Dance with Me, My Lovely

by Jaye Roycraft

Perhaps someday a daughter would even be born, and Rosa's legacy would live on. Another urban shaman would call the small lakeshore community of Highland Estates home.

  But more importantly, a man would come into her life and give her the physical pleasures that had always been missing from her spiritually-driven existence. A man would see the real her—not just the shaman, and not just the woman with the quiet exterior, but the passionate being she knew was at the core of her soul.

  Blind faith. She'd just have to have it.

  Chapter Four

  Garran was bored. He stood in the corner of the dance studio with his legs crossed at the ankles, his arms folded across his chest, and stared at the old movie posters on the wall. The posters were supposed to rotate with the Saturday night party theme, but more often they came and went on the whims of the studio director. It didn't matter. Garran had seen them all a hundred times over. Tonight the smiling faces of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dressed to the nines in Swing Time had nabbed center space on the wall.

  Upbeat music was playing, but not much was moving tonight except the wind and snow that swirled and billowed outside the front windows like Ginger's flouncy skirts. The temperature had dropped, and the cold November storm had kept all but a few regulars at home. Most who had arrived at eight had already left.

  Garran glanced at the wall clock and sighed. Eleven. He was in a funk to match the weather and didn't feel like dancing. Still, it was better than brooding at home, and Moves On Tap offered less temptation—and in his present state that meant less trouble—than the Pony Express. Bored as he was, the night would only go downhill after the party ended at midnight. The diehards still swinging to the music would go home and go to bed, but he had long night hours to fill with no company but his own, which was poor indeed lately.

  The classic In the Mood finished playing, and one of the patrons made a beeline for his corner. Mrs. Lipshiltz was a sixties-something widow, but one of his favorite students. She was as vigorous as someone half her age, and her mind, as well as her tongue, were sharper than most, young or old. She had aged well, and one thing he admired was the ability to master the passage of time.

  "Having a good time, Mrs. L?"

  The stiff-as-a-board beauty salon hair bobbed. “I certainly am. The schmucks have all gone home, and I have the dance floor to myself, but then I see my favorite instructor sulking in the corner. What's the matter, Gorgeous, not well? I've got a tonic at home that'll put the starch back in your linen."

  He smiled. He always called her “Mrs. L,” and she always called him “Gorgeous.” He used the name Lucius Santangelo only when he danced at the Pony Express on Friday nights. The rest of the time he went by Garran Lux, his real name, though “Garran” never slid easily from Mrs. L's otherwise able tongue. “I don't get sick, Mrs. L."

  "Hmm.” She looked him up and down with the practiced eye he imagined had yeahed or nayed countless potential son-in-laws. “My Martin should have been so healthy, God Rest His Soul. So maybe something's got you a little sad tonight, Gorgeous?"

  He swore the old lady could see right through him, and sometimes it spooked him. “You've got chutzpah, Mrs. L, you know that?” he asked, using a word he'd heard slide from her lips many a time.

  "And why not? Life's too short. So that's the problem? Something's got you a little down?"

  She was some lady. If he'd met her forty years ago, he'd have wasted no time in getting into her panties. It wasn't hard to imagine her as a curvy beauty with big brown eyes, flaming hair, and curves that would make any man dizzy to try to negotiate them. But it was her sass and frankness that won him over. Women like her were harder and harder to find these days. Political correctness made everyone think twice before opening their mouths, and too many people sidestepped their way through life, afraid to offend. Not Mrs. L.

  He smiled again, not his all-teeth crowd smile, but the one he reserved for special people. Like the redhead at the show last night.

  "Maybe."

  The redhead had been special. Maybe it was just her unusual coloring, but she'd had a natural beauty and an inner fire that he'd felt in spite of her reserved dress and demeanor. More than that, she was a sensitive—a medium, perhaps, or a clairvoyant. He'd felt her mind touch his on a plane most mortals couldn't reach. She had a power she'd most likely been born with. His, on the other hand, had been dumped on him by fate. He supposed there was a chance she wasn't aware of her power, but most likely she was. Her touch had been too deliberate, too practiced. He warmed to the idea of challenging a woman like that, but just as quickly doused the idea.

  It was too bad, for the very idea of bedding her and unlocking all her secrets was enough to make him hard. Because she was a sensitive, though, there was too much of a chance she'd see him for what he really was. On a spiritual plane, between equals, there were no fancy masks to hide behind. She'd see the reality of his physical self and every dark, lustful, predatory thought that ran through his head.

  Still, he could fantasize. What else could he do on a snowy night with no company but Fred, Ginger, and Mrs. Lipshiltz?

  What if the danger of such an encounter could be nullified and turned to work to his advantage? Her mind and will were powerful, but so were his, and he was not unfamiliar with the spiritual plane. To overcome her will on her own playing field would be the ultimate conquest. To have all that plus the redhead's body...

  Maybe his shy little sensitive was a virgin. If so, she'd be incredibly tight, and he imagined how it would feel to be the first man to pierce her cherry and feel that sweet, untried flesh squeeze him. She'd constrict around him, but he'd ram her again and again, uncoiling her tension and unleashing her first orgasm. Juice mixed with blood would wash over him, cleansing him, but that would be just the first step.

  The second would be to pierce her quivering skin with his fangs and take sustenance from her pure, hot blood. Finally, he'd cleave her mind, laying bare all the secrets of her extraordinary mind—her every past, present and future desire. Three encounters and three surrenders. It was the vampire triumvirate he'd never before experienced—maidenhead, blood, and psyche. She'd give to him everything a mortal could give a creature like him, and she'd be happy to do it. She'd want to do it.

  He felt lightheaded at the thought, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to his cock. Like an anchor, it was hard and heavy and kept him from wanting to move to the music.

  "You should take care of that, Gorgeous."

  The image of smoldering hair and redder blood dissolved, and he saw Mrs. Lipshiltz's Honey Maple bouffant and Tropical Sunset lipstick instead. “What?"

  "Oy, just like my Martin, never listening. I said, if you have a problem, Gorgeous, you should take care of it. Life's too short."

  He felt his smile and cock both deflate as her verbal dart hit home. The redhead wasn't his. She'd never be his. At the rate he was going, he couldn't even properly fuck a strip-club groupie.

  Life was too short, indeed. Even his. He suddenly knew what he had to do later tonight. “You know what, Mrs. L? You're absolutely right.” The music started up again. “Come on, dance this one with me."

  It was the swing classic Hoodoo Voodoo Doll. One of his favorites.

  * * * *

  I need help from a mortal. He sat in his favorite leather armchair wearing his favorite silk pajama bottoms and favorite velvet robe, but even with all the lavish comfort he could muster, the thought still hit a sour note. He survived by using mortals. Soliciting help from humans wasn't part of the survival manual and never had been. Until tonight. Mrs. Lipshiltz was right. He needed help. His problem was now beyond his ability to solve alone, and he knew very few of his own kind. Those he knew he neither liked nor trusted, and the imprudent vampire who had created him had died the true death long ago.

  Garran stared at the open phone book on the table before him and thought about the kind of help he needed.

  Ignorant mortals over the centuries had written that vampires had no souls. He
turned his mouth down at the foolish notion. It had always amused him to think how wrong humans were about his kind. Upon becoming one of the undead, he had gained, not lost. He still retained his human form, all his human memories, and the ability to mimic mortal behavior.

  But with the birth of the vampire had come a second spirit that was strong, selfish, and reckless. Sometimes he referred to his vampiric spirit as his “wolf,” but lately he'd come to think of it simply as his “beast.” He'd found a balance within himself over the years. It hadn't been easy, but in the end it had worked. The wolf gave him the strength to survive and the will to do what needed to be done, but the half that remembered what it had been like to be human tempered the destructive urges. Lately, though, it was clear the beast was becoming uncontrollable. If he started killing his prey, as was done so wantonly by his kind in the past, he'd have to give up the peaceful life he'd worked so many years to build—his mansion, his dancing, and, more importantly, the one thing he loved best. Women.

  He stared at the phone book again. He truly hated asking for help. Especially from a mortal. It went against everything he was as a man. It certainly went against the vampire. It just wasn't done. Yet what else could he do?

  He rose and paced the room, throwing fitful glances at the phone book like it was some kind of pretty lure hiding a nasty hook. It occurred to him that he should just accept what he was and not try to change. Fate had molded his destiny long ago, and for a misbegotten creature that history had damned for centuries, he'd led a good existence.

  True, he'd had a hard life as a mortal. His father had hated him, blaming him for whatever misfortune plagued the family, and his stepmother had never taken his side against his father. He'd fled home life at an early age, but only for the transit tunnels, and the brief mind-numbing hours in the taverns after work had been his only escape from the backbreaking work.

  But as one of the undead, he'd never lacked for creature comforts. He'd always had wealth and the ability to find work doing what he loved best—to dance. He had the good looks he'd been born with, the strong, lean body that working in the tunnels had forged, and the immortality to preserve both those lucky accidents. He'd had more carnal pleasure than any man deserved.

  What was there to change?

  He increased the speed of his pacing, like a tiger in a cage, and he realized something had been missing from both his mortal and immortal years. Acceptance. It was a small thing compared to wealth and comfort.

  He stopped, picked up the phone book, and hurled it at the wall. A framed picture bounced off its hook and crashed to the floor. Small things should be achievable. Small things were child's play for his kind. He picked up the picture and flung it clear across the room. Did he not have physical and mental powers far beyond those of mortal man? Acceptance. Love. Children had it. The young, poor, and weak had it. He wanted it. Before he imploded in a fury of self destruction, he wanted it. He needed to survive long enough to find it.

  He stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard, thankful that, for the moment, the instinct to survive was stronger than his pride. So he pushed up his sleeves, smoothed the long hair away from his face, and drew a deep breath.

  But where to begin? Admitting he needed help was one thing. Knowing where to find it was something else. He picked up the phone book and dropped it onto his desk. Who could he call? Churches were definitely out. He'd never felt comfortable near one. A doctor, then? A vision of syringes stabbed at his mind. No human medication would work on him, even if his body could tolerate drugs. He thought about a psychiatrist, certain that Mrs. L could recommend a few, but the image of electric shock treatment popped unbidden into his head and made him shudder.

  The wind howled, the window creaked, and a draft of cold air ruffled the pages of the book, turning a few. He looked down at the heading in the center of the new page. “Alternative Medicine.” Could it be that a higher power was guiding him? He laughed at the thought. It had been the wind, nothing more. He peered more closely at the ads under the heading. Acupuncture. Aromatherapy. He wrinkled his nose. Homeopathy. Magnets. He scrunched his face. Magnets?

  He was about to slam the book shut when a small ad at the bottom of the page caught his eye. Catelyn Greenbush, Ph.D., Shamanic Practitioner, Spiritual Healing, Soul Retrieval. The address was on the other side of Highland Estates, a mere thirty minutes away. Perfect. The rest was brief. Evening Appointments Only. Even more perfect.

  He tried to picture the doctor in his mind. She'd eat organic foods, wouldn't drink or smoke, and would be a proponent of living green. An image formed in his mind of a slender woman in her fifties with long gray hair tied in a loose ponytail, wrinkles, and an aversion to makeup and fashion. Well, that was fine. The last thing he needed was the temptation of another hot woman. He'd use her to restore his spirit, he'd make sure his secret was safe, and then he'd find that one small thing that had eluded him his whole life.

  He looked outside the window at the wind and snow. They'd mirrored his mood tonight, almost as though he'd controlled them. Moments ago they'd blown and swirled in rage, and now they danced gently outside the window. He smiled, and in the reflection on the glass saw a toothy, feral grin. Even the beast was happy.

  The beast would get him what he wanted, no matter what it took.

  Chapter Five

  Cate looked at the wall clock in her home office. Almost time for her seven o'clock appointment. She fiddled with the buttons on her sweater dress. Not only was he a new customer, but he'd found her in the phone book of all places. The vast majority of her referrals came by word of mouth. The kind of client who searched for healing the same way they looked for delivery pizza or a plumber was usually the kind who had no idea what she really did. Still, she'd always balked at the idea of non-renewing her ad. She didn't like to hold ignorance against people, and she'd always been afraid that if she cancelled the ad, there would be the one truly desperate person out there who needed her help and couldn't find her.

  So refusing the man who had called a scant two hours ago asking for an emergency appointment had never crossed her mind. Besides, there'd been an edge to his otherwise smooth voice that made her think that the urgency of his request was well justified. She closed her eyes and tried to recreate the sound of his words in her mind. Maybe the inflection was natural. He'd trilled the r's in his name. Garran. A Scottish burr, perhaps?

  She started at the chime of the doorbell and realized her palms had smoothed the front of her sweater, only to end up pressed against the soft wool covering her breasts. She felt the hardness of her nipples through two layers of cloth. Oh, God. When a client's sexy voice was all it took to arouse her, she knew her obsession with men was getting out of control. She quickly dropped her hands and peered down to make sure the offending nubs weren't visible through the smooth knit of her dress. They were. She should have worn a blouse and jacket, but it was too late to change now.

  She felt a sudden flush burn her cheeks and quickly checked her reflection in the small wall mirror beside the door. The tendency to blush at every sultry male look and prurient thought was becoming a habit, but thank goodness for Granny Rosa's legacy of rich skin-tone. No embarrassing pink splotches highlighted her cheeks. The nipples ... well, she'd have to be creative. Maybe she could tent her arms beneath her chin in a thoughtful pose. That would cover up her chest.

  She drew a deep breath and glanced at the clock again. Exactly seven. A great voice, and he's prompt, she thought as she swung open the door.

  There, standing on her stoop, was the flesh-and-blood embodiment of her big dream.

  She didn't know how it had happened, but he was here, wearing a black leather trench coat and looking wet and wonderful. Giant gobs of wet snow gleamed on black leather and black hair and coalesced into beads of water that trickled down both his coat and skin. Her body instantly remembered not only the part of him covered by the coat, but how he'd made her feel in the dream when his penis had filled her so completely she thought she'd bu
rst. The memory and the sight of him now, dripping like a delicious dessert, conspired to make her juices flow, and she creamed her pants.

  Not knowing what to do or say, she stared at him, and her mind registered tiny details like the melted snowflakes glistening on lips that were parted in the same kind of wonder she was feeling.

  "You're the dancer. How did you ... what are you doing here?"

  "I'm the dancer. I'm also your seven o'clock appointment, Garran Lux."

  The same trill of the double-r as the man on the phone. But hadn't the dancer's name been Lucius something? “I don't understand. I saw you at the Pony Express.” Her body understood, and it didn't question the how or why. Let him in, it screamed, and her yoni throbbed harder, in case she didn't get the message. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, but all that did was make her acutely aware of her wet panties.

  "I saw you at the club, too. You were in the front row, wearing a brown sweater and a turquoise necklace."

  He remembered. Not only that, but he'd even noticed what she'd been wearing.

  She suddenly felt the cold November air pressing against the glass of the storm door, and she shivered. Such attention to detail could be construed as an obsessive trait. Had he stalked her from the club? The memory of the vision of the black-haired woman pleading for her help replaced the memory of her big dream, and she wondered if he followed women home from the club, only to rape and murder them. Indecision froze her.

  He shook his head. “But that's got nothing to do with this. I need your help."

  She stared at his eyes, and he stared at hers. Eye-fuck. Merri's word popped into her mind. He had the uncanny ability to strip her bare with a look, and he was doing it now. In spite of his plea for help, she felt that he was the one in charge. He could do whatever he wished to her, and she was defenseless against him. No, not simply defenseless. She had no desire to do anything but submit to him. It made no sense to her logical mind, but her body told her that regardless of his motives, she wanted him.