Darker Edge of Desire

by Mitzi Szereto

  “I was at the Jefferson farm.” I push the wrapped items toward him. “Eat something now.”

  “You should see if this helps!” He yanks his hands away and resumes his stirring, each rotation with the spoon causing another outburst. “It might.” He circles around once. “Help you.” He circles around again. “It might work!” In his excitement, he gets even sloppier.

  “All right. After you get something to eat.”

  He stares at me while holding the bowl in front of him. Seconds tick by, and when I don’t take the bowl from him but instead nod toward the pile on the table, he stops and looks at it, and when his mind processes what I’ve just said, he gradually stops speaking altogether. “They gave you food?” His eyes fix on what I brought, and his lips go slack for a while.

  After staring at the shirt tied around the food, he looks back at me and then wavers between my stoic face and the lump in front of him. Seconds tick by with him looking back and forth between my face and the pile in front of him until he reaches both hands out and snatches the parcel in a flash, going for the knots, ripping open the sleeves around the whole bundle.

  When he successfully unveils the ingredients of the load, he tosses the paper aside and reveals a glass jar filled with something red, a loaf of bread, apples, carrots, celery and beets. When he paws through everything, two small pieces of maple candy tumble out, and he very un-gracefully pops one into his mouth before he follows it with wolfing down item after item, chewing with his mouth open until he looks up at me and asks me to join him.

  “Did you eat already, Elizabeth? Here. Have something.” He doesn’t even wait for me to shake my head no before he tears the loaf of bread in half and devours one piece, swallowing as quickly as possible while tossing me the other half. He even opens the jar of jam and shoves his fingers inside the jar, scooping out the jam and licking it from his fingers, the jam dripping from his hand and beard.

  It feels good to see my father get something in his belly, and it feels satisfying to have something in mine as well. For the time being, I don’t feel like my gut is turning inside out. He may not be a gentleman, and I may not be a lady right now, but at least my father and I can think about something other than searching for a meal, and have a night where we can actually sleep. My father, not to be deterred, returns his attention to his strange soup.

  “Now drink this,” he says, his mouth dripping with jam as he holds the bowl in front of me again.

  I had hoped he had forgotten, but I made my father a deal, so I appease him by swallowing the entire contents of the bowl in one gulp. It’s warm and acidic and makes me wish for one of my mother’s homemade tasty treats.

  The following day I walk out the door and immediately shield my eyes with my hand as I squint and head toward the Jefferson farm again where I meet up with Samuel—who looks as good as ever. His rich brown eyes complement his wavy dark hair that, I’m grateful to see, hasn’t been covered with a wig or tied into a ponytail, but instead flows down to the top of his black waistcoat with a frilly shirt beneath it, and the sight ignites a small flame in my gut. I lower my eyes and share my gratitude for his generosity.

  “Thank you for yesterday. It was good to see my father eat.” I pause. “Well, that’s not completely true. His table manners were atrocious, but it was good to know his stomach was full so he could work more on his experiments.”

  “I’m glad.” His smile destroys any negativity I feel at the moment, and his dark eyes look liquid as he gazes at me, while his waistcoat twists when he turns to fuss over the vegetables, showing off his muscular forearms. I could only imagine what he would look like stripped of all his clothing. While gazing at him, I get the sudden urge to speak.

  “So, um…” He jerks his head toward me, and I feel the flush spreading in my cheeks as I inhale. “That’s it. Thank you.” I prepare to bolt.

  “Of course.” He smiles just enough to heat my insides. “I hope you come back when you need to.” If I weren’t afraid of being burned alive by the mob, I would invite him over before leaving. “And I hope you got some food as well.” I nod my head once as he passes me a broken bit of cheese, accidentally brushing his fingers against my hand, which sends a charge through my arm as I take off. Perhaps there’s more to him than what I had originally thought.

  As I go through my day, I notice a few things about my body that haven’t always been there. For one, my reaction time is quite a bit faster. And my eyes seem a little more sensitive to sunlight. After a bit, I notice my coughing looks to have disappeared as well. My imagination? Perhaps, but I don’t know.

  After several days, I see Samuel when I head into town. He walks on the same side of the street coming toward me, and the closer he gets the hotter I feel. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him: his eyes and smile, his arms, his body underneath his clothing as well as his true personality—and about what was going through his mind when he came to our door prepared to throw that rotting piece of fruit.

  My heart pounds as I do my best to avoid his gaze. The nearer he is to me the more nervous I become until he acknowledges me with a tilt of his hat and says, “Good day.” And then he stops himself midstride. “You are quite um, um…” I quicken my pace, preparing for him to finish his sentence. Tall? Pale? “…Beautiful,” he says with a soft voice as I pass by. Quickly turning my head behind me, I pause, speechless. He thinks I’m beautiful? We gaze into each other’s eyes as we stand in the street until we hear Mister Jefferson shout.

  “Samuel!”

  We break away suddenly, and I continue walking very slowly as he sprints away. Taking step after gradual step, I think about what he just said. Beautiful? My mother is the only one who has ever called me beautiful. This is the first day I have ever received such a compliment from someone other than her. It’s also the day I start hearing whispers whenever I come within range of other people in town.

  “She has the same sickness as her mother.”

  “Witchcraft…”

  “I saw her talking with Sam Jefferson…”

  Whenever I walk into town, someone says something about my father that is completely untrue, like he’s been drinking a potion made with bird feathers so he can fly or creating a pile of gold coins by mixing together dead animals and his own blood. And the things they say about me? Well, if I weren’t so worried about my father’s life and my own future, I would laugh at them all. It gets so I’m terrified of being around anyone though, including Samuel, especially Samuel: the man I fantasize about at night, who occupies my thoughts every day.

  One day, the sun shines brightly in the sky, and I see Samuel in town across the street as I shade my eyes with my hand while I walk toward the school. His three-cornered hat appears weathered, but his white linen shirt looks clean and fits perfectly over his broad shoulders as he moves, swinging his arms with each stride. Why he creates such a visceral response in me is confusing, and I run my index finger under my nose to wipe the sweat that has accumulated there as I march along.

  When I notice him occasionally looking up, I increase my speed and face the other way, hoping to avoid his glance, but he happens to look up just when I increase speed, and he runs across the street in his breeches that fit securely just below the knees and then makes huge strides toward me.

  The hint of a smirk and his wolfish leer merely darken his eyes, and just when he is within reach, he catches my arm and pulls me to him so that I cry out and stare wide-eyed into his eyes from an inch away. His touch makes my heart pound so loud I can hear it in my ears, and I can feel his breath on my face when he speaks to me.

  “Come with me,” he says as he yanks me toward his uncle’s farm, and as we stumble over the ground, I think that this is it: the last day I will ever see the sun shining in the sky. The end.

  As I try to pull away from his grasp, I shout for him to stop. “No! Don’t hurt me!” I try not to make a scene, muffling my voice as much as I can so others don’t hear, and I attempt to keep the panic out of my voice w
hen I ask, “Is it true? Are the things I hear true?” He gives me a confused look as he pulls me into the barn. “Is your family responsible for spreading the lies and the nonsense about my father being in league with the devil?” I scan the area for an exit. “Are you going to burn me alive?” He comes to a grinding halt and looks into my face, like I have just hit him across the jaw with a cast-iron skillet.

  “What?”

  My whole body feels numb, my lips tingle and my heart hammers in my chest. “Please. Please, don’t hurt me.” I shiver as I once again look for an exit.

  “Sh, sh, sh…” He holds my hand firmly and looks in my eyes while waiting for my panic to dissipate. “Elizabeth, my lady fair, calm down. My aunt and uncle might have old beliefs and strange ideas, and I feel embarrassed about falling prey to such ideas a couple weeks ago, but I have no intention of harming you. You have more chance of lighting me on fire because of your stormy eyes and milky-white skin. Really. Your beauty sets me aflame.” He holds me firmly to his chest, and I stop struggling to ponder what he’s just said. “It’s all right now. Sh…” He kisses each cheek while waiting for my eyes to meet his.

  Letting the information sink in, I try to relax as he embraces me, but the calm I feel from relief is short-lived as he presses his lips against mine and threads his fingers through my hair, cupping my head in his hands and kissing my neck, which leaves me completely breathless. Beautiful. He thinks I’m beautiful. My lips continue to quiver as he soothes me by stroking my hair and shushing me while he captures my arms and sets me away from him so I can continue to stare into his eyes. His smirk stops me for the time being.

  “All right?” he asks while I nod, which is really to convince myself the terror has disappeared while he runs a palm down my arm and grabs my hand, raising the back of it to his lips, giving it a little kiss and lingering for just a moment before dropping it but not letting go. Giving my hand a little tug then, he moves me forward while guiding me into a stall.

  “I…I…I…”

  “It’s all right, milady.” He stops and presses his mouth to the dip in my neck below my ear where my heart pulses, and every second he remains there makes my heart pound harder, my knees weaken, and my lower region tingle. Time seems to stand still. I swallow hard, looking into Samuel’s face when he raises it from my throat.

  “Do you—?”

  “Sh…” A tiny droplet has spilled from my eye, and he kisses it away and then pets my hair and kisses each temple with his wet lips. “It’s going to be all right.” As I give in to his gentle stroking, I nod, and he lightly nibbles my lower lip until I stop shaking. It takes some time.

  Then the arousal really begins. I am aware of his lips on my body and of his warm hands moving slowly down my head. His attention feels amazing, and my acceptance of it comes easily once I give myself permission to believe he actually finds me beautiful.

  The pace of my breathing changes as well as the beat of my heart for a different reason other than fear now, but I can’t seem to take a full breath. Every kiss sears my skin, and every kiss adds to the flame flickering in my gut. He presses his lips to my cheek and then presses light kisses down my throat to the top of my bosom rising above my corset and at risk of spilling from the top of my dress. And then when he gets to the soft fleshy hills, I pant even more shallowly than I have been.

  My fantasy has come to life, and I’m burning up. I feel like I sometimes do when I’m sick and the heat of my face creates a sweaty film on my upper lip. My heart hammers in my chest. I’m dizzy and flushed and unsure as to whether or not this is my illness creeping up on me or my deep desire to have Samuel’s weight atop my body. I crave the power. I want his masculinity.

  Samuel pushes me gently but forcefully into a corner before reaching to tug on the cord at my throat, untying the bow, and I feel the slickness as if I’ve wet my finger with my spittle and am about to stroke myself like I do at night. Slowly walking me backward toward a bale of hay, he quickly removes his waistcoat and lays it out, then lifts me and sets me down on top of it, looking me in the eyes. The heat there is unmistakable, and at this point I’m willing to give him anything.

  Fixing his eyes on me and inhaling deeply through his nose, he grabs my ankles, turning me so I’m lying face up. Then he raises my skirts and spreads my legs, groaning as he steps between them. We say the words, “I want you,” simultaneously because as much as it feels like the world is crumbling around us, we are drawn to each other and can’t deny it. For whatever reason, we need each other. I wipe the sweat from above my upper lip and watch as Samuel unbuttons his trousers.

  “My blood boils for you, Elizabeth,” he tells me as he lowers his britches to his thighs and wraps his fist around his cock, pulling it up and down. I hold my breath and let the air out gradually as he drags both sets of fingers from my knees to my thighs, where he squeezes handfuls of flesh while gazing at me like he’s in a trance.

  Parting my lips, I watch him stroke himself unconsciously as he takes a step. In silence, he looks me over and very, very slowly runs his tongue along his lips while inching closer. Moving farther between my legs, he places the head of his cock at the entrance while he circles my waist with his hands and pushes forward, slipping the fat head into me.

  “Oh!” I can’t tell if the noise is coming from me or him.

  His sinking into me stops me from voicing any actual words. The noises are more grunts and sounds than anything intelligible. Thrust after thrust increases the pace of my breathing, and my heart is beating so hard I fear it will burst soon. I can’t sit still. My legs move up and down involuntarily, and each time he comes away from my body, I arch my back so that I lift myself up to meet him. I want him to crush me beneath him. I want to feel his heat above me. I want his moist clothing and skin and damp hair along his scalp to announce our passion to the world.

  He pumps until I hold my breath and tense my legs, and he thrusts one last time and my orgasm erupts like an explosion from a red-hot ember, spitting fire throughout my entire body—all the way to my chest and up to my ears. My body racks with him inside me, and soon after I feel him tense before he shoots jets of hot liquid again and again, his weight now atop me, the pleasure slowly dissipating and my heartbeat and breathing returning to normal.

  Time stands still, and I want to stay locked in his arms forever because worries don’t exist there. Not a one. No worry about my attractiveness, no worry that I will forever be alone, no fear of being burned alive, and no disease. We stay wrapped around each other for quite some time, but after a bit, I decide to inform him about my ailment. Strange timing, but I have no idea when to bring it up. “You know I’m sick, right?” We stay locked together in silence, and I hold my breath before he responds.

  “Yes, milady.” I can barely hear him, and his voice lacks emotion.

  “And you know there is no cure, right?” The silence is almost deafening.

  “Yes, I know.” He doesn’t say anything further, and since I don’t know what else to do, I fix my clothing and go home, my feelings a jumbled mess of longing and uncertainty.

  When I return home, my father, who has been waiting for me, looks me over from head to toe while holding another cup.

  “Elizabeth. What happened? You look…”

  “I, um, think I love him…”

  “Who?”

  * * *

  As I finish reading to my companion, I set the diary down.

  “In the morning, the sunshine hurt my eyes so badly I stumbled toward the wardrobe, where I climbed in and curled up all day.” I look into his eyes. “Many people believe vampirism started in Europe, but we know the truth: it all started as a side effect from one of my father’s concoctions that had combined with my disease, at the dawn of chemistry as a science, about half a century after the witch hunt trials started in Salem. I discovered my need for blood soon after. Without it, as you know, the disease returns; with it, we are immune to every disease, including the ultimate disease of death.

  �
��Apparently, it can be passed on through saliva, blood or tears, so we choose our lovers very carefully now in the twenty-first century. Isn’t that right, Samuel?”

  THE HOLLOW IN THE BLACK CLIFFS

  Madeleine Swann

  Frozen waves crash against dark rocks and wind slices through the grassland. The villagers hardly notice the sea air blowing salt and brine through their brick houses anymore—they, their cart horses and sheep are the sturdiest in the land. My lithe body and long hair, both black as midnight, are buffeted in the wind and I cover myself with my wings for warmth. I grip with hands and toes on to the branches of a tree and watch the men scamper through the mist like plague rats over their fishing boats, nothing but wood and ropes to protect them from the giant squid and her kind. Their wives collect fresh water from the well, telling tales and tittering as it spills from buckets down their long skirts. Their hair is covered by cloth caps and their eyes gleam with scandal.

  The men are laughing raucously, red hands tying rigging and nets. My grip tightens around my own piece of netting, stolen from one of their ships several moons ago. A stout, white-bearded man is the first coherent voice I can hear. “She’ll be out on the rob in a day or two, mark my words.”

  “You can’t know that, Sam Rudden,” scoffs another as he pulls at ropes with calloused fingers.

  “I know it well enough,” is the reply. “Predictable as the seasons is our lady of the sky, the Black Widow. And mark you this, young Eli will be her target.” He gestures to a dark-haired man more slender and delicate than the others. His eyes flick nervously over his tasks and his hands are not as certain. He laughs at the mention of his name and looks down at his feet.

  “Eli?” scoffs one of the burlier types.

  “Aye,” says the old man. “I’ve been living a good many years, Markus. I know better than most her pattern. They say she’s one of the last of her kind, ain’t none of her own left to fertilize her eggs. Those things that hatch though—weird twisted creatures neither one nor the other. Yet still she tries.”