by Trisha Baker
Meghann tried to hold herself rigid, but Simon started kissing her neck, using his blood teeth to take little nips at her skin that made her shiver uncontrollably.
"Does it feel good?"
Meghann refused to answer and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling large, fat tears roll down her cheeks, tears of frustration and self-reproach. What was the matter with her? Why couldn't her body be cold and unresponsive when he touched her?
"Frigidity and self-denial are not in your nature, little vixen. Now, why not end this ridiculous farce and admit you desire me just as I want you?"
"No," she countered, and Simon shoved her beneath him, continuing to caress her.
"Say you love me, Meghann," Simon ordered, his clever fingers bringing her to the edge of climax and then withdrawing, leaving her aching and unfulfilled.
Meghann's lips trembled to keep from speaking, but after Simon began to toy with her again, she couldn't keep from sobbing out, "I love you!"
Simon made her see his vulpine grin and then he took her, slowly and lovingly. He made her scream in ecstasy, made her spread her legs and beg for more. The spell of lust and desire he weaved over her body pushed hate and fear to the most remote corners of her mind, and to Meghann's complete shame, there was no part of her not completely open to him and the pleasure he gave her.
When he was done, Meghann understood that he'd gotten her to sacrifice her last bit of pride. With dawning horror, she was beginning to understand his words of the night before—he could force love from her, or at least lust.
"Still feeling rebellious? What a challenge you are." Simon's words held no anger—he continued to pet and stroke her the way he always did after they made love.
"Much better than that riffraff you picked up, hmmm?"
What a vain, insufferable… It wasn't enough to make her want him—now she had to compliment him. "At least he wasn't after my soul."
"Then he was an imbecile." Simon gave her an emerald-colored dressing gown. "Come upstairs. I have a marvelous entertainment planned for this evening."
When they got to the living room, Trevor took in Meghann's injuries and smirked. She stopped dead, and Simon turned around. "What is it?"
"Maybe I am stuck here, but I'll be damned if I have to put up with that scum"—she pointed at Trevor—"leering at me."
"Apologize," Simon ordered Trevor.
"Master, I have done nothing wrong," Trevor said haughtily.
"You are forgetting your place," Simon told him in a cutting, whiplash tone that made the servant blanch. "You are also forgetting that you are eminently replaceable. Now, you have offended my consort. Beg her forgiveness."
Trevor started mumbling something, but at a sharp look from Simon, he dropped to his knees and said clearly, "I beg your pardon, Mistress."
Meghann wasn't interested—maybe Simon got some twisted pleasure from making people abase themselves, but she didn't. She glanced around the empty living room. "Where is your entertainment, Master?"
"Late. People are so unreliable." Simon gave her a pointed glance. "They make promises and then attempt to worm out of them."
Meghann ignored that, curling up into the sofa. She put her head on her knees—feeling the familiar depression take over.
The doorbell rang, and Meghann raised her head.
What did the archfiend have in mind for the evening? Some soul-crushing tragedy, no doubt.
Trevor admitted a woman, dragging along a small child.
It was impossible to determine the woman's age. She could have been thirty or fifty. She had badly peroxided blond hair, with dull black roots showing through. Her mascara stuck to her eyelids in thick clumps, her foundation was at least two inches thick, and her mouth was an imperfectly drawn scarlet slash. She wore a black dress too tight over an emaciated frame. Track marks marred the length of her arms—a junkie.
The boy seemed to be about five. Like the woman Meghann assumed was his mother, he was too thin. His face was dirty; his hair was an oily, unbrushed tangle. The cheap slacks and T-shirt he had on were badly wrinkled. He was very quiet, and Meghann knew why when she saw his enlarged pupils—he had been drugged.
The woman gave Simon a brief glance of acknowledgment, then took in the bruises on Meghann's arms. "If you want to slap me around, that's two hundred extra," she mumbled at Simon, swaying slightly.
Meghann got up, drawn to the pathetic little boy. She said, "Hi, sweetie," and extended her hand, but the woman snatched him away. Meghann thought it a protective gesture until the wicked bitch spoke.
"I told you," she snapped at Simon, "any action with the kid is five hundred—no less."
Meghann was sickened. "Action?" She looked at the whore's flat, expressionless eyes. "How can you sell your flesh and blood?" The depression fell; she was enraged at the thought of what this sweet child must have been through. She grabbed the prostitute and cracked her hard across the face. "You evil cunt! I hope you burn in hell! How can you let people—"
Simon laughed softly and pulled Meghann off the apathetic woman. "Now, now, little one, you cannot hit our guest. I have not paid her yet." Meghann wrenched the little boy from his mother's greedy grasp. They retreated to the fireplace.
Simon removed ten $100 bills from his wallet and held them high above his head. The prostitute lost her apathetic expression; she was fixed on the money like a starving dog seeing a huge bone. She made a lunge for the cash, and Simon let it drop to the floor. Without any dignity, the woman scampered about, picking up the bills.
When she had the money secured in her garter belt, she asked Simon, "What's the deal? I do a show with your wife while you play with the kid?"
Meghann clutched the child to her. Simon could put her back on the roof—there was no way she was letting anything degrading happen to this boy again.
Simon saw the anxiety and fierce protectiveness on Meghann's face. "Now, little one," he chided, "when have you known me to seek out men or children for my pleasure?" He grabbed the whore and spun her around so she was facing Meghann.
"You had it wrong, harlot. You and I are the 'show'—for the edification of my young consort. She seems to believe I bear sole responsibility for all the evil in this world. Simply because I snuff out a few worthless lives." Simon grinned over the prostitute's head at Meghann. "Isn't that right, sweet? You have that sentimental, overly romantic view that mortals are good, that they don't deserve to be slain."
Meghann glared. What was he up to now? "I can't stand killing anymore. It's tearing me apart."
"Killing is doing nothing of the sort. It's your overactive Catholic conscience that is destroying what should be pure pleasure for you. As it is for me." Simon raked his short but sharp nails across the hooker's face. Instantly three bloody scratches appeared.
The woman yelped at the stinging pain and protested. "Not on the face, mister."
"But you have no need of an unmarked face where you're going."
The drug stupor drained from the prostitute's expression as she became aware of the danger she was in. She pleaded with Meghann. "Lady, you've gotta help me. I'm a mother."
Meghann rushed over and raked her own nails over Simon's light scratches. The woman screamed as Meghann clawed her. "You rotten, vile bitch! You would have let him violate that baby, and now you dare use your motherhood to get out of what you justly deserve!" She backhanded her. "I hope he makes you suffer."
Simon laughed that low, chilling laugh. "The pity of it is how sincere you are, Meghann. But we'll attend to that momentarily." He turned the hooker around so she had to stare at his piercing, evil eyes. "First I have a sentence to carry out." He tore into her neck, pulling back for a moment in distaste at the heavily drugged blood flow. Then he bent down again.
Meghann watched; at first, she was disgusted, but then blood lust started taking over. She needed blood so badly; she still hadn't fully recovered from the torture of the sun. Simon extended his hand, and she rushed over, past caring about right or wrong.
But Simon used his hand to keep her at arm's length while he finished the woman off. Meghann was fighting tooth and nail, desperate for blood. "Please," she begged, despising herself. "I need it. Please, Master!"
Simon raised his head from the corpse and easily caught the hand Meghann tried to slap him with. He pulled her close. "But I thought it was wrong to kill people."
Meghann was so starved her blood teeth were out. She even made a frenzied grab at Simon's wrist, but he held her back by her hair. "If you need blood, take him." He let go of her and indicated the boy.
The shock of his suggestion cut through the blood lust like a slap across the face. It was the worst thing he'd ever suggested.
"No," she gasped, horror-struck.
"Why not?"
"He's a little boy," she cried out, "a baby. He doesn't deserve—"
"Now, it's deserve, is it? Poor little girl. I'd bet all my possessions that you will not lose one moment's rest over this bit of trash." He kicked the dead prostitute. "But if I touch the child, you'll probably do your best to kill me. Who are you to decide which mortals 'deserve' death because they cannot live up to your exacting standards? Sweetheart, you glare at me like I'm some repulsive imp fresh from hell, but you don't even realize that you are breaking one of the seven deadly sins. Pride, Meghann." Simon traced her jaw with one finger. "What kind of vanity and arrogance does it take to decide that you alone are worthy of deciding who deserves death and who should be spared? Do you think of yourself as a god to pass judgment on the human race? If you do, I applaud you. But somehow, I doubt that. You seem to suffer from the misguided belief that most people are good. You're wrong, child. People are not good—they are low, stupid, petty creatures."
Simon gave her that vile, arching grin that made her flesh crawl. "Even your sainted father had some skeletons in his closet. What if I told you that the man you have on such a pedestal once had a union delegate beaten to death when the man tried to organize your father's construction company during the depression?"
"No!" Meghann shouted. "You're a liar."
"Now, Meghann, don't be angry with your father. Why should his workers get a decent wage when your father wanted to buy his little girl pretty dresses and expensive toys? Little one, your upbringing was paid for with blood money." Meghann was shaking her head furiously. "Or perhaps you'd like to know about the prostitute your father patronized once a month—after he took you to Calvary?"
"Why are you saying these terrible things?"
"I was curious. Do those sordid revelations make your father 'deserve' death?"
Now Meghann saw the point of all this. Well, Simon Baldevar could go to hell—he wasn't boxing her in that easily.
She raised her head high, and spoke in a clear, calm voice. "You're saying that people are flawed… inherently, hopelessly flawed. That even someone I revered, like my father, was capable of doing terrible things." She indicated the young boy. "So why shouldn't we kill young children, or anyone we wish? After all, they're tainted with original sin, right? Maybe that's true, Simon. But I have no desire to pollute my own soul any further by committing atrocities. I will not kill anyone." Simon's eyes darkened. He grabbed Meghann, but she continued. "Yes, I hated that woman. But I wouldn't kill her. She should be in jail. And that's where my father should have gone if what you say is true. I am not going to kill anyone ever again, Simon. So bring all the trash in the world through here. What you do is wrong and I want no part of it."
Simon searched her eyes, and she saw his orbs narrow in frustration. She felt a small bit of triumph; he hadn't been able to make her do or think what he wanted.
In disgust, he dropped her and went over to the child. Even through the murder of his mother, the child hadn't perked up. What the hell had that bitch given him to keep him so still?
Simon took the child in his arms, and the boy started crying. Meghann thought he probably did what he'd done to Johnny Devlin—heal the boy just enough to allow in pain.
The boy's crying cut through her like a knife. How could Simon just look down at the boy's face with no emotion other than blood lust?
"A child's blood is a rich, delicious banquet of innocence and fright. Since you choose to deny yourself the indulgence, I will take it for myself."
"No!" She could not allow such an abomination. As Simon bent his head toward the screaming, terrified boy, Meghann glanced around the room in a frenzy. Was there anything she could use as a weapon? Then her eyes fell on the two floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass would wound Simon if she could make it blow into the living room…
In the same moment Meghann imagined the glass shattering, the windows exploded with such force she was thrown off her feet. Meghann fell against the fireplace as the glass flew into the living room—all toward Simon.
He had to drop the child to protect himself from the onslaught. Meghann grabbed the boy and shoved him behind her. Then she picked up the fireplace poker and held it out in front of her for protection.
Simon took his hands away from his face and Meghann cried out in terror. There were rivers of blood dripping down his bone-white face. His gold eyes stood out against the blood, glowing with insane hatred.
"What have you done to me?" he snarled at Meghann. He lunged toward her, but a shard of glass on the floor made him trip. He flew toward Meghann, and in a reflex action, she thrust the poker up… into his chest.
He screamed and collapsed on top of her. His body weight forced the poker deeper into his heart.
Meghann crawled out from under him. Simon was still and drained of color; the cuts on his face stood out in harsh relief from his pallor. Was he dead? She prodded him cautiously, jumping back when his eyes opened. They were full of pain—the only time she had ever seen him hurt.
Simon was panting and trying to raise his hands. He started saying something, but it was too low for her to understand. After watching him flounder like a dying fish for a few minutes, Meghann decided he was too wounded to hurt her. She pressed her ear to his lips.
"Get… it… out," he croaked.
"You can't take it out?" Then she remembered what he told her the night he made her kill Johnny Devlin: a stake through the heart would kill a vampire, but it took hours. Meghann wasn't going to sit around waiting for him to die. But how could she make sure he was dead? Burn him? She dismissed that idea. This was New York City—there was nowhere for her to light a funeral pyre without attracting notice. But she had a better idea—one Simon had given her.
She looked into her master's pain-racked but still arrogant gaze. She tried her best to match the malicious grin she'd seen on his face a thousand times. "Do you read the Bible, my dying worthless master? Are you familiar with 'An eye for an eye'?"
She turned her back on him and screeched, "Trevor!"
The servant entered the room, plainly not wanting to but unable to resist the command.
"Sweet Jesus," he intoned when he saw Simon on the floor, "you killed him!"
"Well, I'm trying to." She walked over to the man she loathed and forced herself to stroke his arm. "Trevor?" she purred. "I know we don't like each other, but can we make a deal?"
Trevor peeled his eyes away from his ailing master. "What kind of deal?"
"I'll double Lord Baldevar's retirement bonus to you if you help me get him on the rooftop. Two million dollars—payable tonight." Her businesslike demeanor couldn't mask the cold triumph in her eyes.
Trevor had no idea how she'd managed to gain the upper hand from Simon, but the master was obviously dying. He couldn't move and his eyes were becoming unfocused. "How do I know you'll pay me?"
"You don't," she said calmly, "but you're in no position to argue with me. Help me and I'll reward you. Argue, or try to help that bastard, and I'll put you on the roof next to Simon with your own hook through your chest. It takes hours to die from being impaled, Trevor. Agonizing, excruciating hours." She didn't know how much Trevor knew about vampires, or that she was drained of strength because of last night—she couldn't drag
Simon up there by herself.
Her bluff worked because he went over to Simon and grabbed both arms. Trevor tried not to shake; he had never touched the master before. When he grabbed him, Simon focused his eyes long enough to make Trevor feel icy fingers grabbing his heart.
"Could you… er, grab his legs?"
Meghann worried briefly about leaving the child alone, but he seemed to have become numb again. He had stopped crying when the windows blew out. Now he was lying on the floor with his thumb in his mouth.
When she and Trevor got Simon to the center of the roof, Trevor dropped his burden. "When do I get my reward?"
"Why, I don't know." She yanked him close and bent toward his neck. "God will have to decide on your final reward after a lifetime of service to an evil scoundrel."
"No!" he yelled when he saw those sharp fangs descending. "You promised—"
"Never trust a vampire—particularly one who despises you." This was self-defense, Meghann told herself. She needed to regain her strength, and if she let Trevor live, she was sure he'd try to double-cross her.
The blood healed her. However, she got little pleasure from Trevor's sour taste. Her bruises faded and her strength returned. She should have felt more triumph at Simon's death, but she was still in shock at the dizzying turn of events.
A strong hand grasped her ankle, and the world went black. Through the void, she heard a voice order her, Meghann, take it out.
In a trance, she had her hands on the poker before she realized what she was doing. Then she backed away in terror. How much strength did Simon still have that he nearly got her to do something that would result in her own death?
She stumbled to the door of the roof. She had to get away from here, fight the voice that was trying to take over her consciousness again.
With much fumbling, she managed to throw on jeans and a flannel blouse. She yanked a suitcase from her dressing room and hastily threw in some underwear and clothing. She didn't want much, none of the jewels or furs. Just enough…
