab, but again, that didn’t matter. They took out their blankets and unfurled them across the carpet then sprawled out atop them.
There was nowhere
to hide now as they knelt on the blankets, facing each other, holding hands. Yet an awkward silence fell between them. Doubts troubled her face, doubts he could see even in the half-light. How to proceed? He didn’t know. He wanted her, but he didn’t want to scare her off. The stumble-tongued adolescent within came to the fore.
No, not him. He pushed that back, fighting his fear. Did he need to worry—of course. Dez was—Dez. He wanted to please her, yet at the same time he couldn’t help but worry about her powers. What if she lost control and turned him into a vampire? That could happen, right?
Concern knotted her brow. “What’s wrong?”
Don’t let his worries become hers. He smiled. “Nothing. Wait.”
A familiar silhouette on one of the windowsills had caught his eye, a big green flower pot, the plastic kind on sale at Wal-Mart for a dollar or two. It looked empty. He went over and grabbed it, shaking out a bit of stray soil. Now clean, he juggled it back and forth in his hands.
Dez stared at him wide-eyed. “What’s that for?”
This should make her smile. He folded his arms over his chest then kicked out his legs, dancing around. Music from the nearby cabin drifted over, a rock song from long ago.
“Oh my god!” Dez laughed. “What are you doing!?”
He grinned, turning this way and that, throwing out his arms. “The safety dance. Come on, you can dance, dance, when you want to!”
“The what?” She doubled over, giggling, that shadow of sorrow forgotten. “You nut!”
Maybe she didn’t know the song. He swooped the flowerpot off his head, dropped to his knees facing her, scooping up her hands into his. “It’s the safety dance, an old song from the 80s or something. Suarez taught me. It means you can dance when you want to.”
“But why do it?”
“A silly dance to make you laugh. That’s all.”
“It did. Oh Xerk, that’s the sweetest thing.” She crushed him against her, using far more force than she had before. Oomph! Her vampiric strength almost squeezed the breath out of him. She could snap a U-bar lock or bust a door, so no surprise she could almost crush him. Who would win an arm-wrestling match? Maybe he didn’t want to find out.
Dez’s grip relaxed, but her kisses grew more intense as their lips found each other in the dark. Between kisses, he said, “I love you.”
Her hands clutched at his jersey, urging it off. “I love you, too.”
“I want you.” He tugged the jersey over his head, flung it away.
“I want you, too.” She shucked her jacket off, the blouse and bra following.
He swept her down into his arms and they stretched out onto the blankets, hands exploring with as much urgency as their lips. Kisses traced up and down each other’s bodies. He explored the softness of her, the curves, the skin like cool silk beneath his touch.
The words immaculate came to mind. Goddess. He wanted her so bad, more than any woman he’d ever went home with after a bar-crawl with the boys. Those experiences were just that, experiences with women he found attractive at the time, but not anyone he ever saw again.
In unison, they both broke contact long enough to scramble out of their jeans. After a lot of mutual wriggling and squirming, their jeans and underwear joined the rest of their clothes on the floor, scattered across their makeshift bed.
His hands slid down the smooth bareness of her leg, so strong as he kissed his way down, down her belly toward her core.
He lifted her legs, pushed them apart. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I don’t think you can—remember what I am.”
“That’s one thing I’ll never forget.”
Her teeth nipped his shoulder. “Good, take me.”
Desiree
Moist across her belly, between her thighs, his mouth inflamed her to the core. Should have known—her Puppy Stud was no novice. He went at her with a clumsy eagerness that spoke to some experience in the bedroom.
What a fool she’d been—what an absolute fool. Not about him—her gut was right about him. But about everything else, about how she imagined vampires could not experience love, that even their lusts were a pale imitation of the human original.
Because her lust was riding high, soaring beyond anything in her past. Not those few, fumbling boyfriends at the end of high school or the first years of college, before the depression kicked in. Not those vigorous but ultimately lonely acts of self-pleasuring. Not those awkward, initial encounters with Armando when for those first six months they acted like a couple and tried to make it work.
Six years; well, five-and-a-half. She’d been living in ice all that time, living in a tomb. A tomb buried under ice, a well of loneliness in the mausoleums beneath Braden House—all those years wasted.
Oh god, he was such a lover. So what if dirt and scratches and itches covered her body, no matter how dirty and filthy she was. For the moment, none of that mattered. Wine, weed, and lust carried her away. She oozed with pleasure, squirmy on the scratchy blankets. “Let me feel it.”
He did not wait nor hesitate, gentle and careful in his own way. And so sweet—that silly hat. What an absolute shock that had been, his ‘safety dance.’ But his body, it was unbelievable in what extraordinary shape he kept himself in. Far beyond even a firefighter’s necessary strong physique, but he was a genuine weightlifter, a bodybuilder.
Her thighs moved apart as his squeezed together. His manhood pressed in, moistened by her mouth, lubricated by their mutual desire. It slid inside her, filling her to the core and not stopping.
More, more, more—she kept shouting it. He could not hurt her. Her underworld strength guaranteed that. She urged him on, stoked him, and dared him to grind, to pound, to thrust.
Her lover responded with zest, throwing himself into their ballet with gusto. Sweat formed a glistening sheath over his upper body as they strained. Lust burned inside her cheeks, enlivened her cold flesh with surging blood, warming her skin in the throes of passion—so it went, for underworld lovers. Her hands were cold as ice until stirred with passion, then her heart beat and her fingers warmed, the graveyard cool banished by desire.
His body warmed more than her hands now. He entered her, filled her, gave her more pleasure than she had ever asked for.
She screamed his name, in the end. Couldn’t help it. Knew everyone in Respect Village might hear, if they weren’t too drunk or stoned, or caught up in the music and conversation. And that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all. This was freedom. This was what mattered.
The final thrust that drove him over the edge caught the rising crest of her own bliss, and she rode it, a surging tide that carried her from the sea to the stars.
This, she thought, clinging to the word, desperate for an anchor. This, this, this—forever. Let it be forever. This is what was missing all those years. This is what she wanted. This, this, this—love, sex, connection. But even as she screamed out pleasure with animal sounds, not whole and articulate words, she knew that wish could never come true.
Afterward they lay in the dark and held one another until they subsided. For the longest time they did not speak, having no need. To hold, to bask in one each other’s arms, in the scent of each other, it was enough.
But in time, the cold forced him to put his clothes back on and she followed suit. But his key ring attracted her, and she picked it up. His keychain was a simple Golden State Warriors logo, a tribute to his favorite basketball team. She worked it free of the steel loop.
He looked over with an air of lazy contentment. “What are you doing?”
“Trading key rings.”
“Why?”
“You’re my warrior. I want something of yours with me.” She slid his free of the loop, then took her own keychain and put it on his ring. “Here, you can have mine. Like a love token.” She tossed the keys his way.
He caught them, turned it over, examining the small, plastic animal character that was hers. “What is it? It looks like a plump raccoon, but it’s all red.”
Nobody ever recognized it. But that was okay. She was used to explaining. “It’s the character in my web comic, Red Panda Girl. I draw it, manga style and publish it online. I used to, anyway.”
He kissed the panda and put it in his pocket. “Then I shall keep it in my pocket and read your comic, every panel.”
“But not now.” She opened her arms, holding them out for him. “Come on, you need to sleep before we get up and look for somewhere to hide under the sun.”
He slipped into her grasp as they cuddled under the blankets. “Good night, Dez.”
“Good night, Puppy Stud.”
“Amazing Woman.”
“Love ya.”
“Love you, too.”
He sounded like he did, too, which made it all the more painful. But as she shut her eyes and tried to sleep, the heavy certainty of her decision came upon her.
She knew what she had to do. For both their sakes.
Part III: Yet in Your Arms
“Detective?” asked a man in the door.
Zenkowski looked up from a glass table full of forensic reports and crime scene photos. Stills from security footage video hung on the wall, blown-up and still blurry. Fluorescent light played across the tableau, lending a cold, antiseptic ambience to his work. “You’re not my eHarmony date.”
The visitor wore government-issued black slacks, jacket, and tie. A white button-down shirt tied it together, along with black sunglasses. No hair though, none at all. The ceiling lights gave his smooth scalp a bold shine. He flashed a badge. “Agent Gideon, Department of Homeland Security.”
Zenkowski pushed his chair back. “Feds, huh? What case?”
“Stabbing victim this morning, Michael Malone.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Zenkowski grunted. “Oil-Can Mike, yeah. Gruesome. Don’t tell me, he was rich and famous?”
“No. But I’m asserting primary jurisdiction over this investigation.”
“On what grounds?”
“The modus operandi, exsanguination.” Agent Gideon dropped a thick manila folder on the table. Papers rattled as the contents shifted. “I’m heading an interstate task force looking for a prolific serial killer known only as B.B.K.” His voice hung on the initials, the letters lingering in the air.
