by C. N. Owens
His hands are strong, yet gentle. Ropes of muscle twitch and contract in his forearm, supporting my weight with ease. He’s not a hulking man, but he’s sinewy, athletic. He stands a head taller than me, but I’m only a hundred fifty centimeters… five feet or so. One of his calloused hands encircles my wrist, and he reads my armband before stepping away again.
“He told me he was a judge, and that he would help me,” I mumble, confused. I don’t know why I’m telling him all this. I don’t know him, and as far as I’m concerned, I saved myself. How weird, for this guy to come here in the middle of the night just to listen to my story. It has been so long since anyone really talked to me, even if it is a horrible topic.
“But he didn’t help you.”
I shake my head and deny the urge to reach over and poke the breastplate of muscle on his chest, to prove that he carries little or no fat. “I hurt him, though, bad.” Memories of Al, lying unconscious on the floor, enter my mind. I shudder at the mental picture… and that smell… then what I did to Tomas.
“Good girl,” he responds, curling half his frown into a sweet smile. The longer I talk to him, the more I feel I could actually like him, and I have to resist smiling back. “I think I know which motel you were at. I know about an injured judge, but what about the other guy? It looked like an animal attack.”
I take a deep, painful breath, debating how I should answer, but I just shake my head.
“So, you know nothing about the people you were with when I found you?”
I shrug. “They all stared at me, and their skin was pale like mine.”
“They were vampires,” he says nonchalantly.
I shake my head, trying to act confused. “Vampires? As in Dracula… I vant to drink your blood?”
The room falls silent for only a second before he cracks up laughing. “Yes. Good impression.” He continues, still laughing, “But yeah, actual vampires… bloodsuckers.” He collects himself, going quiet once again.
I’ve known about vampires for years. I had one for a customer a few times in Paris. He was beautiful but smelled funny. Out of all my customers, he was the only man who got me off. He loved that I was albino and begged for permission to turn me. Of course, I agreed, anything to get out of the hell I was in. After he bit me, he got sick. I never saw him again after that.
“This sounds silly; you’re joking, right?” I say.
“Never mind. What happened to your hands?”
More lies. I hate doing it to such a kind man. “After I attacked the judge they came in and drugged me and did the rest of what you see.” I raise my bandaged hands.
“Thank you for talking about this with me. You are a true survivor.” He nods approvingly at me. “So, I came in and didn’t want to bother you while you were sleeping. I was going to wait for a nurse to do that.”
I cover my toothless mouth and laugh at his attempt to be cute, but I could kick myself because he’s wearing down my defenses.
“You were talking in your sleep, no real words, though. Would you share your dream with me?”
God, if only I didn’t look so horrible right now. “I was a little girl… at home with my brother,” I respond nonetheless, feeling my heart swell because he seems so interested in me.
“That sounds like a great dream. Those are my favorite ones, about home.”
“Mine, too. I wish I was there now.”
“Well,” he says and stands from the chair. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to get you home, wherever that is, but I can damn sure promise you I’m going to find the men that did this. I’ll make them pay for what they did.”
“Thank you.” I slowly sit back on the bed, prompting him to run over again and help me lie back down. “I’m from Volgograd… Russia… that’s where I’m from.” I stumble on my words, captivated by this man, this thoroughbred who commands respect with only a glance. He straightens his back and looks down at me again, free of any judgment.
“I would have expected more of an accent.”
“I know several languages,” I say, smiling. Je vois le ciel dans tes yeux almost comes out of my mouth as I concoct denials of his effect on me.
“Impressive,” he says and gives me a nod before turning to leave.
“Sir?”
He stops several steps from the door. “It’s Trent.”
“Sorry. Is there any way I can reach you if I think of anything else?” I push for just a few more seconds with this charming man, this black-winged angel. I wish I could return the favor and show that I’m also interested in him, but I doubt he would care anyway.
“No, but I have a feeling this won’t be the last you’ve seen of me.”
“I’m afraid,” I say.
He faces me and grows quiet.
I can almost see the gears turning in his mind. “Those men, they don’t just let a girl go—they’ll find me.”
“Leila”—the way he says my name gives me chills—“that’s not going to happen. I’ll see to it.”
Out of less than obvious reasons to keep him near me, I nod and reach out from under the covers. “It was nice meeting you, and thanks again.” The instant his hand touches mine, images flash before my eyes. I see blood everywhere… and death. His sins haunt him; he lives in the shadows, hiding from the things he has done. Unaware of what I saw, he smiles and gently squeezes my hand before turning again and walking out the door.
***
Trent
It’s too easy. The motel, being in Norfolk, would undoubtedly be serviced by Norfolk Central—where I am right now. The only other possibility would be EVMS, but it’s a medical school, and it’s unlikely that a judge would go there for emergency care.
It’s even easier to flash my badge to get a name: The Honorable Alfred Schuler. I could have walked up and down the corridors without a name and simply looked for the room with the US marshal posted at the door, but why do that? Working for the NSA has its perks. I walk up to the marshal, an older man with more-salt-than-pepper hair, flipping my badge open in advance. The man looks up at me from his crossword puzzle, squinting through his glasses at my badge.
“You’re making an early visit,” the marshal says, raising his eyebrows at me. The deep lines on his forehead make it apparent he uses this gesture often.
“Matters of national security don’t tend to fall within normal business hours, sir,” I respond, trying my best to sound professional and federal agent–like.
“I understand. Thank you for all that you do. Please, go right in,” the marshal says, making me feel a little guilty for taking advantage of a man’s patriotism… just a little guilty.
Too easy. Schuler is lying on his back sleeping as I walk in and grab some rubber gloves from a box on my left, next to a small sink. The judge’s face is yellowish purple in spots from an angry bruise, and a line of stitches cuts a path from the center of his forehead down his nose.
Walking over to his IV line, I disconnect the tubing from the IV bag, cut the end off with my knife, and then I force the end of the line onto the oxygen supply built into the wall behind the bed. I open the valve slowly, leaving it open and on low, watching air begin to work its way through the line toward the judge’s arm.
The judge wakes up from the beeping sound of his heart monitor shutting off. I take a few steps back, feeling a crescendo building, a climax of bridled fury. I cup my gloved hands together and watch while this man, doomed to die in minutes, sizes me up fearlessly with blackened eyes, almost swollen shut.
“Who are you?” the judge asks with a scratchy voice. The stitched wound on his face stretches and twitches with his facial gestures.
“Federal agent, Your Honor. I have a few questions for you.” I flash my badge and put it away without giving him a chance to look at it.
“Come back in the morning.”
“Sorry, sir, this can’t wait.”
The judge sighs and shifts in the bed. “What do you want to know?”
The judge’s bottom lip trembles nervously as I use every ounce of restraint to remain emotionless. Out of the corner of my eye, I have been watching the oxygen pump into his vein… He has maybe a minute left.
“Get out of here, or I’ll call the marshal.”
“You don’t have to do that; everything is already done. Just answer my question and I’ll leave.” I keep my voice cool and remove my pistol from its holster and twist on a six-inch-long suppressor.
The judge shakes his head, his face curling into a frown. “It was my first time. I didn’t mean for that to happen to her.”
My muscles clench. I’m so enraged I have to force my lungs to take in the next breath. “Were you there when they tortured her?”
“What? Dear God, what did they do to her?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Well… yes, I hit her, but—”
“She didn’t let you get away with it.” I chuckle in dark amusement, wanting to go back to that room and hug that girl for fighting the way she did.
“She’s a monster… broke my nose and knocked me out cold. I could lose my job for this!”
“Oh, you’re going to lose more than that. It’s just a shame I can’t make you suffer the way she has.” My voice oozes pride as I anticipate the pulmonary embolism of my creation.
“You have nothing on me. I will tie a court case up in years of litigation that the prosecutors could never dig out of. You’ll never get a conviction, and if you did, I’d be out in months.”
I laugh at the judge’s arrogant presumption that jail time would be just punishment. “That’s funny, but I agree with you. Jail is not an option.” I sit on the bed next to him as though I were a family member, my now unwieldy pistol draped over my leg. “Your punishment will be something different. It’s a little disappointing, but at the same time, it’ll put my mind at ease knowing that you won’t be able to do this to another innocent kid.”
“You’re willing to give up your freedom and a good career for some whore? Are you thinking straight, son?”
I smile as I sculpt an invisible monster out of my rage. “I’m not your son, and yes, if I could disembowel you right here on this bed, I would gladly do it for that whore,” I say through clenched teeth, letting my anger rise to the surface.
“Please, what can I do to make you reconsider this?” the judge says, his voice sounding weak.
“Is this how you talked to her, like a concerned grandparent?” I laugh. “Do you honestly want to help me? Or would you like to rape me too?” I shake my head. “I’m not your type… too old.”
“No, I’m trying to make you listen to reason,” he says, and I love the way his jowls shiver when he begs. I almost wish I could drag this out a little longer.
“Your Honor, my actions are wholly premeditated; there is no reasoning with me. I will, however, offer you something to ease your mind before you die.” I flip out my pocketknife.
The judge clutches his chest; no doubt, the oxygen is reaching his heart.
I place the knife in his hand and curl his fingers around it. “I’m pumping oxygen into your IV line. You will be dead in seconds. If you truly feel any remorse for what you did, fuck yourself with this knife before you expire. Jam it into your gut.”
The judge focuses on me, his skin bluing before my eyes. A subtle smirk forms on his face as he lets the blade tumble from his hand onto the bed. Moments later, he’s dead.
Chapter 7
Cassie
It’s almost 5:00 a.m. by the time I make it home. The morning air is damp, and the rotting stench of low tide is in the air from the Nansemond River, not a hundred yards away.
On the porch, at the top of the steps, Trent sits as though sleeping with his elbows resting on his knees. A bottle of Ketel One sits next to him, and an empty glass is still clutched in his left hand.
I climb out of the car and walk to him. He stares blankly at the ground, and only then do I realize how much he has aged in the years since we first met. I can almost see the magnificent creature he was, a striking man, strong and fit; every inch of him sculpted as if by a master. He used to dress casual yet classy, filling out a pair of blue jeans exquisitely, and I used to love how he would roll the cuffs up on his dress shirts, exposing his smooth muscular forearms. Now, he tends to gravitate toward T-shirts. He seemed so much lighter on his feet in those days, and he smiled more.
“Oh, Trent, you are a mess.”
His jaw muscles ripple as he clenches his teeth.
I kneel down in front of where he sits, almost feeling the burden he carries. I place my hands on his knees and patiently wait, dying to know what’s bothering him.
He waits a long time before acknowledging me. “I killed a man tonight. He raped her.” He raises his glass to his lips but then sets it down when he realizes it’s empty.
“Why did you do that?”
“She told a lot of lies, but most of her story was true.” He swallows and then takes a deep breath, wobbling where he sits. “Leila… That poor girl, she doesn’t deserve any of this.” He lets out a vodka-laden sigh. “I had to do something for her,” he says, sounding like he’s still trying to convince himself.
Ever since I met Trent, I could tell that he carries the mass of the earth on his shoulders. I’ve told him before that tying himself up in other people’s problems will wind up killing him, and in his usual fashion, he denies that even happens and promptly changes the subject. Without another thought, I kiss him on the forehead and hug him, pressing him into my chest, envying his warmth, his life. “It sounds like he deserved it,” I whisper, my pulse quickening as I try to console the most terrifying yet selfless man I’ve ever known.
“I’m not done.” His breath flows across my breasts like warm water, raising goosebumps everywhere.
“You mean to kill someone else?” I ask, trying hard to suppress my sudden arousal as he nuzzles deeper into my cleavage.
“You smell very nice.” His unshaven face tickles my skin, accompanied by another wave of warm, humid breath.
“Trent, you were saying?”
“A man named Vlad—a pimp,” he says with a Zen-like calmness.
“That name, he’s a popular man of late. Raoul is also looking for him. He has asked me to find him.”
“Let’s go.” His voice, although muffled, drops an octave. I know that voice, and in some ways, I’m afraid of it.
“You are welcome to accompany me, but it’s too late for that now; you are far too drunk.” I chuckle. “I thought the mighty hunter would have more restraint.” My hands slip down his arms, following the rippling muscles to his elbows. It brings forth feelings that I thought were long since dead, reducing me to a simple girl in heat.
“Yes, I am drunk, and it’s still not okay to call me that.”
“Not too drunk for other things, though, or am I wrong?” I stand but never let go of his hands and lead him into the house.
He stops me in the living room and snatches me toward him. Our lips collide in a long, slow kiss. I gasp and let my hands explore the breadth of his sinewy chest. For centuries, I’ve only been with women, and it shows. I realize I’ve forgotten what it was like to be manipulated, to feel physical strength used against me and permit it to continue. I find it so exciting that I can’t focus on anything other than the muscles beneath his clammy skin and the feel of his large hands touching me. I want to feed on him to see his thoughts, but I deny myself, choosing to feel human if only for a moment.
I back away, letting my hands slide down his arms as though being pulled by an invisible force, farther and farther, until our fingers touch, and it’s too late… We’ve drifted apart. I take off for the stairs. He laughs and gives chase, tripping and stumbling in his drunkenness, until we arrive in his room where I push him back onto the bed.
“I’m going to tell you a secret, but I don’t think
it will surprise you. I’m afraid of being with a man.” I step out of my shoes and stop between his knees, trembling from a mixture of fear and excitement… I’ve come too far to change my mind.
“Yeah, I know, but I think you’re about to make an exception,” he says, standing up and placing his warm hand on my neck. I take his hand and kiss his wrist, feeling drunk from the sweet scent of his blood. My insides stir, coming to life with an excitement that seems alien, something I’ve missed. I take a ragged breath, a vestigial thing for a vampire, and push him back on the bed. He reaches for me again, but I push away his strong hand, shaking my head.
“If we are going to do this, it has to be on my terms, please.” I climb onto his lap and run my hands across his firm, unyielding chest, downward to his pants, feverishly unbuttoning and sliding them off while he removes his shirt and lies back obediently.
I stand with wobbly knees and try to open my shirt but rip it open in my haste, making buttons fly everywhere, and then undo my jeans, wriggling a little to get them past my hips. Perfect. I’m wearing my favorite bra. It’s black and lacy, but the best thing about it is that its clasp is in the front. It opens with a pop, and my breasts spill out. I crawl onto Trent’s lap and purposefully drag my nipples across his chest on the way to his lips and shudder when I feel his warm throbbing sex rub against me, with only the fabric of my thin black panties separating us.
“I want to touch you,” he whispers, still crucified on the bed at my request. The smell of alcohol hangs on his breath. His deep-brown eyes stare back at me, intent with desire. He raises his knees as I sit up, giving me something to lean back on. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, suddenly afraid, I reach for his hands, placing them on my thighs. That’s a good place to start. My body throbs from the inside. I want a man, I want this man, for the first time in almost a millennium.
“I’ve wanted this for so long.” His Mississippi accent simmers to the surface in his drunken excitement.
“Ask for my permission,” I say, trying my best not to influence him in any way.
“May I make love to you?”
