Killing Kiss

by Sam Stone

  ‘Let’s go,’ she says, turning away, and I watch her stalk forward, her lovely straight back stiffening as though she expects to receive a violent blow.

  We exit the building through a gauntlet of curious faces. News travels fast on the University grapevine. By the time we reach the car park a group of students are following us at a distance; the air is fat with anticipation. Steve waits by my car, Nate at his side.

  ‘What’s your game, Jay?’ he asks, his hand clenches by his side.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Messing around with my girl, filling her head full of fairy princess shit and then running out on her with this ... slag. That’s what I mean.’

  I grow still. Anger burns cold inside me. Any insult to me I could shrug away but this - this disrespect of Lilly - I can’t allow. Call me old-fashioned but it is a matter of honour. I have to kill him now, despite all of my good intentions.

  ‘Arsehole,’ Lilly fumes. ‘Don’t you know he’s done you a major favour? What is it with you men? D’you still think you live in the dark ages or something? Get in the car, Jay. And you lot can clear off as well. There’s nothing to see.’

  She glares at the gathered crowd until they begin to guiltily disperse.

  ‘It’s worse than high school. I thought we grew out of the mob mentality when I went on to sixth form. I never expected this at Uni.’

  ‘I’m talking to him.’ Steve stands his ground even though he’s uncertain where to take this. He had hoped to bait me and it almost worked.

  ‘If you don’t want exposure then get in the car,’ Lilly whispers and my unmoving limbs begin to shift and relax. Tension slips away from my shoulders as I see the sense in what she says. Beside me she opens the door, slips inside, her lovely long legs flash briefly as she swings in. I walk around to the driver’s door.

  Steve tries to block me and I swat him aside. He falls to the ground, his eyes wide with shock at my effortless strength. Nate moves in swiftly. The air rings but I catch his fist midair and squeeze. His fingers pop like bubble wrap and I hold him suspended, his mouth contorted into a silent ‘o’. Crying out, Nate crumples to the ground at my feet.

  My heart goes cold and still. Violence always breeds hunger. My fangs burst forth painfully from my gums as I lift him up, his crushed hand gripped firmly in my grasp, closer to my yawning mouth.

  Lilly’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. She shakes me and I am forced to drop Nate back down on the concrete. I snap my mouth closed; my fangs grate the back of my lips, drawing blood. For a moment the rage surges forward again, almost wiping away the last vestige of common sense until Lilly’s nails dig firmly into my arm.

  I look at her. Dazed. Her lips bulge with the strain of holding back her own demon nature. My ears buzz with a million unfocused sounds. I take a breath. My reason returns and I become aware of others around me. The sounds of the world return with ragged slowness. Nate weeps on the ground; a girl is shouting as she runs towards the main building; the engine of a car firing up on the other side of the car park; the yell of a security guard as he rushes out of the main building to see what is happening.

  Steve stares at me, his eyes focused on my lips as a tiny drop of blood squeezes from the corner and slides down my chin. I lick at it, deftly wiping away the crimson stain while deliberately flashing the sharp points of my fangs. Backing away, his eyes wide, Steve turns and runs towards the campus; cowardly - he leaves Nate in the gutter nursing his broken hand. Nate cries like a destroyed child, not a hardened, drug abusing young adult.

  The arrogant ones are always the easiest to intimidate.

  As the doors of the Mercedes slam shut I know that some night soon I’m going to find my friend Steve and his sidekick Nate and carefully, surely, eradicate them both from the face of the earth.

  ‘That was so fucking stupid.’

  ‘Stop swearing,’ I respond automatically.

  ‘I’ll bloody, buggering swear ... when I fucking well want to.’

  I exhale noisily, lapsing into thought. The fight has gone out of me because I understand more than Lilly how dangerous this all is. My heart beat is irregular. Exposure - perhaps that is what this serious error means. Although I’ve taken risks in the past - Oscar Wilde and his ridiculous book, The Picture of Dorian Gray, didn’t even out me, (his theory of my eternal youth was way off base anyway) - the modern world is a different issue. It is not a world of superstition, but of science.

  ‘We have to go to ground.’ My foot presses down on the accelerator as if to prove how urgent our flight must be.

  ‘Oh Christ. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it? Well you haven’t won anything, Jay. You still don’t own me.’ Her muffled voice trembles.

  I glance at her, see the sharp protruding points draping over her lip. My heartbeat speeds up again. There is something so very sexy about that lovely, deadly expression.

  ‘Call me Gabriele. Jay doesn’t exist now. We had better work on your new identity.’

  ‘New identity?’

  ‘Of course. If they can’t find me they will try to trace you. One way or another we’ve blown Manchester. We have to leave but before we do, you need to feed. Then you’ll be stronger, harder to hurt.’

  ‘Oh f ...’

  ‘Please spare me more colourful language ...’

  ‘I swear to God, Jay ... Gabriele ... whatever the hell your name is. I’m going to be free of you, even if you have won this time.’

  ‘Lilly, why on earth do you think this is a competition?’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Uncle,’ Marguerite called, rushing into the dining room. ‘Where is Mamma?’

  ‘I ... don’t know. She is not in her room?’

  ‘No, and Gabi will not get up. Senora Benedictus is furious, her face is all puffy and red and she’s banging the drawers shut.

  But he still will not wake.’

  ‘Marguerite, Gabi is not sick, is he?’ I put down the slice of smoked meat I was going to eat and pushed back from the table as I looked at her.

  ‘Oh no, uncle. He is often like this. Madre is usually the only one who can coax him out of his bed in the morning. She tells him he is a lazy boy.’

  I stood and followed my daughter through the Palazzo. Her miniature bustle swayed behind her. She looked like a tiny woman. An overwhelming urge to protect her turned my heart into cold water seaweed. How would Marguerite and Gabi take the news of their mother’s disappearance? What could I possibly tell them?

  We entered Gabi’s room without knocking as Senora Benedictus flung back the drapes from the tall windows. Light flooded in and I sought shelter from the early glare of the sun - which I had learnt was the most painful time of day for me - by the wardrobe in the darkest corner of the room. Insects crawled beneath the surface of the skin wherever the sun’s rays landed. I felt sickly. But it was not just the daylight that weakened me that morning; my stomach churned with a new horror borne of the terrible guilt I felt. I had orphaned my children and I felt I would never recover from the horror of the thing I’d done.

  ‘Signor? Are you alright? You look ...’

  I staggered. Oh God. What had I become? Was I some terrible fiend who could callously take the life of an innocent? Now I realised too late that Ysabelle had loved me from the first day we met until the night she died in my arms. I should never have contaminated her life or that of the children.

  ‘Uncle? What is it?’ Gabi jumped from his bed like a frog hopping from one lily pad to another.

  ‘Nothing ... A sickness headache, that’s all.’

  I backed out of the room and felt better immediately, at least physically. The itching diminished and the tremor in my limbs subsided.

  ‘Signor, I will fetch Senora Ysabelle to attend you.’

  ‘No!’

  Senora Bene
dictus scrutinised me through her auburn lashes.

  ‘No, signor?’

  ‘I’m fine, please don’t disturb her. I will be alright. I just need to lie down again in my room.’

  The thought of throwing Ysabelle’s body in the canal had broken my heart. So I had silently rowed to the mainland. The weight of her frail frame had been nothing to me; it was a cruel irony that her blood filled and fortified my limbs giving me the strength of twenty men. The rowing was effortless and because I could work at superhuman speed I quickly reached my destination where I moored the boat on the rough, rocky shore a mile away from the official harbour.

  Ysabelle lay crumpled in the bottom of the boat and as I bent to lift her I wondered briefly if she could ever awake. As I scooped her up in my arms a small crunching sound echoed from her body. Her rib cage was completely crushed, one frail arm broken - this had all happened when I took her blood and her body. I barely knew my own strength anymore. Nausea brought beads of perspiration to my brow. I swallowed, choking it down. Her insides felt like bloody pulp and her body felt as though she had been crushed beneath a wagon pulled by eight horses, bearing a heavy load.

  Reverently I carried her up over the rocks like a bridegroom carrying his new bride over the threshold. The only difference was that this bride was a corpse, the bridegroom a murderer. I shook my head. It was useless to wallow. I had to concentrate, find somewhere safe to dispose of her body. Somewhere that she would never be found. I would hate it if the children ever learnt how horribly she had died.

  I ran with her corpse bouncing on my shoulders while her long black hair whipped my cheeks. I was faster than ever, as though sucking down the life force of others empowered me more each time. Then I recalled Lucrezia’s biting words - ‘after the hundredth you can fly’. Yes. Each kill would make me stronger. Each death would carve me more life. What would happen if I never killed again? Would I die? Did I have the strength to make such a sacrifice? I deserved to starve, deserved to be cut into a million pieces; even burnt alive for my demonic tendencies.

  The worst was that it had been so easy to kill her. I had enjoyed it. Even continued to rut with her, like some ... animal, while she died so hideously. What had Lucrezia done to me? I was some kind of monster pretending to be human. Did I even have a soul left?

  White, hot panic surged through my veins as I ran on, faster, fiercer. I was terrified and revolted all at once. For a while I saw nothing as I ran; I could barely feel the wind, caused by my speed, as it whipped around me. I cut my mind away from the limp body as it bounced in my arms. I refused the input of all my senses. I couldn’t feel. Maybe that was it! Every passion I experienced was some memory of my life before ... Surely this was so? Demons cannot love, can they?

  Fear surged into my face, my fingers, my chest; I was blind with it, swallowed it instead of air. Every particle ached and hurt with it. But no. It couldn’t be. Deep down, I didn’t believe this. I knew I had genuine emotions. I loved my children ... Yes. The children. I focused on my love for them.

  I began to calm. My racing heart slowed as my speed reduced. I had to think of the children now. Think what was best for them. Do all I could to protect them. For Gabriele and Marguerite’s sake I had to treat Ysabelle respectfully.

  I became more aware of my surroundings again and my feral eyes searched the night for the perfect place. I was in a shallow wood now, not far from the town of Pisa. I had automatically followed the coach road as it weaved through the forest. Along the highway I heard the rattled and grind of an oncoming coach and I hid as I spied the black carriage, pulled by four horses, travelling fast along the woodland path. I ducked down behind a large tree, amid three-foot-tall grass as the coach sped by with its lit lanterns swinging in the dark. I pushed deeper into the wood and was gratified that it thickened, becoming denser.

  I ran again, weaving in and out of the foliage. My senses were assaulted by the sickly sweet smell of cut wood. I soon came upon a little house in the heart of the forest. Through the shutters I saw a pale light from a coarse fire that burned in the hearth. I knelt down beside the log pile, sniffing - two people inside. Old.

  I ran on. The trees became denser still and I found myself in deeper woodland. The suddenness of finding a small, shallow clearing therefore had much more impact than if the trees had been spread farther apart. I stood beneath an ancient oak that stretched endlessly up into the black star-filled void. It was eerily quiet save for the occasional hoot of an owl whose mournful cry fell flat in the pitch dark. The clearing was perfect, if such a word could describe that moment.

  I lay Ysabelle down gently at the foot of the tree. Perhaps I hoped that somehow she could forgive me if I showed her this final respect.

  ‘This looks like a good place. Peaceful. You deserve peace.’

  Beneath the tree I began to dig away at the soil with my hands like a dog burying a prized bone. Pulling out roots and stones, my hands bled as the rough earth ripped off nail and skin but I kept going, barely registering the sting; my body was numb. I floated above myself, watching with horror; my mind paralyzed with my flesh reacting instinctively. As the hole grew deeper I drifted slowly back into my skin.

  The earth was damp and cool. I reached gently for her stiffening body and pulled her down into the gaping cavern. Laying her on the soft, natural bed that was to become her final resting place, I stroked her hair back from her face. The open wound in her throat was like another mouth whispering a silent accusation. Her white robe fell away, exposing the blue flesh of her shoulder and breast. Her skin had turned icy. She lay like a tragic heroine, whose hero proved to be a disappointment.

  I wept. Tears dropped onto my hands, mingling with the bleeding cuts and scrapes, until my forearms ran with watery streaks. No sooner did my ruined flesh throb with the salt from my tears, than they began to heal until not even one broken nail remained. I was appalled, afraid at the ease with which I’d restored myself. I reached inside the shallow grave and straightened Ysabelle, crossing her arms over her chest and smoothed down the robe over her bare flesh.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ But my apology would never be heard.

  The earth was softer and pushed back into place with ease. I covered her limbs and torso, but I found it impossible to throw even a speck of the wet soil over her face. At the last minute I reached for the dagger in my belt and snipped away a strand of hair placing it inside my doublet. Closing my eyes I shoved a large pile of soil into the grave and her face was finally covered; the tear in her neck filled and silenced forever. Burying her became easier. My body ached, more from anguish than the effort of secreting her away. I relished the pain; it was a relief from the emptiness. It proved I could feel. I rubbed my hands and shook the last of the soil from my fingers and stood, backing away.

  It was only a few hours since I left the Palazzo with Ysabelle and I was not known as an early riser. There was plenty of time to return and wash away all signs of my crime. I remained looking down at the grave, committing to memory the place, the tree, everything I could.

  Coldness, that had nothing to do with the evening, seeped into my limbs until finally I turned and ran away. The air flooded my ears, washing away my thought; a dry waterfall. The pale hot glow of the moon beat down on my fair hair. I looked at my hands as I rushed on and the skin shone with a lunar light. The moon was in my blood and my life force responded to the new energy inside it. I felt I had become one with the universe but I still did not comprehend the full impact of how I would evolve. I still did not understand how awful it would be to live forever, always alone.

  Chapter 21

  ‘No. Not those.’ Lilly folds her arms across her chest, tapping an impatient foot on the laminate flooring.

  She glares at me from the kitchen door as I reach into the glass cabinet, caressing the silver lockets; Ysabelle’s hair has been restored to its rightful place. I am finding it much harder than I would have
thought to live with another person. After years alone it is strange. Lilly has her own way of doing things. She is slightly untidy, occasionally disorganised, and very bossy. She gives little consideration to my feelings. She criticises me constantly, complaining about how I have wronged her. It is a battle. Oddly, I love it.

  ‘I can’t leave them here.’

  ‘Then put them in storage. I can’t live with them, Gabriele.’

  Checkmate. Can either of us concede when there is so much at stake? It has become clear to me that she will never be the loving companion I dreamed of. Perhaps this is my punishment for hoping that I could one day be happy when I am a murdering fiend. I realise there is only one thing to do in this situation. I let go of the locket I’m clutching; I let go of this piece of my past.

  The truth is I have never been happier. Whatever terms that suit her are fine with me because just being around her ... Besides I have forever to convince her to love me; I am nothing if not enduring.

  ‘Okay. You win.’

  She squeezes her lips in thought. It is incredibly attractive, almost a pout. It also reveals that she doesn’t believe my acquiescence. As always she’s suspicious of any kindness I show her.

  ‘Don’t behave like a wimp. I know you’re not one.’

  I don’t answer. Instead I reach down for the tissue paper and begin wrapping the lockets, and pack them into a box.

  ‘They represent nothing to me now. They can go into storage ... like you said.’

  ‘But they did mean something to you?’

  ‘Once ...’

  ‘What?’

  Lilly has hounded me day and night to talk; tell her of the past. I am afraid to speak. I know that once I begin, it will pour from my lips like sand through a timer. It would be like giving my entire soul over to her for disapproving scrutiny and I am not yet strong enough to take the disparagement.

  ‘What good would it do to tell you?’ I shrug.