Crimson, Volume 1

by Sax Alexander

“No.” He stands and paces to the window to look out at the night sky.

  “No?” I sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed. For some reason, I suddenly feel incredibly vulnerable—couldn’t be the cancer or the bloodsucker in the room, huh?—and I grab for the edge of the blanket and tug it up over my lap. Childish gesture, I know, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.

  Serge faces me and grins, fangs gleaming. “No. You know what I like about you, Bryan? Your disbelief in the obvious. Your inability to see what’s right in front of your face. Your lack of self-esteem.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I’m serious. And it’s not meant to be insulting. Surely you’ve noticed how I look at you? Surely you know I’ve lusted for you?”

  Surely? What. The. Fuck. “I...” I open and close my mouth several times, trying to think of something to say. Of course I haven’t noticed. Of course I don’t know. I shrug. “No.”

  “No? I have, ever since I first saw you atop that ridiculous float in the gay pride parade seven years ago.”

  I shake my head, confused. Serge and I met through a mutual friend, and it was five years ago, not seven. “That’s not where we met.”

  “Ah, but I didn’t say when we met, did I? I said when I first saw you. I’d had a late night. Or an early one, depending on your view. I had kept to the shadows on my way back here, and then I saw you. There was something about you, something in your eyes. A sort of... odd grace that I hadn’t seen in many, many centuries. You reminded me of someone long gone. I followed the float for several blocks, nearly got my arm singed off at one point. I never saw you again after that, until Donovan introduced us. I felt it again then, that draw toward you.”

  “You’ve never made a move,” I argue. “You’ve never even asked me out on a date!”

  “Being a vampire’s mate is far more serious than simply dating them. When you mate with a vampire, it’s for eternity. At least, for most of us. There are some who play the field, as you humans term it. But those of us who are ancient, who remember the old ways, hold true to them. Vampires are like swans—we mate for life. We just have a longer lifetime than most swans.” He grins again and comes near, hovering just out of my reach.

  You know those people who have odd things occur to them at random times of the day, and they start laughing? I’m one of those people. At the moment, I’m reminded of the scene in Shrek where Shrek tells Donkey that ogres are like onions. Consequently, I picture an onion atop Serge’s shoulders instead of a head, and I burst into hysterical laughter. Not the best course of action when a lovelorn ancient vampire has just professed his desire to call you his proverbial husband.

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “No!” I wave my hands at him, trying desperately to stop laughing and breathe. “No,” I wheeze. “I just... something stupid popped into my head. I’m sorry. Never mind it. I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”

  “That’s wise.”

  I catch my breath at last and nod as sagely and solemnly as I possibly can, considering I’m naked except for a blanket and about to be killed and brought back to life by this man. “I never knew, honestly. I thought you saw me as a friend, nothing more.”

  “The choice had to be yours, if you wanted me or not.”

  “You never really gave me that choice though, did you? I mean, if a starving man has a choice between steak and chicken, but only sees the chicken, he’s going to eat the chicken. If he doesn’t know there’s steak back in the kitchen, he’s not going to ask for it.”

  Serge cocks his head to the side. “I’ve never understood your habit of turning everything into a food reference.”

  I pat my belly. “I do like to eat. I identify with food.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So.” Now what? Serge is still interested, if his erection is any indication, but he’s still standing there, unmoving, looking at me. I wonder briefly if he’s expecting me to make the first move now. Not something I’m too good at, I have to admit.

  “Keeping things between us platonic has been taxing.” He bares his fangs and hisses. “And I have not enjoyed watching you with the cretins you chose to cavort with. The chickens, if you will, when there is...” He smiles crookedly. “Filet mignon right here.”

  “Cretins, eh? I didn’t think David was all that bad.”

  Serge snarls and spits on the floor. “David had no brains and even less spine, if that’s possible.” He stalks toward me, though I’m not the least bit afraid of this show of power. “Two problems from which I don’t suffer.”

  He’s on the bed again now, straddling me, and I lie back, letting him advance. This is everything I’ve dreamed of since meeting him, after all. No way in hell I’m resisting now. Serge nuzzles my neck with just his lips, traces up to my jaw and back to my ear. “Are you mine, Bryan?”

  I nod. I don’t think I can speak around the pounding of my heart and the thickening in my throat. Being this near him has a surprisingly intoxicating effect on me. It reminds me of the one and only time I tried Ecstasy. The room around us is suddenly much brighter, the colors stronger and bolder. I close my eyes against the glare and am met by dozens of little spinning, glowing lights, like lightning bugs trapped behind my eyes.

  “Bryan?” Serge calls my name, pants it or moans it, I’m not sure which, but the sound is velvet in my ears. I can literally feel his voice sliding into my brain. I can’t remember ever wanting anyone this much, even him. “Say it, Bryan. Say you’re mine.”

  “Yours.” God, he’s absolutely like a drug—I’ll say any goddamn thing to keep him this close, keep his hands on me, keep his body pressed against mine.

  Reality runs away from me, and I don’t even try to stop it. Serge kisses me, lips like fire against mine. He pushes his tongue inside my mouth, not asking permission but taking what’s rightfully his. One of his hands grips the back of my neck, the other surrounds my cock. I buck up into that touch, craving the sensation of flesh on flesh, the feeling intense beyond anything I’ve imagined.

  Serge strokes my cock slowly, lovingly. I can do nothing—I’m a pile of emotional, sex-crazed knots. I feel boneless and weightless, dizzy, as though I’ve been spun around and around for far too long and then yanked back to stand still. I try to make my arms move, to return Serge’s attentions, but they’re unresponsive.

  Serge chuckles, and the sound of it rumbles along my muscles, leaving tiny ripples of pleasure in its wake. “Just enjoy for now, my love. There will be time enough to reciprocate later.”

  He sits back, hands leaving me for a moment, and I’m terrified, bereft, heartbroken to lose his touch. I’ve never felt such horrific loss, even when family members have died. My heart aches in my heavy chest, and I fight to keep tears at bay.

  I hear the cap pop on a bottle of lube. Where did that come from? Serge must’ve grabbed it when I wasn’t paying attention. Not that I’ve been paying much attention since he returned to the bed. My entire body shivers and rocks of its own accord as Serge rubs the lube onto my skin, and relief floods through me—I’m indescribably happy to have his touch again.

  My eyes roll back in my head, and I hear a deep, long, low moan escape my lips as Serge slips two fingers inside me. I thrust my hips down against his hand, seeking more. More. God, this isn’t enough. I’ve never begged for anything in my life, but I know with clarity that I’ll beg for this until my voice goes hoarse. “Please... Serge, please. Please.”

  Serge leans down over me, nicks my bottom lip open with one of his fangs, and licks the blood up with a groan. “Say my name again.”

  “Serge. Please, Serge.”

  Serge throws his head back and howls. Shivers run up and down my spine like spiders. He looks back down at me, eyes glowing red with an inner fire I want desperately to burn up in, fangs bared in a snarl that would terrify even the most formidable of men. I’ve never understood how anyone could term a vampire a monster before this moment. I’ve spent so much time around them, seeing them build families and enjoy
life, I’ve forgotten they have a sinister side.

  His left eyebrow lifts and he pauses. Waiting for me. I nod slowly, locking my gaze with his. Serge’s nostrils flare as he sniffs the air around us, eyes rolling back in his head. He grips my hip with one hand, fingernails biting into my flesh just slightly so that I’m aware of the pain but not concerned by it. I close my eyes tight, and those lights explode in my head again as Serge’s long, thick cock fills me.

  He starts moving immediately, wasting no time in cementing our bond. His thrusts are slow and hard. I feel every inch of him, meeting his downward thrusts with upward ones and grinding my hips. I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, holding as tightly to him as I possibly can. Time ceases to have meaning. Maybe we’re taking hours. Maybe it’s only minutes. All I know is it’s not long enough.

  He shudders violently with his release, and his teeth pierce the skin of my neck. I cling to him as pain spirals out through my body. His lips move against my flesh, pulling the blood from me with gentle sucking pressure. I don’t think to fear him. I simply give in, holding him hard but somehow going limp in surrender at the same time.

  Cock still hard, Serge continues to make love to me even as he drains the life from me. My mouth opens wide in a silent scream as orgasm sizzles through me, intense, like looking into the sun. You know how you’ll be sitting in a chair, and you’ll get that sensation that you’re falling, and your body jerks? Yeah. That’s how I feel now, except that I can’t jerk. I can’t move at all. I just keep falling and falling, tumbling down into a pit as the room gets darker and darker, sound quieter and quieter. I know I’m in a bed, but I can’t feel it. I know Serge is with me—in me—but I can’t feel him, either. It’s the numbness I experienced at the clinic, but a thousand—no, a million fold. I can’t raise my head or reach out, can’t even make my throat work to scream. I can’t feel anything.

  At least, not on the outside. On the inside, I’m on fire. It’s like having sunburn on the wrong side of your skin. I feel individual blood cells running through every vein. I can hear them—much like the sound of a faucet running. My muscles ache as though they need to be stretched, but I know there’s not enough stretching in the world to unwind them. I’m hungry, but not for food. Something else. I need something else. Tremors seize my body as Serge slides from me, and from a distance I hear him murmuring quiet words to me.

  It goes on and on, I’m convinced it’s never going to stop. I’m in a bottomless pit, falling, falling, falling. Down, down, into nothingness. My arms and legs start to weaken, and I scrabble, clawing at Serge, trying with all my might to keep my hold on him. I don’t want to die. I never wanted to die. That’s the entire point of this, and something in me rises up to rally for one last fight, spitting and snarling like a feral thing, determined to live.

  “It’s just your body dying. It means nothing.” Serge pets me, strokes my cheeks and forehead, runs his fingers through my hair. “Open your eyes, Bryan.”

  I try, though I don’t think I can, but I do manage to look at him. He smiles at me, and rips his own wrist open with his teeth, then presses the wound to my lips. Nectar. That’s the only way I can describe the taste on my tongue. It’s like nothing I’ve ever had—sweeter, thicker, richer, and more fulfilling. It slides down my throat, filling me, warming me from my core outward. Feeling returns to my body slowly: first to my stomach, then my chest, then out along my arms and legs to my fingers and toes.

  Serge gasps and pulls his wrist away, licks it clean, and I watch the torn flesh mend before my eyes. I’ll be able to do that soon, and the knowledge of it is exhilarating. I close my eyes again as the fire of Serge’s essence heals me, calms me. I stretch my arms and legs, flex the muscles there, and draw a great, shuddering breath in through my nose, letting it out through my mouth.”Is it... done?”

  Serge nods. “It is. How do you feel?”

  As if triggered by his words, a wave of fatigue takes me. I sag against him, again unable to make my arms and legs work. I feel helpless as an infant, and I don’t like it one bit. Tears of frustration sting my eyes. “Serge!”

  “Shh,” he coos. “Rest now, my love. In a few hours we’ll go out for dinner. You’ll get stronger as you feed, you’ll see.” He wraps me in his arms and pulls the covers up over us.

  ***

  “Ready to go?” Serge slides his arms around my waist and nuzzles my temple.

  I turn from the window with reluctance. I’m hungry, but I’m fascinated by my new eyes, my new ears. I see the world in a way I never have before, and it’s heartbreakingly beautiful.

  “Love? I need to feed.”

  I run a hand through his hair, trace the pale pallor under his eyes. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  Serge leads me up to the roof again, right to the edge. Like approaching the exam room door, I pull back on his arm. “You never told me you could fly.”

  He chuckles. “We don’t fly, so much as we float.” He slides his hand down and twines his fingers with mine. “Come.”

  I nod and join him at the edge of the roof. Might as well be the edge of the world, for as much as I don’t know what I’m doing now. But Serge’s grip on my hand is strong, and as we step off the roof, as the air whooshes around us and the world rises up to meet us, I know that this is right. And I realize something else—for once, someone called my name and something good happened.

  Graveyard Games

  by

  Brantwijn Serrah

  Kylie hadn’t intended to go to The Graveyard when she’d left her apartment that rainy Friday night. That was typical for her, though. Kylie rarely ever intended to go anywhere. She did wander quite often, aimlessly seeking escape from the empty and indifferent walls of her Spartan Seattle flat at night. She just needed to be away from things like the phone, the computer, the TV, the neighbors. Most nights, she simply walked around downtown or by the wharf. People-watching was perhaps a good term for it. Observing others like some quiet ghost on the sidelines, not wholly sure what she was meant to get out of the exercise, but not sure what else there was to do. Restlessness was an affliction, making her antsy and uncomfortable in her skin and chasing her out into the city to search for somewhere to escape it.

  She’d heard about The Graveyard from a young man in group. It was an underground club well into inner downtown Seattle, a Goth hangout. The story had been wild, something no reasonable, well-balanced adult would believe, but given the source that was hardly surprising.

  “There are people who go there,” the young man had told her and a handful of their fellow therapy buddies as they all shared a cigarette outside the clinic one morning. “Not really people, if you know what I mean...but they can make you feel good.”

  Skepticism and eye-rolling. That particular young man—Reggie, his name was—had already discussed many of the methods he’d tried in order to “feel good” in the face of his issues, and it would be no surprise to anyone if it turned out he’d frazzled his brain a bit. When he confided in Kylie, the sight of his pale wrist, neatly marked with two symmetrical, pink, puckered scars, she’d only concluded The Graveyard had to be a scene bar, a place for role-players and the leather crowd.

  Reggie had dropped out of group two months ago. No one thought much about that, either. It wasn’t as though they were all childhood friends, after all. Just strangers gathering together once a week, and acting as if that gave them something in common. Kylie was mildly surprised that his absence still held a flutter of interest for her now, when normally the disappearance of another patient might stir up a distracted sort of speculation for the first week or two but then fall flat again, unremarkable to her.

  But Reggie’s disappearance did bother her. There was no reason it should. they hadn’t been close, and people dropped in and out of group all the time. Of course, one of the things Kylie had learned in years of therapy was that there wasn’t always a reason for feeling things. It was one of the more infuriating things about the human mind.

  R
eggie’s absence nagged at her. She thought about it too much. It tugged at her brain while she smoked on her balcony at night, becoming part of the zoo in her head that eventually chased her out to prowl around in her aimless way. What he’d said kept coming back around to the forefront of her thoughts. She wondered all the time about the two puckered little scars on his wrist.

  They can make you feel good.

  It had been a long, long time since Kylie had felt good.

  Not that she precisely felt bad. Not that she precisely felt. It wasn’t a matter of happy, sad, hurt, angry, or crazy...it was all just...

  Restless.

  They make you feel good.

  Even though she hadn’t intended to end up in The Graveyard that rainy Friday night, when she found herself at the top of the stairway leading down to the club’s open doors Kylie wasn’t going to deny it.

  She wanted whatever it was that the people Reggie had told her about—not really people—could give.

  ***

  The Graveyard looked like any number of a hundred other nightclubs on the outside. At the foot of the stairs, at the club’s entrance, a hefty-looking bouncer sat to one side and the bright reflection of dance-floor lights flickered around the doorway. Inside, it was dimly lit but stylishly kept. The dance floor made up most of the bottom level, sunken several feet into the floor from the surrounding sections of bar lounges and the bar itself, which took up most of one wall. Up above there was another level made up of catwalks and little corners, balconies, and alcoves furnished in black leather. Even from just inside the doorway, couples engaged up there in the dark corners, tangled in intoxicated, ecstatic embraces, heedless of any other patrons who might be watching.

  It was busy. The music was loud, as in any club, but not a jumble of chaotic trance beats or techno. There was an actual live band on a stage set against the back wall just at the front of the sunken dance floor. The lead singer was a skinny man close to her own age, with heavy eyeliner and longish hair the color of rich amber. A sizeable lot of young men and women moved in time to the low, slow rhythm of gothic rock. The dance floor, a mesmerizing ebb and flow of bodies seemingly lost in the music.