Crave

by Karen E. Taylor

  I shook my head angrily as the procession stopped at its destination and we got out of the car. I had no Lord to comfort me, no gods, no beliefs to hold close in the dark of night. I had no love now, none to take and none to give. All I had left in me was anger. And that anger would have to carry me through.

  I stayed only long enough to watch them pull the coffin out of the back of the hearse and set it up on its platform. The prayers they would say over his body meant nothing. The flowers that they’d heap on the newly covered grave would wither and die. Hyde was dead and all I had left of him was the taste of cheap wine, a remembrance of soft kisses and the touch of a silver ring on my hand.

  I turned my back and walked away.

  For several days I ignored the phone and the doorbell, choosing to take the time to sort out the many years of memories left in the house. Most of Moon’s belongings I bundled up into bags and boxes for charity, keeping only a few items for myself. They wouldn’t fetch much at a pawnshop, I knew, but they had sentimental value for me. I dragged old dusty boxes and trunks from the crawl space, disturbing spiders and roaches, the former sauntering away to sulk in dark corners and the latter scuttling away like dead leaves in the wind. The deeper I delved into the boxes, the deeper into early memories I sank. Bits and pieces of my previous caretakers formed fully fleshed in my mind. The ring Moon’s mother, Sarah, wore, a flower I had picked for her on a sunny spring day, her grandmother’s wedding dress; all precious in my eyes. I almost laughed out loud when I found the favorite lace shawl that had belonged to Philomena’s youngest daughter. I smoothed it between my trembling fingers; there was the tear I had made in it one day, carefully mended by loving hands.

  Finally, near the bottom of the last trunk was a real treasure. Wrapped in faded silk, an ornate garnet necklace set in gold, it had been the first object I remember ever seeing, sparkling in the moonlight around Philomena’s throat as she bent down to pick me up from my own premature grave. It was worth more money than all the rest of it, probably worth more money than any of them had ever had. That no one had ever sold it was a testimony to the love everyone held for that remarkable woman.

  And I was the last in her line to own it. I sat down cross-legged next to the trunk and I fastened it around my neck. Holding the stones against me, I thought I could hear Philomena’s rich laughter and her dark velvet voice. I felt her warm presence, and the anger I’d been holding inside seemed to lessen. “No,” I said bitterly, pulling off the necklace and throwing it back into the trunk. “I don’t want your comfort. It’s a lie. Just leave me my anger and leave me alone.”

  Something crinkled when the necklace hit the bottom. I leaned over, peered in and saw a fairly large scroll of paper, brittle with age. I pulled it out carefully and unrolled it.

  It was a rubbing of a tombstone. That much I could tell. I carried it into the kitchen and laid it out on the table. I could read the name Williams and the date 1860. The rest was too faded. I held it up to the light, only to see lettering on the back. Turning it over, I recognized the crude writing of Philomena. She hadn’t been able to read, but she could copy the letters. These, too, were faded, but I could read them. “John Williams Beloved Husband of Dorothy Grey Williams 1830–1860.” Beneath this a different hand had written, “Father and Mother?”

  The doorbell rang and I answered it. Angelo stood there. “Miss Lily, you finally answerin’ the door?”

  “Hello, Angelo.”

  “You got dirt all over you.” He peered at my hair. “And a spider in your hair. What you been doin’?”

  I brushed at my head. “Cleaning. Sort of.”

  “And you ain’t wearin’ those red beads like I told you.” He walked over to Moon’s altar and took them from where I’d draped them about the statue. “You give offense to that spirit, you sorry.”

  I allowed him to put the necklace on me. Unlike Philomena’s garnets, they were cold to the touch and their presence far from calming. Instead, they reminded me of my anger and that was a good thing. I needed that emotion; it was the only one I had.

  “You’re right, Angelo,” I said. “I’ll wear them from now on.”

  “Good. They give you strength, they give you protection if you treat them right.” He hummed and nodded. “But I didn’t come to tell you that.”

  He walked into the kitchen and helped himself to the sherry, pouring two glasses and handing me one.

  “Besides to drink all Moon’s sherry, Angelo, what else did you come for?”

  “A celebration, Lily.” He clinked his glass up against mine. “You be happy when you see what I found for you.” He smiled his froggish smile, reached into his coat pocket and handed me a folded piece of paper.

  I opened it up. It was a copy of a ten-year-old newspaper article from the New York Times fashion section.

  I looked at him. “So?”

  “The picture, Missy, look at the picture. And tell me who it look like.”

  I peered at the paper. It was hard to see clearly; the machine on which he’d copied it wasn’t very good. But the likeness was there and I felt the shock of recognition reverberate through my whole body. It could have been me, older and more haunted, perhaps, but I’d looked in the mirror often enough to see the truth. I gave a triumphant laugh; the bitch was nameless no more.

  “Deirdre Griffin,” I said aloud.

  Then, looking back to the kitchen table where the other paper lay. “Dorothy Grey.”

  “Dorothy Grey?” Angelo grinned at me. “Who she?”

  “Deirdre Griffin, Dorothy Grey, my dear sweet mother.” I smiled back at him, then impulsively hugged him. “You know, Angelo, I’ve always wanted to go to New York City.”

  Part 2

  Chapter 7

  The scent of her blood drew me, such a tantalizing fragrance, beckoning me to leave the forest behind, to be pulled against all instinct into the warmth and comfort of light and fire. The Wolf and I had run far and fast, but he’d tired of the game long before I had and now I was alone. Alone, as it had been at the beginning. As it seemed I should be.

  There were hours left before dawn and so I stayed, just beyond her range of vision. Perhaps she saw the twitching of my tail or the glare of my eyes in the glow of the moon as I paced back and forth beneath the trees. Perhaps she sensed the presence of another mind just outside her cabin. But she showed no fear; she merely sat, rocking, peering out into the night and waiting for me to reveal myself as I was so often tempted to do.

  I knew her fairly well, in my other form, that graceless and flawed form onto which I had held tight for so many years. Too many years. I growled at the thought of having to reassume that form.

  “Hello?”

  I edged back. She had never attempted to speak to me before, not when I came as Cat.

  “Deirdre?”

  The name. She called that name, the one that pulled me back into the other form. I snarled, then screamed my anger.

  “Deirdre?” She stood up, moved to the railing of her porch and called me again, this time with doubt in her voice. And a small cache of fear.

  A low rumbling vibrated my whole body; the Cat was pleased. She could feed off fear almost as well as she could feed from this woman’s blood. But with the calling of the name came the knowledge of who I was deep inside. And the knowledge that this woman was a friend and not to be harmed.

  The Cat growled again, but quieter this time, recognizing her defeat. “It is all right, my pet,” I whispered to her in the recesses of our mind, a soft whisper, as if I were soothing the tufts of hair on her ears. “We had a good night. We will have other nights more glorious. But now it is time for home and bed.”

  In response, the Cat yawned. The woman gasped at this careless display of deadly teeth, and the hands that gripped the railing turned white at the knuckles. The small rush of her fear was invigorating, but the game was over. I gave one last call to her and ran off into the night.

  I shed the cat form just before I reached the door of our cabin.
Transformation had become easier over the years, still painful and still a wrenching away from the familiar, but it was a known pain and sadness I had learned to discard as quickly as a wet garment. There would always be time enough to wear it again.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home.” I called our typical greeting when one or the other of us stayed out alone. Mitch looked up from where he’d stretched out with a blanket in front of the fire.

  “So I see.” He smiled and held his hand out to me, the blue of his eyes reflecting the dying flames. “Come warm yourself by my fire, Mrs. Greer?”

  “Always.” I lowered myself onto the floor; he wrapped me up in his arms and dropped a lazy kiss on my forehead.

  We lay for a while in silence, basking in each other’s presence, and then he chuckled.

  “Did the cat have fun playing with her toy?”

  “My toy?”

  “Elly. I knew you would go there after I left. You really shouldn’t, you know. Elly’s a good person. A friend. We have so few of those, we should be careful of them. And not scare them to death at night, romping in front of their house.”

  “She is never all that frightened, Mitch. Tonight she called my name. She knew it was me.”

  “See, that’s what I mean. It’s not good. You’re breaking all your own rules, Deirdre.”

  I gave a low laugh. “But for the fact that I break my own rules, Mitch, you wouldn’t be here now.”

  “Yeah.” He stopped for a minute and kissed me on the end of my nose. “I’d still be a detective in New York, eating bad Italian food and hanging out with shady characters.”

  “The good old days?” I was sorry I’d said it before the words were even out of my mouth.

  He said nothing, just looked deep into my eyes, then looked away, as if absorbed by the fire. “I love you, Deirdre, you know that. So let’s not discuss the past.”

  Just those few short words and I could feel my life drain away. And here it is, I told myself, the resentment and the anger you’ve been expecting for so long. I’d hoped never to face this situation, knowing all the while that it would come. I had done the unthinkable to him, ripped him away from humanity and life, and he would never forgive.

  “Besides,” he continued, as if it mattered now to either of us, “it’s not wise for you to tease her. She’s perceptive and she’s curious. A dangerous combination for us.”

  “What?” I glanced over at him, trying to maintain a balance between reality and my inner fears. He seemed unaware of my struggle, unaware of the turmoil his previous words had wreaked.

  “Elly. You should quit visiting her late at night.”

  “Yes, Mitch, you are right.” This conversation was safe, at least, and I sighed to myself in relief. “But sometimes I feel like I have to communicate with one of them.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He pulled away from me and got up from the floor, walking over to the door of the cabin, opening it onto what remained of the night. “Deirdre, we need to talk about the future . . .” he started, then stopped, radiating a tension that was palpable even from across the room.

  “What is it, love?”

  He paused in the doorway, staring out into the night, then closed and locked it. “Nothing,” he said. “I thought I heard someone outside, but there’s no one there.” He fastened the heavy shutters on all the windows and pulled the draperies closed. “I’m imagining it. After all, who would be there? Forget about it. Let’s just go to bed.”

  We made love, tucked up together in the loft of the cabin, sealed tightly against the killing rays of the sun. I had searched so long for someone, despairing over the years and decades. Then I had found him and lost him and found him again. His presence was all I needed to make me smile, to make me whole. When he made love to me, he was everything I had ever wanted. Passionate and tender, rough and gentle, he took me places I’d never dreamed existed, carried me to heights and depths almost unimaginable. He was my mate and my soul. Forever.

  As always with Mitch, this time was like the first time, filled with need and desire and hunger no amount of blood could quench. And when it was over, I still ached with love and longing for him as if it were our last. I lay awake after the sun had risen and he had fallen into the deathlike sleep I used to know.

  Sighing, I got out of bed, pulling the heavy comforter with me, wrapping myself up to keep vigil. I sat in the armchair by the bed and waited, listening to the birds outside greeting a dawn I would never see. Soon, I prayed, let the dreams start soon and get it over with.

  Mitch began to mumble in his sleep and I tensed, but he quieted down almost immediately. So it would not be soon. With one last doubtful glance at his still and perfect body, I rose from the chair and went downstairs to prepare for the long day.

  In the kitchen I made a pot of coffee, gathering a mug and a carafe and the cigarettes sitting on the counter. There were only three left in the pack, just as there was very little coffee remaining. I glanced anxiously at the calendar on the wall. Sam would be visiting in about a week with our quarterly shipment of supplies. We could do without the coffee and the smokes and all the other little luxuries he brought, but three weeks ago we had drunk the last of those precious little bags Sam managed to procure for us. And even though taking from animals could maintain our bodies, only human blood could assuage our darker thirst.

  “You will find us quite hungry when you arrive, Sam.” I laughed after I said it. He was always so avidly curious about our feeding habits that I accused him last time of deliberately shorting the order so that he could better observe our hunger when next he arrived. He didn’t deny the possibility and showed no fear of my anger. After having been Mitch’s psychiatrist and the best man at our wedding, after having removed a bullet lodged in my shoulder and acting as my confidant, after having taunted me into feeding on him one lonely night, I suppose he was entitled to this familiarity. I missed him, missed the interplay of vampire and human. Here was the reason I sought poor Elly out for so many nights—I longed for recognition and acceptance, longed for an acknowledgment of my existence.

  The coffee had finished, so I filled the carafe, and prepared to carry it, the mug and one of the remaining cigarettes back upstairs. As I walked past the front door, I shivered, an involuntary reaction. But a reaction to what? I looked over my shoulder, peering at the solid wood as if I could see through it. There was nothing and no one there, of course. And even had there been, I could hardly open the door in broad daylight. I gave a nervous laugh. I was letting my hunger and my worry about Mitch and his dreams get the best of me. Still, I hurried up the stairs as quickly as I could, feeling vulnerable and exposed.

  Upstairs, settling into the chair again and wrapping the comforter around me, I poured a cup of coffee and waited.

  The dreams began about two weeks ago. Mitch said he never remembered them and I always told him that was for the best—they couldn’t have been pleasant. He would thrash and flail and cry out with such anguish and pain that I found it better to sit up and wait until the dreams played themselves out. To be perfectly honest, I was not sleeping all that well either; I would awaken with the setting of the sun, feeling as if all my energy had been completely drained away. Without blood and sleep for so long, it was no wonder we were both tense and nervous.

  “You are quite right, my love,” I whispered to him. “We do indeed need to talk about the future.” But I feared the future all the while I continued to run from the past. All I had was now. What was there left to say?

  I drained my cup of coffee and poured myself another. Maybe he won’t dream today, I thought, but even as the words came to me, Mitch cried out. I jumped from the chair and lay down next to him, holding him as he screamed, attempting to comfort him with the touch of my body.

  “Hush, my love, sleep now.” I crooned it over and over, wrapping my arms around him and rocking him like a child. But the dream was strong, stronger than it had ever been before. He trembled, he clenched his fists, he thrashed back and forth on the bed, he bit
into his lip until blood dripped down his chin.

  Every muscle in his body seemed to tense and flex. He shuddered and opened his mouth. And for the first time his distress found words—words that made me loosen my embrace and retreat to the corner of the room.

  “Kill her.” The words began as a choked whisper, increasing in vehemence with each repetition. “Kill her.” Stronger now, it became a chant, growing louder and louder until the words echoed off the walls of the small loft, filling the cabin that had once been our home.

  “Kill the bitch who made me what I am.”

  Chapter 8

  As soon as the sun set, I left. I had no other choice. Mitch would most likely have no remembrance of the dream upon awakening; he had never remembered before. But I would be tortured by the memory with each touch and every word, knowing only the truth of the dream.

  I had thrown some of my clothes into a backpack and dressed in my heaviest jeans, shirt and hiking boots. It was reflex only; no coat in the world would ever give me warmth. Shivering uncontrollably, I made my way through the woods, carrying the thoughts of Mitch’s voice with me.

  “Kill her.” The words were uttered with such hatred and such vindictiveness, it was hard to believe that they had come from the mind and heart of the man I loved. How could I have been so wrong about him?

  I stopped and turned, standing just under cover of the trees, watching the cabin for a minute or two. Would he wake soon and find me gone? And would he come after me or would he consider my absence the best alternative? I ached to go back inside and crawl into his arms. But now there could be no comfort found in his embrace.

  The Cat prowled restlessly inside my mind. “Let me out,” she begged, “and I will take you far away. We will run and we will feed and we will be whole again.”

  I shook my head as I turned my back and walked deeper into the forest. She would carry me beyond myself, beyond remembering, true, but the cost was great. With no reason to return to human form, the Cat would soon forget the rules that governed our life. If I had wanted death, I’d have stayed and accepted it from Mitch’s hands.