by Rose Caraway
The air was filled with the smell of arousal and burning things. Wood, fabric, bits of paper tossed into the flames. Seared flesh of animals, sacrificed and consumed, hungers fed but not sated. Not yet. That’s why he was here. He served a purpose, as he reminded Vivi. Whatever they said of him, however much they feared him, he served a purpose. He was needed. Without him, they were little more than secondhand demons, bad dreams conjured by naughty children and banished in the light of day. Oh, but he made them so much more. He gave them bodies, made them flesh and bone. And now it was time to claim what was his.
There were more of them arriving in the camp. Legions of his followers, called from all corners of the universe to pay the price of their existence. Some he knew from centuries past, others only from their energy that fed him. The fire flashed and licked at bodies, voices shrieked in excitement, not fear. Limbs entangled—fleshy appendages multihued and textured, entwining arms and legs and tentacles and tails, vulvas pulsing and open and rubbing together, penises growing and stretching to fill bodies that welcomed them. Creatures of the night and of nightmares, less human now, but more real. More true. More his.
He could feel his hunger rising as he followed the twirling Vivi. She was bordering on manic, head thrown back, long bare neck pulsing with a life force unlike any he had ever felt. He ran his tongue over his teeth, stifling the urge. Tamping it down for now, at least. But it wouldn’t be long, not long at all. And she would welcome it, as they all did.
“Dance, Magic Man, dance!” she screamed over the cacophony of music and screeching voices.
He danced. For her, he danced. His spurs jangled, incongruously loud amidst the noise. His heels beat out the time like the rhythm of a heartbeat, and the earth responded, awakening and stretching, shifting beneath their collective physical and spiritual weight. They undulated with their need, stretched by it, flesh nearly bursting open in an effort to release it. Mouths wide, fingers and talons clasping at air, at flame, at the bodies around them. The smell of earth and fire and sweat mingled with another odor—sex. He felt his own need roar to life, tearing lose from the confines of this humble body, craving what they offered. Sex and blood. The substance and weight of sacrifice.
Vivi pressed her body to his, her curves molded to his angular planes as if by design—but of course it was. This was their fate, their destiny. The sacrifice of many to appease the two and set the world to balance again. They would give themselves for her, willingly, gladly, throwing themselves into the flames, onto the knives, into the darkest of wicked nights. For her, they would die. And he would receive them as was his right. They would go to their deaths with her name on their lips, but with his mark on their souls.
He grasped her to him, knowing at last he had found his match. The weight of his cock pressed against her, large, full and beautiful—a vanity he indulged like all his vices. He was not the creator of these grim devils, he was the mirror—enhanced, more pleasing to the eye, but dark and dead beneath the surface. For the moment he was as alive as he would ever be, his body aching for the release the others around him sought as well. Vivi rocked against him in encouragement, her face shrouded by a veil of hair, her beauty obscured but not muted, for it seemed to hum in the air around her. It didn’t matter; her image was seared into his mind like every deed he’d done and every soul he’d claimed. She was his, as much as this gypsy circus existing at the very rim of Hell itself.
“You may have them,” she said, her lips pressed to his ear, her hands working the buttons on his trousers, freeing him as he would soon free her minions. “But I will have you.”
“And so it will be,” he promised, rending her blouse to useless shreds, the ancient fabric screaming as if alive.
Bare to the waist, her skin darkened from alabaster to ebony, rippling and dimpling as if something pulsed beneath the surface. He followed the transformation from her narrow waist to the fullness of her breasts and up, to the column of her neck, the delicate bone structure of her jaw, across her gently arched brow and down to her eyes. Her eyes, once blue with flecks of celestial color, were once again black as the night sky. They remained that way for a moment and then seemed to implode into a searing white light that nearly blinded him with the intensity.
She was stroking his arousal, bringing him along to the culmination of this event like a lover anxious to be penetrated, or impregnated. He reached for the waistband of her skirt and found it tied with a scarlet ribbon. No, knotted. End over end, little knots of fabric kept the skirt tight around her hips. He growled in frustration—a sound that was peculiarly human among the sounds of animal-like copulation, flesh slapping together roughly, wetly, voices torn from throats bubbling with possession. He was surrounded by an orgiastic tribute to him, to death itself, and he was undermined by a simple bit of knotted ribbon.
She laughed, stroking a nail along his cheekbone, drawing blood. “Oh Dio, you are so ready for me.” The words were seductive, but their meaning…he sensed there was something he was missing. Bloodlust had dulled his senses, made him skip over some important part of this erotic feast. He felt like he was forgetting some bit of etiquette, and she was chiding him for it.
“I need you,” he said.
There was no measure of love contained within his existence, but he understood his own need. And here she was, in her nearly naked glory, her skin fading back to alabaster, a network of purple veins beneath the surface, her dusky nipples drawn taut with her own arousal. He tugged at them now, drawing her close by these delicate bits of flesh, feeling his way up her thigh, bunching her skirt in one hand at her waist. He wanted—needed—to be inside this body. To fill her as he was being consumed by the need for her. He could not claim her as he claimed the others, he could not destroy her. But he could take her, fuck her, use her, deplete her. Possess the body she inhabited and brand it as his. The hunger to do just that was so strong, he sank his teeth into the muscle of her shoulder, drawing blood and more—her existence—into him. She only gasped and pawed at him ineffectually, helpless now, passive, his. His.
He barked out his triumph, his head thrown back to the night sky, inky black and void of warmth, of life, of compassion. Like him. He was the night and he had precious few hours to enjoy his reign. The fire had doubled in size and he heard the cries of those who had been too close and were now consumed in flames, still coupling like their very souls depended on it, which of course they did. They fucked each other senseless, this mass of ghoulish humanity, driving themselves into oblivion and release even while he captured them in a net of eternity, forever at his command.
He looked at his prize, the woman they died for—the creature they did not know, and neither did he. He only knew he’d been drawn here, to this place, to her, like a curious feline sniffs the trail of an injured mouse, thrusting a paw into a gap of wood and darkness and claiming a succulent morsel. He was here to do his job, serve his purpose, and she was the prize. She was his greatest conquest. He looked to the curtain of hair that hid her face and felt—not sympathy, never—a moment of compassion. She was weak, trapped, a victim of circumstance. Poor, poor Vivi. They loved her so, but it was not enough.
He bent her back toward the ground, his hand creeping up the inside of her bare thigh, finding heat and wetness bubbling like a long-forgotten well beneath the earth. Her smell was familiar, primal and earthy. He knew her, sensed something about her in that moment, felt the warning in his head and between his own thighs even though it was too late to turn back. He was already pushing himself into that warm, wet, dark space he had felt, that place that he knew was untouched by any before him, empty since the dawn of time and waiting for him, taking him in, making a home for him. His rightful throne, nestled in the welcoming, pulsing flesh of this woman-creature who drew him down to her, cradled his head to her breast and crooned to him in wordless singsong, the melody as familiar as her scent and her body, though he knew he’d never experienced either.
He was absorbed into her, filling her even as she open
ed him up and filled the vast darkness inside of him with white-hot light. This was what it meant to be accepted, to be loved. For one brief flicker in time, he knew life. Then, like an ember winking out and going cold, it was gone. And yet he was still being pulled downward, into her, into the earth, his cock still hard but encased in ice, the coldness penetrating every opening of his body, his being. It hurt, oh but it hurt, and the pain was all the more shocking because it was so unexpected. This was not how it was supposed to be, this was not the king claiming his throne. This was rejection, anarchy, rebellion.
He cried out, tried to pull away to look at her. Around them, the gypsies had shrunk in number, consumed and melted by the fire. Those that remained were bestial and wild in their need, tearing at flesh, flinging themselves into the flames, shrieking as they went, down, down, into the depths and the darkness, doing it for her. Always for her. He raised himself on his hands, staring into the white light of her eyes that was spreading across her face, the glow so bright it was like looking into the sun. He arched up, his gaze shifting down their bodies, his consumed by hers, gone into a darkness that pulsed and hummed at the juncture of her thighs, expanding to take him in, draw him down. White light above, blackness below, he could no longer feel the pulse between his thighs, could no longer control the thrust of his hips. He was slipping down into her, the white light beckoning as strongly as the darkness he knew so well.
“Look at me, Magic Man,” she whispered, though her mouth was gone, absorbed by the light. “Look at me, know me. We are one.”
He wanted to deny it, but the truth thrummed in the veins he had left, the ones that were now entangled with her, a part of her existence, her essence. He looked at her, where her face had been, stared at her, though it hurt his eyes. Watched the white light spread, downward, downward, until the place where they joined had gone from darkness to light and his body, what had once been the body he claimed, was now pure white light, engulfing him like the flames took the few remaining members of their death party.
“You,” he said, as if that answered it all. Perhaps it did.
He should have known her reputation was the most real thing of all about this night. He should have heeded the warning that crept along his skin like bugs seeking warmth. She was different, special, his match. At last. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, this one, but he had been careless in his pursuit, smug in his victory. He was not the victor here. He was the final victim of a mass sacrifice in the name of light and earth.
All that is good comes at a price. All that is light has consumed the darkness and been made stronger for it. He crossed the threshold and was devoured, her name on his lips like all the rest as they sunk down, down, down into the warm earth. Victorious Vivi. Virtuous Vivi. Valiant Vivi. Vivi, the giver of life, the keeper of souls, the mother of all. Vivi.
Verily.
Second Look
Heidi Champa
“Jon, I don’t have time for this right now.”
“Let me guess, you’ve got a million things to do, you’re busy and you have to go. I know. I’ve heard it a thousand times. You know, Jules, someday I’m going to get tired of hearing it.”
“Jon, what do you want me to do? It’s my job.”
“Nothing. Don’t do anything Jules. At least now, I know where I stand.”
I heard the click and the line go dead, my mouth still open, ready to retort. He hung up on me. I put down the receiver, pinching the bridge of my nose in irritation. How often could two people have the same argument? Ever since the merger, Jon and I fought nonstop. Nothing seemed to placate him. The latest argument made my head ache, the pain shooting through the back of my brain and down my neck. I reached into my desk drawer and fished out more pain reliever. Just as I pulled the cap free, I saw Keith round the corner and walk down the hall. He paused when he saw me, leaning in the doorway with a concerned look on his face. His hands started moving and I forced my brain to kick into gear, trying to read his words through the pulsing pain in my head. He was so sweet, always looking out for me.
“Not again? Jules, how many of those are you up to a day?”
His too-long brown hair hung in his eyes, no matter how many times he pushed it aside. Every time he brushed the strands behind his ear, the hearing aids that were mostly hidden by his shaggy locks came into view. I managed a weak smile, flexing my hands in a vain attempt to make my signs less rusty. I had learned to sign years ago, but hadn’t used it much until Keith came into my life. My fingers began to move, but each gesture made my hands hurt even more. He could read lips, but I always signed, too. Even when it was the last thing my head could take.
“I don’t even know. Isn’t that sad?”
“Don’t tell me. Jon’s at it again?”
“I can’t get it through his head how important this stuff is. He just hung up on me. I give up.”
“Don’t do that. You’re great at what you do, and he should realize how important it is to you. He’s not worth it. No man is worth this many headaches. You should be with someone who appreciates you.”
“I know you’re right.”
I looked at him, like I had so many times before. The slope of his nose was too severe. His eyes, while a pretty blue, were a bit too close together. His height advantage over me was a mere inch. But he was sweet and loyal and one of the best workers to come from the merger all those months ago. At first, I was skeptical of the new people in the office, but Keith stood out. He actually had a sense of humor. Most of the newbies had come and gone. Some had been laid off due to cutbacks and the rest quit over policy complaints. Keith hung on and now was a valuable member of the staff. Plus, he brought donuts every Friday. That alone made him invaluable to me.
He gave me one last smile before shuffling away down the hall. The tail of his dress shirt stuck out of his pants; his shoes were worn out and unpolished. I shook my head, comforted by the fact that some things in my life hadn’t changed. Since the first day he walked into the office, Keith was exactly the same.
As the time ticked down to five o’clock, I dreaded going home to my apartment, and to Jon. The last thing I felt like doing after a long day was fight. He hadn’t called back after hanging up on me, and I refused to call him. I picked up my purse, but put it right back down again. My feet seemed nailed to the floor. Keith strolled by, his briefcase partly open and overflowing with folders. A trail of rumpled papers followed him down the hall. I followed him out into the hall and tapped his shoulder. He spun around quickly, finally noticing the mess he’d made.
“Keith, you’re leaving a few things behind.”
“God, I’m sorry. I guess I have a bit too much in here.”
“You know, we gave you a desk here for a reason. You don’t have to take so much work home. Trust me; it will all be waiting for you tomorrow.”
“I was just trying to get ahead. Clearly, it’s not working.”
He sat down in my office, stuffing the papers into his briefcase, which was now closed but bulging. He stared at me, giving me a puzzled look before he spoke. As much as I wanted to look at his hands, I found myself sneaking glances at his face.
“I thought you’d be gone by now. What are you still doing here? It’s not like you to hang around after five.”
“The truth is I don’t really want to go home. I can’t face another fight.”
“Why don’t we go and have dinner? It will keep you out of the house for a while.”
I looked up at him; his expectant smile melted my heart a little. He really was a sweet guy. I wished, for the millionth time, that Jon was more like him.
“Thanks for the offer, but I might as well get it over with. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure, no problem. It was just a thought. Have a good night. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
Keith shuffled down the hall with a wave. I sighed as I picked up my bag, resigned to my fate. As I headed down in the elevator, my phone buzzed. Apparently Jon didn’t want to wait until I got home to fi
ght.
Nearly two weeks had gone by since the breakup. Jon was almost completely out of my life and my apartment. I had avoided telling everyone, our busy work schedule making my secret a lot easier to keep. But people were starting to notice the change in my demeanor. One person in particular.
My door had been closed all day, but I saw Keith walk by at least a half a dozen times. Finally, I got tired of seeing him wearing a hole in the carpet and motioned for him to come in. He pushed the door open tentatively, his eyes filled with concern and what looked like fear. It was as if he was afraid I’d break if he said the wrong thing. He sat down, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. I just stared, waiting for him to say something. His hands left the chair and raised slowly, his signs so familiar I could almost guess them before he started.
“So, how are you Jules?”
“I’m fine, Keith. Thanks for asking. How are you?”
He sat back in the chair, clearly not believing me.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Is that a nice way of saying I look like hell today?”
“No. God, no. I just mean, you seem upset. Not just today either. You haven’t been yourself in a while. You’re not even eating the donuts anymore. I was wondering if something happened with Jon.”
He spelled out Jon’s name, his expression angry and sour. He made it clear how he felt, and I couldn’t blame him.
“That depends. If you consider fighting for days followed by a protracted breakup something, then yeah. Something happened.”
