Symphony of Light and Winter

by Renea Mason

  Compliant Cyril was more like the one I once knew, the one I stupidly lost my heart and mind to. I knew it wasn’t good to indulge him. I was far too susceptible to being lured into forgiving him his behavior in hopes that he might become who he once was. His skin was warm under my fingers and I moved closer so I could reach him, so reminiscent of our time when I was a foolish girl. Without conscious decision, I started to hum; it was almost a whisper when I started to sing.

  I repeated the song a few times and stopped. He said nothing for several minutes.

  He cleared his throat and just above a whisper said, “You’ve a lovely voice. And the song is beautiful; it seems familiar somehow but I can’t seem to place it.”

  “I used to sing it to you.” I traced one final marking on his back and for a moment rested my hand on his hip. He took my hand in his and pulled me flush against his back. His soft touch almost tickled as he ran his fingers over each line and contour of my hand, wrist, and forearm. The fingers touching me felt smooth, not rough as expected. The electricity that abated while I helped him was back in full force. He brought my hand to his face and held the palm against his cheek. It was bristly with end-of-day stubble. He pulled my hand away from his face, and brushed his nose softly back and forth across my wrist, the grip on my arm firm. My thigh rested against his leg and I felt something wet.

  “Cyril, you’re still bleeding. What can I do? I know somehow you can come back from the dead, but I also know you can die. If you keep bleeding like this, you’re going to die. One dead guy in bed with me in this lifetime is enough. Please, Cyril, how can I help you?”

  I had a suspicion about what he needed by the way he held my arm and the way he was savoring the scent of my wrist. “Don’t worry yourself,” he said with a strained voice.

  He wasn’t going to make it easy.

  “Cyril, Overton told me about how you bite people so you remain strong. He very much protested when I said you were a vampire. His explanation was something about blood from women at bars giving you strength. Is that what you need? Is that why you keep smelling my wrist?”

  He dropped my hand.

  “Stanton talks too much. You needn’t worry, I won’t bite you.” He stiffened and pulled away as his mood darkened.

  I needed to bring him back from that distant place. “What if I don’t mind? I mean if it would make you better, right? And wouldn’t hurt too much? I want to help you.”

  “Linden, stop! Please, the temptation is far too great and I need no further encouragement. I’ll heal; it will just take longer than usual.”

  “How long?”

  “Several days.”

  “If you took blood from me now?”

  He sighed.

  “Cyril?” I prompted.

  Reluctantly he said, “An hour perhaps.”

  “Then do it.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not right. I won’t use you.”

  I paused. “What exactly am I to you then?”

  His groan said a thousand unspoken words. “I’m not going to answer that.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not if I don’t want it to.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Linden—”

  “I said do it. Do it now!”

  He didn’t move. More blood slid down my leg. It was time to play dirty.

  “Oh, I get it. I rank somewhere below a cheap bar tramp, is that it? Not good enough for you? Would rather suffer for days than sully yourself with me?”

  Before I could blink, he lifted my wrist to his mouth and fangs pierced the soft skin of my pulse point. He was right; it didn’t hurt…much. The initial pinch caused me to gasp, but abated quickly and gave way to something more pleasant. I felt the warmth of his lips and a tugging sensation at the point of insertion. He had a low rumble in his chest and his body subtly rocked against mine. My arm stretched to its limit across his body. His fingers locked around my forearm, holding me in place. A sensation started in my toes and it was as if the suction at my wrist was pulling something through my body. It felt like liquid hot euphoria.

  His groans turned into growls, and the whole experience caused me to moan, the pleasure from the bite seeping through me. Knowing I was giving him what he needed brought me to a precipice. Just before I was about to fall, his mouth pulled free of my arm and he made a fierce guttural sound before droplets of warm thick liquid hit my skin. His moan, the tremor of his muscles, and the wetness pulled me back from the edge. I couldn’t quite make sense of what happened. Heat ran through me, relaxing and at the same time, arousing.

  After a few moments, my head started to clear and comprehension hit me. He came. His hold on me gentle now as he lapped at the wound, bathing my wrist with a velvet-smooth tongue. His breathing still labored. When he finished, he pulled my arm to his chest and wrapped his arms around mine. The action was unexpected, as if he wasn’t planning on ever letting me go.

  I waited to see what he would say or do, but he held me for the longest time. I was the first to speak. “Cyril, let me go get a cloth. I also need to change your bandage.”

  He said nothing but unwound his arms from mine. Before giving my arm total freedom, he placed a soft kiss to my wrist. I ran my hand up and down the outside of his arm a few times and patted him gently to let him know I was leaving the bed. From the bathroom vanity I retrieved another washcloth, wet it in the sink, picked up the gauze, and returned to his side. Kneeling beside the bed, I faced him.

  Trying to decide if I should clean him or not, I glanced at my wrist, astonished. Nothing. No marks. I looked up as he stared back at me.

  At that moment, I made my decision. I reached for one of his hands and brought it toward me. I inspected it for any trace of liquid, and when satisfied I hadn’t missed any, I placed the hand on his hip out of the way. I did the same with the other and ran the cloth over his skin to remove the thick drops of seed that clung to the hairs on his arm. When finished, I allowed his arm to hang over the side of the bed. He remained motionless, allowing me to take the lead with his gaze firmly fixed on my face. Looking away from his eyes for only a moment, I spied the glistening trail that ran from chest to groin. I began to mop up the remnants of his pleasure, no longer watching what I was doing, but rather staring back at him with the same intensity, careful not to miss a drop. Running the cloth over his chest until no stickiness remained; I was left with one final part to clean. Our eyes locked in a most intimate intensity.

  Do it, I felt his eyes say.

  He was hard again and so impressive. I unfolded the cloth and draped it over his erection. Careful not to touch him with my bare skin, I wrapped my hand around the cloth and cleaned his shaft with slow up and down motions. His cock twitched under my ministrations, which provoked a feral look. Part of me wanted to make him come again; to see it, but another part reminded me that he was still injured. I pulled the cloth along his length and swiped the tip just before declaring I was done by waving the cloth and standing.

  In the bathroom, I placed the cloth in a hamper and retrieved another washcloth, then returned to his side to open the gauze. I unwrapped the haphazard bandages soaked in blood. Placing them one by one in a pile on the floor, I winced in remembrance of how the wound looked. To my surprise, I didn’t see the gaping hole. I brought the cloth to the wound and wiped away the blood. Nothing. It was gone. Not even the slightest trace remained.

  “Un-fucking-believable.”

  “Thank you.” His sincerity hung in the air.

  I cleaned away the blood and removed the remaining bandages. I was halfway to the bathroom when something came to mind. I stopped and turned toward him.

  “If you were already healed, why didn’t you stop me and clean yourself?”

  He rolled over onto his back in the usual pose.

  “And deny you the pleasure? Surely you don’t think me that cruel.”

  Great, the asshole was back. “I think I liked you better when you w
ere bleeding to death.”

  “Next time we can do it your way; I don’t mind it a little rough.”

  He smirked and crossed his legs.

  “God…you’re so…argh!

  I walked away from him into the bathroom and readied myself again for bed. How was I ever going to get to sleep now?

  Chapter Seven

  Piano

  I was alone in the bed come morning. Cyril always left sometime before I woke up. I had a hard time coming to terms with my actions, so caught up in trying to help him. The list of things I should have avoided was long, and I honestly couldn’t say if it happened again I wouldn’t repeat it. So confusing. Images kept flooding my mind but always ended with his sarcastic response and the realization that it meant more to me than him.

  I went about my morning ritual. Being at the house long enough to have a ritual was sad. I had to do something; perhaps bribe Overton? But with what? I had nothing to bargain with, except my knowledge of my time with Cyril, and Overton didn’t seem interested.

  When I entered the bathroom, a note sat on the top of the vanity. It simply read,

  Don’t fret.

  Yours,

  Cyril

  Easy for him to say. Bastard! With angry fingers, I pinched the edges of the paper and ripped and ripped and ripped. When the confetti drifted to the floor, I kicked at it and huffed. Asshole!

  For the greater part of the afternoon, there were seventeen Volkswagen Beetles, twenty-nine unidentifiable convertibles, six tow trucks, and twelve boats that passed Point State park. No reason for picking those particular vehicles, but I needed to limit my choices to ensure a challenge. I thought my days were boring before, in my emotional stasis. At least before I had my work, my music, and O’Riley’s with Clarence and Olivia. Olivia! God. Maybe she took a spontaneous trip somewhere and was so self-absorbed she forgot to tell me. I could only hope.

  Overton wheeled in the cart a little later. I decided to give him one last chance.

  “Overton, this has to stop. He has to let me go. I’m losing my mind here. Please, help me.” I contemplated dropping to my knees in a dramatic show of obedience. I decided I had about twenty-four hours before getting that desperate.

  “I can’t, Linden, and you know that.”

  “Do you fear him that much?”

  “Fear him? No. I respect him. That is something you should think of doing yourself. But I also know you are here for your own bloody good, so even if I could help you, I wouldn’t.”

  “Guess it takes one asshole to create another. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve grown accustomed to eating alone.” I gestured to the door for him to leave. I was rude and didn’t care.

  He turned to leave. “You’ll thank me one day.”

  “Hardly!”

  I lifted the metal lids as he closed the door. It was seafood tonight: scallops, wild rice with asparagus, and chilled fruit. The food was always delicious. If I stayed any longer, losing those extra few pounds would be no problem. Every meal was splendidly healthy and meticulously portioned. Exactly two glasses of wine, two bites worth of chocolate dessert, and a pitcher of water. He wouldn’t allow me to drown my boredom in alcohol or food. Damn him.

  About an hour later, Overton opened the door, grabbed the cart, and wheeled it out. He didn’t say a word.

  I was counting the lit windows in the old Westinghouse building across the river when I heard music coming from somewhere deep in the house. It reminded me of the times when Sam, the symphony’s concert pianist, would practice in the hall after hours—beautiful and haunting. How could I pine for a time so lonely and unmoving? I wanted to go to the music but felt stifled by the ferocity of Cyril’s reaction the night of my escape.

  As I walked toward the door, the music grew louder. I placed my ear against the smooth mahogany while resting my arm on the handle. Surprisingly, it moved. I had tried it at least a hundred times, but it had never budged before.

  Cautiously, I turned the handle. Fear and temptation caused me to release it. On a deep breath, grasping the knob once more, I had to take the chance though I dreaded the consequences. Someone was playing the Moonlight Sonata! I had to go.

  I opened the door. Worried that someone might be standing guard, I assessed the long mahogany hallway. The music came from the opposite direction of the wood staircase I had fallen down several nights before. I tiptoed down the hallway, stopping every couple of steps to listen. I cast dirty looks at the paintings of the woman who obviously was important to Cyril. Well, the man who looked like Cyril. I couldn’t stop hoping that someday he would become the person I remembered.

  The kitchen was empty. I followed the sound down a series of confusing hallways. When I arrived at the destination, heavy double doors opened into a vast space with mahogany floors and high ceilings. I moved in for a better look.

  Cyril was seated at the grand piano in the center of the room. Not dressed in his usual suit, but rather dark blue jeans and a tight-fitting black T-shirt showing the definition of his back. He was playing like a virtuoso. I closed my eyes. This was how I remembered him. Get thee behind me hope!

  “Took you long enough to get here,” he called out, startling me, but didn’t stop playing.

  I was about to speak when he cut me off. “Time and time again, Linden, you underestimate me. Why is that? I knew you couldn’t resist. Your curiosity might be the death of you.”

  He stopped playing and turned toward me, slinging one leg over the bench with grace. He straddled the piano bench with his long muscular legs. I sheepishly walked into the empty, dim, and very cold room. The hunger in his eyes both excited and frightened me.

  He threw his head back and groaned as he rolled his head from side to side, stretching. I made my way to him, bare feet padding against the hardwood floor. The cold temperature caused gooseflesh to break across my skin; my nipples stood erect against the soft fabric of the gown. I self-consciously folded my arms to hide them, but his grin informed me it did not escape his notice.

  I approached the bench and shifted from foot to foot, feeling like a mouse in a cage with a hungry cat. It would be like Cyril to play with his food.

  He patted the piano bench, swinging his leg over to position himself in a playing stance. “Sit. I’ll play some more, then we can talk.”

  I would have stayed all night in the frigid room for some answers. I moved closer and sat beside him. The bench was not large enough for two people, especially given his size, so I was forced to sit on the edge. Mesmerized, I watched his fingers move across the keys. They were long on his large masculine hands as they executed art with the same grace a dancer might perform a ballet.

  “Do you know why I like this song, Linden?” He paused and then answered without waiting. “Because it’s what I envision making love would be like. Soft and slow at first…” He closed his eyes. “And frenzied and powerful in equal measure.”

  I gasped and started to chuckle.

  “You’re a virgin?” I giggled.

  He shot me a glare.

  “No, of course not. I’ve fucked plenty, but I’ve never made love.”

  I shot back with a little more venom than I intended. “So I’ve heard.”

  I couldn’t help the insane jealously bubbling to the surface. It was irrational. I pulled my arms in tighter and rose. As I tried to excuse myself, he pulled me back against him, causing the last notes to reverberate until they were lost in the rafters.

  I don’t know how, but all of a sudden I was seated, straddling the bench and nestled between his thighs. My back lay against his chest, with his one arm coiled around my waist and the other under my breasts. His breath puffed in warm spouts against the back of my neck. His skin brushing along mine caused a shiver to run down my spine. My heart raced and the press of his erection against my bottom caused my thighs to clench.

  “What I was trying to say was, I’ve never looked deep into a woman’s eyes as I entered her and saw love there. There must be love to make love. You needn’t wor
ry; I’m not going to hurt you, so please relax. I just want to talk.”

  I shivered as his hot breath caressed my cold skin and a second wave hit as his words registered.

  “Do you always hold your conversations so intimately?”

  “I find it best when sharing secrets to be as close as possible. Never know who might be listening. Isn’t that right, Linden?”

  I ignored his reference to my escape attempt.

  His breath tickled my ear. “I need your help with something. I need to understand.”

  I remained quiet and allowed him to continue while trying to suppress the urge to turn and kiss him.

  “After my last Awakening, something wasn’t quite right. All of my…talents seemed to be in order, but I had this constant feeling, somewhere between a tickle and shiver. Very much like this.” He turned the underside of my arm up and ran the tips of his fingers up and down the inside of my forearm in featherlight caresses until I shivered. It caused my stomach to tighten, and a wave of wetness formed between my legs.

  “Do you feel that?” He inhaled. “Umm…never mind, I know that you do. I know the effect I have on you.”

  He continued to caress my arm.

  “That feeling isn’t merely desire, it’s longing. I require nothing but my will and magic. So, you can imagine how confused I was when that sensation hit me and I didn’t know why. I thought it must be lust, so I fucked my way through the city only to find it still persisted.”

  I stiffened and tried to pull my arm away, but he held it in place. He was not mine, but I didn’t like the idea of him with another woman, especially many others. The loneliness caused me to reach for something, for someone, anything, as I did with Michael. He ran his nose up the side of my neck and pressed his hips closer.