by Trisha Telep
Had he broken the skin on my neck with his bite? I couldn’t tell. His tongue stroked and laved, drawing me in. He suckled, as greedy as a newborn. But, I was the mere babe.
Over the second glass of wine, he’d confessed to being nearly 600. I’d laughed, not yet moving past the state of disbelief. It took his confession of having been an intimate of the Shelleys to push me into the realm of acceptance. His explanation of Mary’s belief that she had failed her husband struck a cord and felt so real.
He knew things that only years of study and access to sealed documents at the Bodleian Library would have confirmed. Mary’s private letters, many lost, came to life in Connor Black’s descriptions. He would be far too young to know so much, unless . . . 600 years old? Really?
What drew him to me, he claimed, was reading my dissertation on Mary Shelley’s yearning for immortality as expressed in her novels. I’d apparently captured such a sense of the real Mary that he wanted to meet me, and became a student to do so. He’s been close to her after her husband’s death, but she’d refused to let him turn her.
“Because it was too late for her,” I interjected, downing my third glass. Good Cabernet. “Why would she want to live when everyone she cared about had died?”
“The very reason she refused me,” he confirmed, with a lift of his glass. “But you won’t refuse me, will you?”
“Immortality doesn’t hold a lot of appeal right now.” Life being such a joy and all.
How about a sharpening of your senses, all of them? Sounds, smells, tastes. You can’t imagine what chocolate tastes like to me. And the wine, oh.” He rolled his eyes back in his head as if the wine was ambrosia of the gods.
“I can still eat chocolate then?” I tingled with curiosity. “It’s not all about the blood?”
“The blood fortifies, it sustains you. But the food? Eat as you like. You won’t gain a pound.”
I laughed. He had to be kidding.
I’m completely serious. You’ll remain as you are now, perhaps a little leaner.”
“Only a little?” I raised a brow. “Perhaps I’ll call you after I lose another ten pounds.”
“No.” There was an edge to his voice. He grew insistent. “Now. We’ll go back to your place now. Let me show you.”
“Show me?” My nerves skittered with curiosity mixed with a hint of fear.
“What I can do to you. For you,” he corrected. “Tell me to stop if I make you uncomfortable. You’re in control.”
“I’m in control,” I echoed now, as if suddenly remembering. My nerves no longer skittered, but were as taut as violin strings. And now they sang.
“Mm.” He looked up, a drip of blood trailing down his stubble-dotted chin. “Your wish is my command.”
But he didn’t stop to take commands. He dropped to his knees, tugging the underwear that matched the bra down my hips and dipping his head between my thighs before I had a chance to protest. I shifted, leaning back to allow him better access. He drank deeply, and for so long that I lost all thoughts of control. I lost my mind. I barely remembered my name.
And then, I nearly lost consciousness. I tingled all over, felt light-headed, euphoric. I’d never felt so at peace, and yet so high. So very high. I drifted in the air, hovering over the scene. I looked good stretched out along my kitchen counter, my torso elongated to best advantage for my slightly rounded abs. My stomach looked flat, lovely. My breasts, firmer than I remembered. My legs, longer than I ever imagined, and perfectly shaped as they wrapped around him, pulling him tighter, before they went quiet and limp.
He rose wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Wait, how was I watching? Was I – realization dawned. I was dead?
He left me there, an abandoned rag doll, and went off in search of something. A knife. He stripped off his shirt and sliced a red welt along his well-honed shoulder blade. He leaned in for a kiss. “Your turn. Drink.”
I didn’t know how I could comply with his orders from way up in the ether, but I tasted brine, like seawater, on my tongue as he pressed against my mouth. Drowning, I drank him in, unable to hold back, and I gasped, coming to the surface at last.
“That’s it.” He cradled my head in his hands.
The blue of his eyes shone through the haze to guide me, stars in a midnight sky. I dipped my head again and darted my tongue along the tangy red welt. Now I tasted wine, the Cabernet we’d had earlier, the rich berry essence with a hint of tobacco, earth and salt. Connor’s blood. Clarity returned with every taste. I became all too aware of my fingers sliding over his bare chest, down his arms, and up again, pausing at every sinew and cord. He was real, no figment of my imagination. I slid my bottom down off the cabinets, cold linoleum under the balls of my feet as I rose up on tiptoe to kiss his lush, quivering mouth.
My hands strayed to the button of his jeans, too much clothing. I wanted to feel him against me, inside me. I felt so new, so alive, aware of every little thing: my nerves pulsing under the skin, blood thrumming through my veins, the tick of the clock in my bedroom, a soft mewling yawn from the baby next door. Next door? Could I hear that far?
“Your senses sharpen,” he said, as if he could hear my thoughts. And then I realized that he hadn’t spoken aloud. I could hear his thoughts, and he mine. We’re connected now.
“For life?” Not used to telepathy, I’d asked it aloud.
He laced his fingers with mine. For eternity. My epipsychidion.
Soul of my soul. I knew the Shelley poem, the poet’s fixation with a lover. I also knew the reality behind the poem. Shelley had fallen for a phantom, his own idealized version of what love should be. Was I, in fact, a phantom now? Or was I waking from past disillusionment, ready to accept a whole new life?
With my newly sharpened senses, I assumed the sound of breaking glass was the shock of my own realization. It took a second to comprehend that it was my actual window breaking. A man was climbing in through the broken glass, and another two coming in the door I’d left unlocked. I assumed they were men, larger than life in dark jumpsuits and helmets, faces covered with masks. Gas masks.
Connor shoved me behind him as if about to defend me. I was touched by the gesture until he fell at my feet. A heartbeat later, my shouts of protest echoing in deep-throated slow motion, I fell atop him and into the black fog of my own mind.
I woke up in the dark. So dark I couldn’t see. I could feel that I was in bed, in a cotton gown, but not my bed and not my gown. Hospital? I sat up. Hospitals had those infernal fluorescent lights, always on. I couldn’t see any cracks of light to indicate a window or a door. I inhaled, rubbed my arms, and discovered an IV jabbed into the inside of my left elbow. Hospital, I reaffirmed, and tried to feel better about it.
Hospital. I squinted into the darkness. Had I gone blind? Panic set in. I was blind! Lord, I hoped it was only a temporary condition. I reached out at my sides, fingers meeting metal rails.
“Hello?” If I couldn’t see, how would I know if there was someone in the room? “Hello?”
No answer. I sighed, reached over, and worked my hand up the IV tube to a box-like machine. My finger hit a button, something. A buzz went off, and stopped, followed by a soft whir, and what felt like a pulsing down the tube. Maybe I was getting more drugs, whatever had knocked me out. Maybe I didn’t care. But I did care. I struggled to remember what had happened, why I was here. And then my mind found Connor.
I’m here. Connor Black’s voice in my head, as if he were speaking to me.
Where? Whether I was crazy, dreaming or drugged, what did it matter? I may as well answer.
You have to find me, he said. Find me.
I preferred to find me first.
Deductive reasoning had never been my strong point, which was, why I’d gone into teaching literature. Teaching. The Shelleys. I’d been having wine with Connor. It all came flooding back to me a second later. Vampire? It couldn’t be.
My blood pounded in my veins so hard I could practically hear it. I remembered the window
shattering, three men in jumpsuits and masks, my falling at their feet, and the world fading to black. I sat up fast, the tubing ripping from my skin on a snap of pain that faded as realization dawned. Hospital? Or had I been abducted?
The world came into focus, a dim glow lighting the room, or were my eyes finally working? I squinted in the darkness until I realized that I didn’t need to squint. I could see everything fine, even in the dark. The machinery at my side, a medical-looking box with two bags hanging suspended – one as clear as water, the other as opaque as blood – both feeding into the tube that had been stuck in my veins. The bed, covers rumpled at my feet, the walls covered in what looked to be watered silk, there were gilded wall sconces, tasteful paintings of flowers in vases, two dressers, a vanity with an enormous mirror, a chair, and doors – a bathroom? Closet? Hall? No curtains, no windows. My bare feet found the soft, woven carpet, not exactly standard hospital issue.
The doors should have been my target. Which one to exit? Where to call out? I headed for the mirror, my breathing suspended. I feared what I might, or might not see, but there I was, bathed in a golden glow as if kissed by the dawn, lovelier than I’d ever appeared. My hair hung in soft, honeyed curls to my shoulders. I stroked my cheek, pale or simply an effect of the darkness? My eyes glowed, cat’s eyes, predatory and shrewd. Me, but not me. What had happened? Where was I?
Again, I left the doors unchecked in favour of sifting through the dresser drawers. My favourite jeans, a not favourite sweater. My clothing was here, and what else? I pulled the jeans on, not bothering to look for more. The jeans hung, just barely staying around my hips. The sweater had been nearly too tight, but now it draped my frame. No time to think. Shoes. I needed shoes and I could walk out of here and into the night. Something told me not to call out, not to stay. A voice in my head, not my own. Connor.
A sound caught my attention, a rustling from the direction of the door at the far end of the room. A heartbeat later, the door swung open.
A man stood outlined in a halo of light. Once he stepped inside, I could see that he looked something like an angel. Blond curls, structured cheekbones. I met his gaze as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. I didn’t know how I could so clearly make out the colour of his eyes through the dark, but they shone amber, warm as candlelight diffused through a glass of Irish whiskey.
He held a clipboard, his arms crossed over his white coat, which reminded me of folded wings.
“Luke.” He held out his hand and smiled, straight white teeth, no fangs. Another good sign. Not that Connor had appeared to have fangs until he’d been about to bite. “Luke Jameson.”
“Doctor Jameson?” I asked, hesitant, as I placed my hand in his soft, warm grip.
He nodded. “I’d prefer that you call me Luke, but whatever makes you comfortable. The whole suite –” he gestured around us “ – was designed for your comfort. I’d prefer you thought of it as home.”
“I’d like to go home.” To my real home. Not that my shoebox apartment had ever felt much like home.
“Why don’t we have a seat? We’ve a lot to discuss.” He opened the door adjacent to the one he’d come in, the one I’d assumed was a closet but turned out to be a sitting room. I followed him into the light, to an overstuffed lavender sofa in front of a brick hearth with a walnut mantel. A pastel rug covered a bare wood floor. Heavy curtains covered a back wall. Windows? He settled on the ottoman of the chair that matched the sofa, set the clipboard on a side table, picked up a remote control and lit the gas-fuelled fireplace.
“Very cosy,” I said to break the silence. I curled up in the corner of the couch.
“I’m glad you like it.” He leaned forwards. “It is your home now.”
A prickle of foreboding ran up my spine. I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a threat? Are you saying I don’t have the freedom to leave?”
I struggled to hear Connor’s voice in my head, but there was no sign of him.
Luke sighed and tented his fingers, elbows resting on the knees of his long slender legs. “It’s not that complicated, but it may be hard to get used to at first. You’ve been given a virus.”
“A virus?” I stood quickly, but didn’t miss that his gaze lingered on my braless breasts bouncing under my sweater. He cleared his throat. I crossed my arms and sat down again.
“Vampirism is caused by a virus,” he said, meeting my gaze again, warmth in his amber eyes. “Infectious. Passed through body fluids.”
“Blood.” I felt it rush to my cheeks at the memory of drinking from Connor. “I’m infected.”
“It’s more than vampirism. There’s also hypertelomerase at work, the excess production of a hormone that halts the ageing process. It’s not a death sentence. We’re working to find a cure.”
“So it’s more of an eternal-life sentence?” I smiled so that he could see that I was joking. I tried to relax.
“It’s true that the bearers of the virus don’t seem to die from natural causes. The body ceases to age. That’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s one of the properties of the virus that we’re fighting to preserve.”
“But there are properties you would rather eliminate?” I raised a brow. “The blood-sucking?”
His turn to stand. He began pacing in front of the fireplace. “I don’t think it’s fair for some of us to spread our disease to the unsuspecting.”
“Disease.” It was the first I’d thought of myself as diseased, though he had referred to it as a virus. “But I was given a choice.”
He shook his head. “Not without understanding the full implications. The need to hunt. The powerful urges to mate. The restlessness.” His voice broke.
“The loneliness.” I had no idea yet, having been infected such a short time and most of that spent unconscious, but I did know about being alone and the suddenly sad look in his eyes clued me in to the rest. I thought of the Shelleys, of Mary’s refusal to let Connor turn her. “You’re infected too. Aren’t you?”
“I am.” His arm rested on the mantel and I could see his hand curl into a fist. “But I would never be so callous as to bite another human being. We’ve taken an oath here.”
“We?”
“Back to you.” He tipped his perfect, chiselled chin in my direction. “For all intents and purposes, you’re dead. Your family, your friends, your work, everyone believes you to be gone.”
“Without a body?”
“All signs led to abduction and murder. It was a logical conclusion.”
“All signs. Planted signs. Who are you people? How long have I been here? Where are we, for that matter?” I stood and walked to the curtains behind us, opened them and looked out. I gasped. It wasn’t night, but midday. The most beautiful band of coastline met my eyes, pristine sand, crystalline blue waters lapping to the shore in waves. “Palm trees. There are palm trees for god’s sake. Where have you taken me?”
“It’s an island. All ours. You’ve only been here for two days now.”
“Ours?” Two days. Two days of my life gone. But how many gained? Eternity?
“SPAHC’s. ‘The Society for Prevention of Advanced Hypertelomeric Cruorsitis.’”
“That’s what I have? The full name for it? Advanced Hypertelo-whatsis Cru-oh-who?”
“Hypertelomeric Cruorsitis. Yes.”
“And you want to make it go away? That’s why we’re isolated here? On an island?”
“We have a full research facility. State of the art. Complete with luxurious living quarters, private beach –”
I held my hand up, interrupting. “I’ll grab a brochure on the way out.”
“You are free to leave. Please, don’t be frightened. We’re all here by choice. It might be awkward for you to try and go home again, but if you with it.”
I didn’t wish it. He probably knew as well as I did that there was nothing left for me there. “I’ve always wanted to travel.”
“We can arrange it. All I ask is that you stay here for a period of time. We like to get a ful
l study of all the infected, to see if there’s a mutation or something we may have missed along the way.”
“Something you can use to find a cure?”
“Exactly.”
I thought about it for a moment. “What if one doesn’t want to be cured?”
“Everyone wants to be cured.” He looked at me, his eyes wide with incredulity. “If not right away, they come to it eventually.”
“Eventually,” I echoed. I had no idea how I felt about who I was, what I had become. Until I understood what the disease was all about, how would I know if I wanted to be cured.?
“You’ll stay then? A month or two?”
I had no idea where else I could go. No job, no money, no identity. “I’ll stay. For now. Until I can investigate some job possibilities, see who’s hiring.”
He reached for my hand, a tender look in his eyes. “I’m sorry Miranda. You can’t go back to teaching. You have no credentials.”
My lungs constricted with sheer panic. “All my years in school? All that time?”
“Gone.” His lips drew to a tight line. “It’s like witness protection. You have to leave everything you knew behind and start fresh. Clean slate. In the process, you discover things about yourself that you never even knew existed.” His lips curved as if to show it was a good thing, but the smile never reached his eyes. It made me wonder.
I looked out of the window to the sand, the ocean and the horizon stretching endlessly beyond. I thought of my mother, ice clinking in her old-fashioned glass as she raised it for my stepfather to refill. “I always told her she would come to no good.” I thought of my sisters, probably bitter that I went first and left them to deal with mother. I thought of my students marvelling at the juicy scandal of Connor Black attacking their dowdy old professor instead of choosing a tempting, ripe, youthful victim from among them. Would they all score an automatic A? Or would Beth Hinkle, the department head, step in and take over the class, business as usual?
It made me suddenly giddy to think of all I’d left behind. All that, gone. Gone. My nerves hummed with excitement. Or was it hunger?
