by P. N. Elrod
But once more Nora proved me wrong.
Before my body had quite exhausted itself, she hooked a leg around one of mine and rolled until I was on top. This was a change, for usually she would hold to my throat for a much longer period. Drops of blood from the tiny piercings in my neck splashed on her breasts. She brushed at them, then licked her fingertips clean. I pressed harder into her, anticipating a furtherance of our pleasure when she resumed taking her fill from this fresh position.
“My turn,” she whispered, rocking under me, matching my rhythm. Her hand came up and one of her long nails suddenly gouged into the white flesh of her own throat until she bled. She gasped a brief plea to me, telling me what to do, but it was unnecessary. I closed my lips over the wound and for the first time drank the life from her body. . . .
Red fire.
So it felt as it coursed into my mouth, gusted into my belly, and thundered to each shuddering limb. It seared my bones, ate outward through the flesh, scorched my skin until Nora and I must both be consumed by the blaze. The totality of pleasure I’d known only seconds ago now seemed like a candle’s flame against a furnace. It was too much to bear, far too much—yet I would not stop.
Nora cried out—again and again, as if in pain, but holding fast to me as I had to her that first night, urging me to take more, to take everything from her. I drew deep, abruptly aware that the strength I’d freely given moments ago was flowing back. Sweet and bitter, hot and cold, pleasure and pain, life and death, all tumbled madly together like autumn leaves caught in a spinning windstorm.
Nora cried out—arching, convulsing, this climax far more intense than any we’d ever before shared. It touched off an identical response from me; we were finally and truly one body, not two. Never before had we lost ourselves like this within each other.
Delirious, we spiraled into the measureless depths of a crimson vortex, into everything and nothing, ultimately whirling down, down, down to finally collapse, sated, in a wonderful, bottomless silence that had no name.
* * *
I drifted awake, sprawled comfortably on my back, light-headed, for a moment not recalling where I was, but strangely unconcerned.
Candles burned in every corner of the room. Rather wasteful, that. One, or at the most two, were enough. They seemed bright to my sleep puffed eyes, flaring to the point of hurtful dazzle whenever I blinked. I was often like this of a morning after a night of drink, but this time was spared the unsettled stomach and a twice-thickened tongue tasting of . . . .
What was that? A taint of iron and salt in my mouth.
What had. . .?
Oh.
I remembered. With a little shock.
At the time, caught up in the frenzy, it had been the right thing to do, but now I was faintly scandalized by the drives of my own lust. Thinking over the experience with a cooler mind, it seemed . . . perverse.
Which was a very illogical judgment considering that Nora had been drinking my blood for months without protest from me. To the contrary, I adored the act, at times positively craved it.
Certainly Nora had wholly desired for me to partake from her. There was no doubt in my heart that I had well-pleased her in the extreme. That was good, very good indeed, but I wasn’t sure if I could repeat this night. The idea wanted some getting used to, but after that . . . I thought I could manage.
Not too soon again, though; it was exhausting. If we did that every time we made love . . . by God, I’d be an old man in a week.
Nora lay next to me, one arm on my chest, her fingers spread wide as though her last deed had been to caress the hair there. I covered her hand with my own and slothfully considered whether or not it was worth the effort to rise and put out the candles. Some of them had begun to gutter, and their flickering, uneven light was a mild annoyance to the contented, thoroughly satisfied state of my mind and body.
There was a clock on the table across the room. It was well past two. Nora and I had slept for hours. I was strangely wakeful. And hungry. The table, except for the clock, was bare. That was sufficient to decide me. I’d take care of the candles on my way down to the kitchen.
Turning gently so as to disturb Nora as little as possible, I noticed her eyes were slightly open.
I smiled into them. “You are truly astonishing,” I said softly, bending to kiss her.
She did not respond. Her eyes remained open and unblinking. “Nora?”
I gently shook her. Her body was inert under my hands.
She’s asleep, she’s only asleep. I shook her until her head lolled from side to side. Her eyes did not change, were as blank as sooty glass.
No . . .
I reached across for the silver bell by the bedside and rang it, roaring for help. Eternities crawled by before the bedroom door opened and a sleepy Mrs. Poole looked in. She correctly read from my agonized face that something was wrong and hurried to Nora’s side of the bed. She put a hand to her niece’s brow. I was in agony.
“Ah,” she said, smiling. “Nothing to worry about, young man.”
“Nothing to—”
She cut me off and pointed to the mark on Nora’s throat, then to my own. “Taken from each other, haven’t you?”
“I—”
“That’s all it is. It only puts her into a heavy sleep until she recovers.”
The woman must have been blind or mad. “She’s not breathing, Mrs. Poole!”
“No, she’s not, but I tell you there’s nothing to worry about. It’s like catalepsy. It’ll wear off in a few hours and she’ll wake none the worse. Bless your soul, but she should have warned you this would happen.”
I could not bring myself to believe her. Nora was so utterly, damnably still.
Mrs. Poole patted my shoulder in a kindly way. I suddenly realized I was naked with only the sheets to cover me; Nora was equally exposed. However, Mrs. Poole was unperturbed, her concern centered solely upon my agitation. “There now, I can see you’ll only listen to her word on it. Wait here and I’ll fix things right up.” She toddled away, her slippers scraping and scuffling as she went along the hall and down the stairs.
Nora remained as she was, eyes open and blind, lips parted, heart—I pressed an ear to her breast—as silent as stone. I backed hastily from her, from my fear. Had I killed her? She often said she was careful not take too much for me, lest I weaken and fall ill, but what if, in my inexperience, I’d gone too far?
I clawed haphazardly for my clothes, pulling them on against the chill that invaded me. I was nearly dressed when Mrs. Poole returned, carrying a cup of what I first took to be red wine.
“This will do it for certain,” she promised, throwing another smile my way. She hovered over Nora, dipped a small spoon in the cup and wet the girl’s lips. “Just a few drops of the life-magic . . . ”
“What is that?” I found myself asking.
“Beef blood,” she replied. “We had a fresh joint today and this is what drained off. Cook was saving it for something else, but—”
“Beef blood?” I echoed.
“Nora prefers—well, you and those other fine young gentlemen know what she prefers to have—but this does just as well.” She let another few drops ease between Nora’s parted lips. My own heart nearly stopped when those lips suddenly moved against one another. Her tongue appeared and retreated, tasting. “That’s my girl. Come awake so Jonathan knows you’re all right.”
Nora’s dead eyes closed slowly, then opened to look at me. “Jonathan?” she drowsily murmured.
Now it passed that I was the one unable to move.
“There, there,” said Mrs. Poole. “Drink this down first, my girl.” She lifted Nora’s head and held the cup until Nora took it herself. She drained it completely, giving a little shiver—of pleasure, that was clear—when it was gone.
“What is the time?” Nora whispered.
“L
ate, but you’ve hours to go yet. Really, Nora, you’ve been very naughty not to have spoken to him beforetime. I would suggest an apology. You’ve frightened him terribly.” As though to counteract the gentle rebuke, Mrs. Poole pulled the bedclothes up, almost tucking Nora in like a child.
Nora looked at me. The whites of her eyes were flame red. Evidently the beef blood, like my own, brought about that same strange effect. “Jonathan?”
I shook my head. And shivered. Not with pleasure.
She glanced at Mrs. Poole, who frowned. “It’s your own fault, girl. Sort it out. I’m off to my bed, if you two don’t mind. Try not to shout or you’ll alarm the neighbors.” Mrs. Poole took the cup and bade me goodnight, shutting the bedroom door softly on her way out.
“You were . . . ” But I could not finish.
She sat up against the pillows. “I know,” she said. “I should have explained to you before we started. It’s . . . difficult for me to find the right words sometimes, especially with you. Other times it seems best to say nothing at all.”
“Best for yourself?”
“Yes,” she said candidly, after a moment’s thought. “And now you’re afraid of me again.”
I could hardly deny that truth. “Perhaps you will simply ‘talk’ me out of it as you have before.”
“Or perhaps you will do that for yourself.”
I started to speak and ask her meaning and found it unnecessary. All I had to do was think of my father and remember his struggle to explain his estrangement from Mother. “`I could see myself turning into her own little dancing puppet,’ he’d said.”
Her look sharpened. “Who said?”
“Father, talking about his wife.” The room was deathly silent. I held my breath, half-expecting a response, but she made no reply “You don’t want me to be a puppet, do you?”
“No,” she finally murmured. “I never did.”
After all, her life was filled with puppets: handsome young men who gave her blood for nourishment and gifted her with money to live on, each happy with his lot, each under her careful control. This night I had truly become the sole exception to her pattern. In asking myself why, I knew the answer as well as I knew every curve of her flesh. Whatever fear I’d felt melted as though it had never been.
“I’m very glad to know that,” I said, my voice growing thick.
She must have seen the proof of that on my face. “You are. You really are . . . ”
I moved back to the bed, climbing in beside her, drawing her close, holding her, for she seemed in need of it. “No more persuasions, Nora. No more secrets. They only hurt you, don’t you see?”
“But sometimes the truth is impossible to speak.”
“It need not be. You’re a very clever girl. You can always find a way. Just trust me to accept. Even the impossible. Have I not done so just now?”
“More than I ever hoped for. I feared—”
“Oh, we’re all done with that. Forget it. Forget fear.”
“If I could.”
“Ah—none of that! Or I shall be very cross,” I whispered fiercely, with a mock anger that made her smile. Her body relaxed against mine, as though she had indeed shed a burden. “Haven’t you heard? “Perfect love casteth out fear.’ Now you don’t want to go arguing with St. John do you? I thought not.”
“I don’t think this was quite the situation he had in mind.”
“Love is love, and there’s little enough of it in the world. Let us cherish what we have and trust in its strength, not fear our weaknesses.”
“Yes. We will do that . . . .”
And eventually no more words were necessary.
My blood quickened, growing hot, insistent, and pulsing hard against the little wounds on my neck. In other places, too. The fever I’d shared with her earlier returned, flooding me head to toe with a need more overwhelming than any before it.
It mirrored her own need. So . . . we obliged one another.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CAMBRIDGE, JANUARY, 1776
Celebrating the New Year with Oliver and several of our friends had once again been a merry but depleting experience. It took a few days of rest before I was in a condition to notice my surroundings again and so discover the packet of mail from home one of the more sober servants had left on my study desk. Breaking the seal, I found that it disappointingly contained but one letter, the singularity enough to cause me alarm before I even read it. After reading, I was in no better state, and once the whole import of the news it contained sunk in I was utterly horrified.
I had to see Nora.
It was fully dark out, and raining, but she’d be receiving visitors despite the weather. I threw on protection against it and bolted from the house.
The streets were slick with water and mud. Some of the houses had their outside lamps burning, but these were little better than distant will-o’-the-wisps against the murk. It hardly mattered. I could find my way to Nora’s blindfolded.
Mrs. Poole let me in, smiled, and said, “I’m sure she’ll be out in just a few minutes.”
Yes. True. A few minutes with each of them. That’s all it took to get what she needed. I couldn’t begrudge her that, but this time the waiting was thorny. The letter rustled in my coat pocket as though reminding me of the calamity contained in its lines.
“Shall I take your things?”
Thus Mrs. Poole gently reminded me of my manners. I gave over my hat and slipped free of my cloak, dropping my stick in a tall, oriental-style jar holding similar items left behind by previous visitors. “Where are the servants?”
“Some are in bed, others are busy in the kitchen. I don’t mind, Jonathan. Heavens, but it is a wet night out. If you’ll excuse me I’ll see that this is hung by the fire. That is, if you are staying awhile?”
“I don’t—I mean—yes. I think so. Yes.”
“Is there something wrong?”
My world was coming to an end. “I need to talk to Nora.”
She chose not to press farther and left. Too nervous to sit, I paced up and down the hall, my boot heels thumping on the painted wood floor. I wanted Nora to hear and hurry herself. Unsuccessfully, despite the fact it meant nothing more to her than nourishment, I tried not to think about what she was doing beyond the closed door of her drawing room.
They were certainly quiet, but then it wasn’t really a noise-making activity: perhaps a gasp or sigh, the slip of cloth on skin, a soft murmur of thanks from one to the other, and, if she was in need, the click of a few coins passing from one hand to the other. Except for paying over any money, my own experience was too ready to supply details, though in fact I heard exactly nothing. The walls were solid and the door thick and snugly fitted within its frame. Even a moderate amount of sound would not have escaped.
I paced and turned to keep warm. It had been a bad idea to relinquish the cloak to Mrs. Poole. I glared at the door. Damnation, how long did she need? It wasn’t as though she had to take her clothes off, and all the man had to do was loosen his neckcloth for her to . . .
The door swung open. I belatedly thought that it might be better to step into a side room and give them the privacy to say goodbye, but it was too late now. And not overly important. To the departing young man I would doubtless be just another one of Nora’s many courtiers stopping to “pay my respects.”
Damnation. The man was Tony Warburton. They saw me at the same time. Nora’s face, always beautiful whatever her mood, lightened with that special joy only I seemed to give her. Warburton’s darkened briefly and didn’t quite recover. He used to be better at hiding it and often as not hardly bothered anymore.
Nora noticed, but let it pass and greeted me cordially. “What brings you here at this hour?” Her eyes were flushed scarlet from this, her latest feeding. Like many other things about her that had at first upset me, I was now so used to it as to overlook it e
ntirely.
“I must talk to you. It’s extremely important.”
She could tell by my manner that I was distressed. “Of course. Tony, if you don’t mind?”
Warburton seemed not to have heard her. He remained in one spot, looking hard at me. His neckcloth was back in place, but not as neatly as he was accustomed to wearing it. There was no mirror in the drawing room for him to do the job properly. There were few mirrors in the house at all, I knew. He was pale, not so much from blood loss as from high emotion.
“Tony?”
“Yes. I do mind,” he said at last. His voice was too charged to raise above a whisper, but the pent-up choler behind it was more effective than a bellow.
Nora’s ruby eyes flashed on him, but he glared at me. My own immediate troubles dimmed. That which had lain unspoken between us for so long was starting to surface.
But I had no heart for such a confrontation. “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll go. I apologize for my intrusion.”
Nora curtailed my effort to avoid a problem with a sharp lift of her chin. “Nonsense. You’re here now and—”
“Of course you’ll see him,” said Warburton. “You’ll always see him. No matter what it does to others.”
“Tony . . . .” she began.
“No more. I can bear no more of this.” His voice had dropped even lower with suppressed rage. I barely heard. Nora, standing next to him, had no such difficulty. She came around to stand directly before him.
“Tony, listen to me. Listen to me very carefully.”
The air in my lungs settled there as though it had gone solid and could not be pushed out. I knew the tone in her voice, felt the power of it singing through my own brain, though it was not directed at me. I also knew what it cost her.
But Warburton seemed too incensed to succumb to it. “No more. You want too much of me. Do you know what it’s been like for me these years having to be content with your crumbs while he—”
