by Densie Webb
Her pulse is throbbing as the blood pumps out of her body and into mine; it’s coursing through my veins. I’m mainlining and it’s such blessed relief. The euphoria is immediate. I’ve been told injecting morphine feels the same, but unlike morphine, the blood high is just as intense the one-thousandth time as it was the first. All I hear, all I feel, all I taste is her blood. Her heartbeat is slowing. Just a little more. Just—a—little—more. I jerk away. She’s pale, going limp. No, no, no. I pull back and put my ear to her chest.
A faint heartbeat. I sweep her into my arms, rush out to the street and hail a cab. As I slide her into the back seat, I hand the cabbie a hundred. He likely assumes she’s drunk or has OD’d. I’m the one who almost OD’d, but she’s the one who could have died because of it.
“Take her to St. James. Tell them she needs IV fluids and a blood transfusion—type A negative.”
“You a doctor?”
“Please, hurry!” I make eye contact to erase his memory of me, slam the door shut and I watch the yellow cab make a left onto a bustling Seventh Avenue and disappears from view. I go back inside and find Nicholas waiting for me.
Alarmed by my near breach, I pray that Gus holds true to his promise. Now that he has dangled the carrot of a cure in front of me, hope is cautiously coming out of hibernation, stretching and turning its face to the sun.
Chapter 8
Andie
I’m flying through the after-work crowds, when the subway rumbles beneath my feet, rattling the sidewalk. Thoughts of his touch invade my thoughts, washing over me with a tsunami-like force.
I have to know what that was.
And if I’ll ever feel it again.
I look up. I’m outside of a funky bar that looks like something Mack would love. I text her the address, walk in, set my purse down on an empty table and wave at a frowning server, but he’s oblivious, speed walking from the bar to the tables and back, balancing a very crowded tray of beer bottles, martinis, margaritas. Impressive. I try again and wave both hands in the air and shout in his direction, “Hey, could I get a drink, please?”
My hands are still raised, when I stop waving and swallow hard. It’s Vincent. What the…? He’s looking right at me. Again. I suppose he’ll say he didn’t notice me. Again.
I lower my hands and attempt a smile. He immediately turns his back to me and leans over the bar. Nicholas is with him; they’re deep in conversation. I should leave, text Mack another address, forget whatever it was that happened in the Black Orchid. I stand up intending to make a quick exit, but instead, I grab my purse, and find myself marching toward the bar. I’m on autopilot, unable to stop this mistake from moving forward. As I approach, Vincent’s shoulders stiffen, as if he senses my presence, and he slides as close as he can to the bar. Any farther and he’ll be pouring drinks with the bartender.
What the hell am I doing? I have no idea what I want to say and, even if I did, I seriously doubt Vincent wants to hear it. This is a colossally bad idea. I’m trying to talk myself into retreat when Nicholas turns around.
“Andie, cheers! What a coincidence.” He seems genuinely surprised. Coincidence? That’s an understatement.
“My office is a few blocks away and I was just checking out the neighborhood.” While I’m talking, I’m eyeing the back of Vincent’s head, his raven-black hair, his broad shoulders, his muscular forearms. Shit! What’s wrong with me? He’s being incredibly rude, ignoring me like this. If ESP were a real thing, he would be receiving my mental message to turn the hell around. I try to focus on Nicholas’ face, which shouldn’t be so damned hard.
“You remember Mackenna?” I ask, “She’s supposed to meet me here for a celebration drink. It’s a new job.”
“Brilliant! Congratulations!”
Vincent still makes no move to turn around. Nicholas places his hand on Vincent’s back, as if speaking to a stubborn child refusing to greet guests. “Vincent, I think you met Andie in the shop when she came back for her keys.”
He finally turns around and stands. I wish he hadn’t. It feels like I’ve just free fallen fifteen floors in a runaway elevator. But his expression says if I were the last woman on the planet, and he hadn’t had sex in over a decade, he would decline my offer. Still, I can’t help but stare at his incredibly long lashes, his impossibly blue eyes, his squared off chin. It’s—jaw porn.
He’s close enough now for me to smell his cologne. I’ve never been a fan of men wearing cologne. They always smell like they’ve slapped on half the bottle or the scent is so sickeningly sweet, I pray for a gas mask. But the scent he’s wearing is strangely erotic. I take a deep breath. It’s…it’s…it’s making me high. I have the sudden urge to bury my nose in his chest. I take a step back.
“Hello, Andie.”
What is it about him? I’ve met plenty of hot guys. They’re usually dicks. It’s something else. I feel a connection, a strange familiarity. I force myself to take another step back. We’re playing “Mother, May I” in reverse.
Mack walks up behind me and slings her arm over my shoulder. “Well, well, look who’s here,” she says, still smarting from Nicholas’ rebuff at Lizzie Borden’s. I turn around, relieved to break eye contact with Vincent, and kiss her cheek. She zooms in on him. I see it in her eyes. He’s her next target.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Andie?”
“Uh, sure. Mack, this is Vincent, Nicholas’ partner at the florist shop? He’s the one who gave me the keys.” I reach back and pinch her arm just to make sure she got it. Her expression never changes.
“Nice to meet you, Vincent.” She reaches out to shake his hand. I wait for an explosive reaction. Nothing. She turns to me and raises a single eyebrow “You don’t have a drink yet? I’ll get it.” She walks to the other end of the bar, where the bartender is mixing drinks. I can’t take another second of this. I’ll go to the bathroom, pull myself together and then head out. A plastic smile fills my face. “I’ll be right back.” I’m about to turn around and breathe a sigh of relief when one of the servers bumps me from behind—hard.
I lurch forward, slamming into Vincent. Full frontal contact. My reaction is instantaneous. It’s a repeat of the incident in the florist shop, but infinitely more intense. This time I feel it down to my toes, which are curling in response. I’m reeling, barely cognizant of my surroundings, except for Vincent’s hands, which are in the air, his head turned away from me. Nicholas grabs my arm and yanks me away from Vincent—the jaws of life, extracting me from a disaster.
The bar is noisy, so I don’t think anyone heard me, heard my involuntary whimper. No one, except Vincent and Nicholas. And Mack. She’s standing there, the drinks in her hands, her mouth hanging open.
“What the fuck did you just do to her?” Mack’s staring at Vincent like he’s an ax murderer.
“Nothing. I did nothing.”
“Do you know some sort of secret pressure points that make—that happen? Is that what you did to her when she came in for her keys?”
I can’t look any of them in the eye. I have to get the hell out of here. My legs are about to give way, but I turn and rush out the door and hail a cab.
****
I walk into the apartment and immediately begin pacing the length of the living room. I stop and lie down on the sofa, but within seconds I’m on my feet again. I can’t quite fill my lungs with air and my heart is racing. Is this what a panic attack feels like? The whole scene plays on a loop in my head—in slow motion—his eyes, his scent, my total loss of control, and his desperate attempt to disengage. My head drops into my hands as I will the whole humiliating scene to vaporize.
I hear Mack’s key in the lock. Relief washes over me. She opens the door and I sit up, eyeing her expectantly. I wait for her to say, “What the fuck happened back there?” Instead she says, “Why did you leave? I looked around and you had disappeared.”
She casually closes and locks the door behind her. “Why the hell do you think I left?”
“Are
you sick?”
“Mack, this isn’t funny. Tell me what you saw, what you think happened. I feel like I’m going crazy here.”
She drops her keys on the table and shakes her head. “How much did you have to drink, anyway?”
I never even got a chance to take a sip. “Nothing.”
Her brow furrows.
“Mack, seriously, what did it look like to you when that guy bumped me and I body-slammed Vincent?”
She looks puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We were all at the bar and I went to get us drinks. When I came back you were gone, which was really rude, by the way, so I caught a cab.”
I’m about to let her have it when I take in her expression.
It is obvious she doesn’t have a clue.
Chapter 9
Vincent
After Nicholas escorted Mackenna out the door, erasing her memory of the incident, he hailed a cab for her and returned to the bar shaking his head. “That was fucking weird.”
“Now do you believe me?”
He hesitated, took a gulp of his beer and shook his head again. “I’m not sure what to believe, but that was…”
“Strange?”
“But, hey,” he said, smiling as he raised his glass in a toast, “the good news is, you didn’t kill her.”
I was not in the mood for Nicholas’ brand of humor.
As we leave the bar together, the French woman’s companion is looking around the room, impatiently tapping his fingers on the table. He finishes his beer and, clearly fed up, stomps out, mumbling “Merde.” He doesn’t leave a tip.
****
“If this thing is, you know, ‘fated’ and all that,” Nicholas says, as we enter my apartment, “she won’t be able to stay away. Right now, she’s scared shitless of you—and with good reason.” He shakes his head. “You could just wipe clean her memory of you.”
“I tried. But…nothing. Never happened before. It’s like she’s in my blood somehow.”
“Well, that complicates things, doesn’t it? Sounds like you’re going to have to give it a go—eventually.”
“So, even though I fear I will harm her—or worse—I should just let the chips fall where they may?”
“Come on, mate. I’m just trying to wrap my head around this and talk you through it. I’ve never experienced this—thing. And neither have you, for that matter.” He hesitates. “Maybe there is a way to be with her.”
I close the door behind us and turn to him. “What?”
“Maybe you should just do what you did tonight before you approach Andie again. Take what you need from someone else right before. Take the edge off.”
I say nothing as I walk to the kitchen, park myself on a bar stool, my elbows on the cold granite countertop and my hands on my forehead, trying to block everything out, make the longing go away. But it’s there, closing in, taunting me, making sure I understand that it will never go away. Ever.
Instead, I’m actually considering Nicholas’ suggestion. If it’s a mistake, I’ll have him to blame. Not that he could undo what I know I’m capable of. The crushing images of the bodies I’ve left in my wake refuse to leave me alone. The memory of my early savagery is hardwired into my brain. I desperately wish I could go back. Start over. But, then sometimes I believe those dark memories are the very thing that keep me in check.
In the beginning, when the hunger was new, my maker brought them to me as offerings to ensure my dependence. I had thought being free of her would change everything and I prayed that out from under her vile influence, the hunger would pass and I would miraculously return to the me I had been for twenty-seven years. So I escaped, but I simply turned the hatred I had for her upon myself.
One night, driven mad by the hunger, I blindly made my way into the city and spotted a girl. She was blond, petite, pretty, waiting on a dark, deserted street for any man willing to pay the price. She was so young. Maybe thirteen. The age of my niece, Clarice, when I last saw her at a family gathering. This girl was one of the Parisian prostitutes on the Palais-Royal.
Acting on sheer instinct, on blinding hunger and fury, I dragged her into the rat-infested alley. Her image is as vivid now as it was then—her small, round breasts exposed, the smell of her unwashed flesh, the terror in her eyes as she understood what I was, what I wanted—to suck the marrow right out of her bones. She tasted sweet, rich and warm.
When I was done, when I was sated, the madness tamed, I stood over her body, her lifeless eyes open, her throat a gaping wound. A thick residue of guilt and shame lingered on my tongue along with the nectar-like taste of her blood. I collapsed against the alley’s brick wall and beat my fists against my blood-smeared chest. I wanted to snuff out my own existence just as I had this hapless young girl.
Death for me would have provided exquisite relief from my self-loathing. I didn’t just want to die, I wanted to murder myself and experience a slow, painful death. A futile last act of contrition. But, if I couldn’t die, then I wanted desperately to hold on to the remaining strands of my humanity—a wish that, as I stood over my latest kill, felt as unreachable as the constellations in the night sky.
I told myself that a child prostitute, hawking her body for food, would have no one to mourn her passing, that she didn’t suffer long and her life would otherwise have been filled with years of pain, suffering and misfortune. The street washers would find her in the early morning hours and erase all traces of her miserable life.
The next time and the one after that and the one after that, I vowed would be my last. I was always sickened as the hunger returned with a vengeance, expanded, metastasized and my promises would drown in their blood.
It always comes down to that. The blood.
My nights are usually spent reading, but tonight I’m restless, recalling the incredible heat of Andie’s body, her heartbeat as it reverberated in my chest. For a second time it nearly brought me to my knees. And the powerful effect it had on her was undeniable. I can still hear the tantalizing echo of her lusty sounds. To have such power over her is intoxicating, but with that power comes enormous pain. Yet, our encounter has left no doubt that this connection is as real as it is irremediable.
I stare out at the city lights from my window and imagine her lying peacefully under the covers, her thick curls cascading over her pillow, the gentle in and out of her very human breath as she sleeps undisturbed.
If only I could sleep, I would dream of her.
Nicholas interrupts my thoughts. “Her flowers are supposed to be delivered on Wednesday. Why don’t you take them?”
I look at him, as I try to formulate an answer—or another argument. I can’t decide which.
“Nicholas, I think you’ve actually lost what’s left of your mind. Do you even hear what you’re saying?”
“So, what are you going to do, stay in here so you don’t ever run into her again and make yourself miserable? Well, more miserable than usual. Just say that our delivery guy called in sick and you’re doing deliveries. And get your fill before you see her.”
I try to imagine myself buzzing her apartment, her coming down to get the delivery. Just the memory of her melodic voice sets me on edge.
Do I dare test Nicholas’ theory and risk losing her—by my own hand? Or avoid her and spend the next several decades fighting this gravitational pull, this impossible-to-ignore craving and then mourn her death when it inevitably comes?
Either choice is untenable. But choose, I must.
****
I’ve anxiously waited for Wednesday to arrive, but as I gather the plant, the receipt, and Andie’s address, I feel foolish. Maybe Nicholas was right; I should just take her and be done with it. Put us both out of our misery. I try desperately to talk myself out of this…this pathetic attempt to act normal, to pretend, to inflict myself on her very real human life. I’m mumbling cautionary words to myself under my breath when Nicholas yanks me from my stupor.
“You talking to me?” he says as he rearranges the f
lowers in the refrigerated case. “Hey, I just pulled a DeNiro.” He stops what he’s doing to laugh and repeat the line with a heavy New York accent not quite masking his own English brogue.
Nicholas is easily amused. I leave him chuckling at his own joke and prepare to head uptown. I reach for the door but hesitate once again.
“Why don’t you bring her something?” Nicholas says. “You know, to unruffle her feathers, untwist her knickers.” He smiles. “Something to make her feel better about the fact that, as luck would have it, her ‘soul mate’ is an immortal freak of nature.”
“You’re a cad, Nicholas.”
He shakes his head “I’m a dick, Vincent. A wanker. Nobody says ‘cad’ anymore.”
Well, he’s always been a bit of cad or a scoundrel or a dick, depending on which era he’s living in. But maybe this time he’s not so far off base. Maybe I should bring something to apologize, not that I could explain exactly why she deserves an apology. It’s just the way things are between us. The way they always will be.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
I turn around and Nicholas is holding a beautiful black orchid, the prize of yesterday’s delivery. Despite giving me a hard time, he’s trying to help. I nod in appreciation, take the black orchid along with the potted plant she ordered, open the door and walk to the curb to hail a cab barreling down Broadway. The driver screeches on the brakes, pulls up, and flips on the meter as I climb inside and say, “93rd and West End.”
As I head uptown, flowers in hand, I feel more like a reluctant suitor, than a deadly predator. I’m feeling—nervous? I don’t get nervous. Adrenalized? I’m not even sure I remember what that feels like. My mind won’t be still. We arrive too quickly. I’m staring at the door to her building, but not making a move to exit the cab.
The driver is pointing at the meter. “Dude, I can sit here as long as you want, but the meter’s running.”
