“But how? Julius is… what he is. As you say, he goes on.”
“All things end,” she said once more. “When they seem not to, the trick is to find the sacrifice. And”—her smile began to broaden—“the heart to love enough to look for it.”
She died two months later, when winter seemed its coldest, its wettest. She died with us at her side, not so far gone that she didn’t know we were there, although I wasn’t fooled. Francesca died alone, just the same. But she died well, her eyes open to the final minute, with spirit enough to extend either an open hand or a clenched fist to whatever met her beyond life’s lacy black veil, depending on whether she liked it or not.
I hoped to meet her again someday, when my turn came. But not too soon.
“No Francesca,” said Julius, the day after she was buried. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen that was nothing like the one she’d kept, filled now with dirty utensils and strong whiffs of food past its prime. “I’d forgotten what that was like. There was always a Francesca.”
“Always?”
His back to me, his short ponytail tangled upon one shoulder, Julius nodded. “As good as always.” When he turned in the doorway, I saw that he was crying, slow tears rolling down cheeks that had never seemed sharper. “I never told her foremothers to pass that name down through the generations. They just did it. All on their own. I think it must have been a kindness to me, so that when one died, or grew too ill to continue working, it would be all the easier to welcome the next. I’d always know whom to expect.”
“Is that such a good thing?”
Julius bit his lip before shrugging his slumped shoulders. “I don’t know anymore. Francescas come and Francescas go. I could know their name a hundred years before they got here; that, and one other thing: that someday they would die. I always knew to expect that much… and still, I was never ready when it happened.”
We lived in silence for the rest of the day, except for those lone moments when the winter wind blew especially hard, shifting course for a time, coming from the brittle gardens and the crypt beyond. On the wind seemed carried the songs of ages past, sung by dead throats, and we would look at each other, Julius and I, as if daring the other not to hear it.
And I knew that those things we find most beautiful are made so by the brief span of their lives.
He had me sing for him that night, as most nights. Not so different from my very first night here, only now I did not retire to my own room once the song’s last breath was loosed. Julius lay down first, the lights off throughout the villa, the room bathed in a soft glow of candles on which our bed seemed to float like a raft.
I climbed onto the bed, knelt just behind him, the top of his head barely aligned between my parted knees. We had grown to favor the lullabies this way, because I could look down and see the full effect my voice was having on his body, and Julius could, in turn, gaze up to see me rising above him, like an angel, or a gargoyle.
I kept my fists closed, as I had for the past few minutes. And had I known when Francesca died that I would be singing Julius his final lullaby in a few nights? I must have. I only now wish I had sung one to her as she lay dying, something to carry with her into that blackest night.
I would not let her down now, for she too had loved Julius, as if the mother of an ancient son, a son handed down through generations of mothers.
A son she had finally entrusted to his lover.
“Make it beautiful,” Julius whispered from below me, gray eyes sad and trusting in the candles’ glow. “And make it mourn the lost.”
“Yes,” I whispered, and emptied my right hand long enough to stroke the silken blond hair away from his forehead. The back of my hand caught a tear as it fell—but then why not mourn for myself? We would both be making sacrifices this night.
Then I sang, sang as I never before had, every note balanced on the edge of heartbreak. Long, slow, sustained notes of infinite sadness, Cherubini’s Requiem in C Minor. It was music to mourn the passing of anything, everything, from a friend to an age. All things end, for all things must, the beautiful most of all.
And when the requiem was finished, I opened my hands, gripped their contents with trembling fingers. I bowed my head, deeply, so that I could kiss Julius on unsuspecting lips.
“I love you,” I told him, so that he might, in years to come, think of it as the last thing he heard.
And then I plunged the nails into his ears, one through each eardrum, weeping but secure in the knowledge it was the only way. He screamed, he convulsed, but I held tight to those steel shafts, worked them like swabs, so that there could be nothing left of any membrane to grow back together. Only when I felt that deafness was assured, permanent, did I pull them free, hurling them across the room. Only I could hear the chime they made against the wall.
Julius was doubled in agony, his body perfect in the yellow-orange glow, and I looked, looked enough to last me a lifetime; I would never again see him any younger than he was this night. When would it begin, his descent into years that could never be turned back? When would I look upon him and see age needling its lines into his flesh, like scrimshaw carved into fine old ivory?
I did not know. But I would be there.
I fell beside him, my hand upon his hard shoulder while I spilled apologies he could never hear, and he pushed me away. I retreated to the edge of that vast bed, curled onto my side—and was Francesca watching from somewhere, proud?
After a time, Julius draped himself over my bare back; I felt the slow drip of his blood along my spine. Soon, our breathing fell into sync, and I looked to the years ahead with a fear that he might come to hate me, if he didn’t already. I imagined Julius strangling me in my sleep, as even now his hand reached over and around me, fingers lingering upon my lips before loosely clenching over my throat. But he bore no harder, as if all he wanted was to hold on to the one dear thing he would forever be denied. I knew the feeling.
I had lost my audience of one.
But if I could not be heard, there was always love to fall back on, and tonight, at least, love seemed surer by far.
* * *
Love Me Forever
by Mike Baker
“Oh baby, you’re the best, the absolute best,” the man moaned as the woman who lay atop him traced tiny circles on his chest with her tongue.
“Uh-huh,” she said distractedly. Ceasing her licking, she nibbled playfully on the man’s nipple.
“Really, baby, I mean it. I’ve never been with anyone like you before.” The woman’s tongue was in motion again, moving down the man’s chest to his stomach, where it darted in and out of his navel. The pleasure was so great that he found it difficult to think, much less talk.
“Really?” the woman asked, the barest hint of mockery evident in her voice.
“Yeah, you’re… oh, that feels great… you’re one of a kind, baby.”
The woman raised her head and made eye contact. Her violet eyes twinkled. “I know,” she purred.
Then she lowered her head and did things to the man which no one had ever done before.
Deep in the heart of the city, in an area most people avoided at all costs, three college students flashed their IDs, paid the overpriced cover charge, and entered Inferno, the city’s newest and hippest nightclub.
Mark, the tallest of the trio—a huge, strapping young man who looked every inch the football star that he was—was the first to speak after they entered. “Chet, you bastard, why didn’t you tell me about this place sooner,” he said as they shoved their way through the wall-to-wall mass of milling, babbling, trendier-than-thou flesh. “It’s great.”
“I told you, I only found it myself last week,” Chet, who was almost as tall as Mark, but much leaner, replied.
“That’s no excuse.”
“Shut up, Mark.” Chet turned to the model-handsome young man who stood to his left. “Hey, Peter,” he said. “What do you think of this place? Is it cool, or what?”
“Never before have m
y eyes beheld such a vast array of delectable beauties, dear friend Chet.”
Mark’s face twisted up in a grimace of disgust. “Peter,” he grumbled.
“Yes, Mark?”
“Talk like a normal person.”
Peter flashed a gleaming white, perfect-toothed smile. “Never.”
She waded through the sea of blackness, approaching the neon-stained concrete shore. Nearby, a fair-sized crowd milled about the entrance to the nightclub, waiting to be judged fit to enter.
Standing in the shadows, she studied the people in line, observing how they laughed and chatted with each other, pretending that they were having a good time while their feet grew sore and their bodies froze in the chill night air.
The disgust she felt toward the clubgoers gnawed at her. She loathed their dullness and their pretty dreams. Merely being near them made her skin crawl. It was beneath one of her kind, but she had to do it in order to survive; without human contact, she would surely die.
Stepping out of the shadows, she scanned the crowd, searching for just the right person. Noticing her gaze, and her beauty, men smiled and winked while women scowled and muttered disparaging comments to each other.
Not finding what she desired outside, she cut to the front of line, paid the doorman with a smile, and entered Inferno.
“Hey, dude,” Mark said to Chet. He and his buddy had positioned themselves in a corner of the club which offered a prime view of the dance floor.
“There’s no one here by that name, Mark.”
“Sorry,” Mark said, not sounding like he meant it. “Hey, Chet.”
“That’s much better. Yes, Mark?”
“Check out the dweeb.”
“I see quite a few, Mark.”
“There. The one dancing by himself.” Possessing limited social graces, Mark raised his arm and pointed. “He’s next to the fat chick with the bad dye job. See him?”
Chet scanned the crowd, spotted the person in question. “Yep,” he replied, snickering condescendingly. “Looks like he’s on ‘ludes or something.”
“No shit. If it weren’t packed so tight out there, he’d probably pitch over on his face.”
“No doubt,” Chet said, nodding his head. “He’s such a fashion plate.”
“Yeah, those pants clash really well with that shirt.”
“I wish I could dress like that.”
“You do.”
“Look who’s talking here,” Chet shot back. “Mr. if-I-wear-my-underwear-for-three-days-I-won’t-have-to-do-laundry-as-often himself.”
Peter, carrying three bottles of beer, shoved his way through the throng by Chet’s side. “My dear friends,” he announced, extending bottles toward the arguing pair. “The beer is here.”
Mark snatched a bottle out of Peter’s hand. “What took you so long?”
“En route to the bar I was waylaid by an attractive young nymphet who seemed rather taken by, as she so eloquently put it, my rad looks.”
“Where is she?” Mark asked. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” Savoring the moment—there were few things he enjoyed more than stringing Mark along—Peter smiled, then took a swallow of his beer. “She still prowls, searching for prey.”
“What?” A look of confusion had crept onto Mark’s face. It was an expression which could often be found there. “You mean to tell me you dumped her?”
Nodding his head, Peter sipped his beer.
Mark was aghast. “Why?”
“Because, friend Mark, she had to wear lead shoes to keep from bouncing about on the ceiling.”
Chet chuckled. Mark looked even more confused. “What?” he asked.
“I think he’s trying to say that she was an airhead,” Chet offered. “Right, Peter?”
“Absolutely correct, friend Chet.”
“I don’t care if she’s dumb or not,” Mark said. “As long as she’s cute, and stacked, nothin’ else matters.” He drained the remainder of his beer in one swallow, then belched.
Peter grimaced at the display of crudeness, which was something he’d come to expect from Mark; his friend had a knack for making rude bodily noises, especially in crowded places. “She wasn’t your type,” he told Mark. “She was able to see her own feet.”
Anger flared in Mark’s eyes. “Are you saying that I like fat chicks?” he snarled. “Cuz if you are, you’re wrong. Just because I went out with Wanda—”
“A rather rotund girl, if you ask me,” Peter interjected. “I wasn’t asking you, pretty boy. And you leave Wanda alone.” Peter smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of touching her.” Face flushing red with fury, Mark tightened his grip on the empty bottle. “You know,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “If you weren’t my best friend’s roommate, I’d knock your teeth right down your throat.”
“Hey, kids,” Chet said, stepping between the two. “Check out what just walked in the door. Is that a babe, or what?”
The instant she entered the club, she knew she’d made a mistake. A warning buzzer went off in her head, an instinct that had saved her life many times before, that she trusted implicitly. She realized it had been a mistake not to change before coming here. Now she was stuck, since she couldn’t change in front of all these people.
Violet eyes scanned the room, taking in all the details. In one corner she spotted some prospects: two jock types and an extremely handsome boy with the fires of intelligence in his eyes. Each was young and strong; she could sense the power within them all the way across the club. Deep inside her, the need called. Becoming aroused, she licked her lips hungrily.
Hoping for a swift entrapment, she smiled at the trio. Over the years she’d learned that while the old were easier to attract, the young were much more satisfying; their minds were still full of hopes and dreams and their bodies filled with power and life. They weren’t yet broken and bowed, worn down by life.
That’s why she only visited college towns; they were so full of life.
On the dance floor, the young man with the clashing shirt and pants saw her. Weeping with joy, he stopped dancing and stared. “Baby,” he cried. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Hearing the sobbing man’s cry, she quickly glanced in his direction, then turned away. Fool, she thought, mentally kicking herself. You should have known that he’d return here hoping to find you again.
The young man shoved his way through the dancers toward her. “Baby, I need you,” he sobbed. “Don’t go.”
One of the displaced dancers grabbed the young man’s arm. “Watch it, geek,” he snarled. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going in such a hurry?”
“Let me go!” the young man cried, struggling to break free. “I need her!”
Sneering, the dancer punched the young man in the face, snapping his head to the side. Blood flowed from the young man’s nose.
“Please,” the young man pleaded through crimson-stained lips. “I have to get to her. I need her.”
“Fuck that.”
The dancer’s next blow struck the young man’s stomach. Clutching himself, he fell to his knees on the blood-spattered dance floor.
Emerging from where they’d been watching the incident with a great degree of amusement, a pair of burly bouncers headed for the dance floor.
Taking advantage of the confusion, she slipped out the door, diving back into the sea of blackness that is the night. Work before play, she thought as she effortlessly moved through the darkness. You have unfinished business to take care of.
On the dance floor, the young man began to scream, his cries the plaintive, desperate wail of a lost soul.
Around him, people looked away, not wanting to get involved.
Muscular arms lifted the young man off of the dance floor, pulling him toward the doorway. As he was dragged through the crowd, the young man ceased his cries, returning to sobbing quietly instead.
As he was tossed out onto the neon-stained concrete, harsh-sounding voices informed the young man that he was no longer welcome in Inf
erno.
The blood in the young man’s mouth tasted coppery. It made him feel ill, but he didn’t care; she was gone and that was all that mattered in his life.
Eyes blank, face bloody, the young man pulled himself to his feet and shambled off into the night. “Baby,” he muttered to himself. “Baby.”
A seductive voice floated out of the darkness of an alley and caressed the young man’s ear. “Yes, my love,” it said. “I’m here.”
The young man froze in his tracks. “Baby?”
“Yes, my love.”
The young man stepped into the alley, following the sound of her voice. And suddenly there she was, stepping out of the shadows, her hands behind her back.
“Baby, I need you,” the young man said. Reaching up, he ran his hands through her long black hair. His green eyes peered longingly into her violet ones. “I can’t live without you.”
“I know.” With the speed of a striking snake, she lashed out with the broken bottle she’d been holding behind her back, slashing the young man’s throat. The glass sliced through flesh, severing his jugular vein. “I know.”
The young man clutched his throat, trying in vain to hold back the fountain of blood which was spraying from it. Weakened by blood loss, he fell.
She watched, devoid of emotion, as the young man bled to death by her feet. Until he died, his expression had remained constant: confused, hurt, but loving nonetheless.
The young man’s death meant nothing to her; she’d taken all she’d needed from him already. He existed merely to satisfy her needs and, having done that, his life had been forfeit. By killing him she’d done him a favor; now he no longer had to endure the soul-numbing agony of his boring existence.
Having no fear of being traced by her fingerprints, she dropped the broken bottle beside the body. Then, changing as she moved, she headed back toward Inferno.
After all, the night was still young, and she had a trio of young gentlemen to meet.
“You know, when I first saw you at the club, I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Just like Michelle Pfeiffer, only sexier.”
Love in Vein Page 28
