Moonlight Meetings - Three Erotic Supernatural Stories (The three first stories from Suzy's Adventures)

by Dorian Mayfair

  As if that had not been enough to wreck havoc with Suzy’s sanity for days afterwards, the next occurrence was even weirder. Well, almost. At least a different flavour of weird. She had planned an innocent trip with her friends to a mountainside cabin, but instead she had been thrown headfirst into a new meeting that ended with migraine, endless questions and, admittedly, other pleasures. Incredible pleasures, even. Sprinting like a madwoman into a dark forest to help a homeless guy from being eaten by the local wildlife – what had she been thinking? – she had found the would-be homeless man languishing near a pool with a glass of wine, like some Oberon with a penchant for black metal. Then he had slipped her a strange drink, talked her out of her clothes, and taken her to a climax that must have given every nearby animal a heart attack. In all honesty, she admitted to herself, he had not so much talked her out of her tracksuit as she had undressed herself, but she liked the idea of being in control of herself. At least a little. On the other hand, given the man’s voice and the way he looked, no one could blame her. And, to boot, the wine he’d given her – it had to be the wine – had left her eyes with a green tint that had lasted for days. So, two encounters ending in spectacular sex. If it ended right there, she would have no reason to be so confused.

  Only ghosts didn’t exist. Vampires, elves, fauns and phantoms, they were stuff of the imagination. Our darkest fears and desires represented as sinister ideas. All of them make-believe notions, ranging from gooey goblins to daydreams clad in leather. Interesting and fascinating but, unfortunately, not real. The supernatural was stuck in films, books and myth. But now, it seemed, a few of them had escaped, slipping through the bars of their storybook letters to haunt her. And perhaps there were more than a few escapees; her experiences might be the tip of the iceberg, if icebergs came in the form of hot and otherworldly beings. Maybe there were many. The not-so-homeless-after-all Oberon lookalike had said so himself, although she had no reason to trust him. He’d also said something about her tattoo being a flashlight for other supernatural beings. Or was that a lantern? Or a lighthouse? She was unsure; some things he’d said and done were still fuzzy. At any rate, given that he was part of the strangeness, he should know. He’d have inside information. The improbable whispering about the impossible.

  “Ugh,” Suzy said and leaned back in her seat. Her head was spinning.

  She clutched her cup with two hands, drained it of its last drops of coffee, and sucked down enough sugar to make a five-year old hysterical for days. This had to stop. Not her coffee addiction – there were limits – but her run-ins with the unlikely, especially the kind of unlikely that had two feet. She was back in the city, ready for change. She had two weeks in NY before she ran out of money. After that, she would have to find a job, but some of her girlfriends had made half-promises to set her up when she needed work. Until then she would lie low. Go to ground. No clubbing, no dates, no eating candy from strangers. Sleep, movies, food, more sleep.

  The only thing she would do before hibernating and sorting out her life was getting her tattoo changed. Her imposing poolside lover had said it attracted the supernatural, which Suzy thought was about as likely as finding a well-paid job, but the very idea gave her goose bumps. Worse, ever since he’d told her that, she’d checked her tattoo daily, and damn if the thing didn’t change. Subtle alterations, a line here and a swirl there, but definitely changes. She had tried to find a reason – a skin condition, veins showing through her skin, the alignment of planets – but all her ideas felt contrived. She could remove the tattoo but that cost a fortune. Besides, removing tattoos was undignified. Only one thing remained: Getting the tattoo tweaked and hope that would stop the funniness. On the plane back, she had sketched a few ideas for adjustments that she would show the tattooist. She would go to the place where she got it done; with a little luck, she could get a discount if she said it itched. She had rehearsed what she’d say and what she definitely would not say, which was ‘So, this tribal you did, it leads me into all kinds of trouble and then gets me in bed with them. You know?’

  The main reason she wouldn’t say that was not because it was outrageous. It was, for sure, but deep down she also suspected it was true. Which was why she had been in the cafe for hours, mulling over her freakish recent run-ins when instead she should go and see the tattooist and get the thing over and done with. The studio was just two blocks away. A quick walk. She had to change the tattoo, if for nothing else to make it stop changing, and to stay sane. But if it was true that her recent dates were due to the restless tribal on her wrist, she wasn’t so sure she wanted it gone. After all, those nights had been incredible. What if she’d meet another...

  Suzy grimaced, steeled herself and put her cup down. She was losing her mind. A writhing bloody tattoo on her arm? It could be poisonous. Cancerous. Radioactive. She shuddered. At any rate, it was wrong. It had to go.

  Time to brave the rain. She rose, paid the disinterested girl behind the counter, wrapped her leather coat tightly around her, and left the cafe.

  *

  As soon as she left the awning outside the cafe’s entrance, rain pelted her as if someone had upended a bucket over her head. People ran past her on the sidewalk, darting from club to club or leaping into taxis. The street outside was a veritable river; while she struggled to button up her coat, a trio of garbage bags floated past like giant bubblegum bubbles full of nastiness. At least it was summer; the rain was relatively warm. She waited while two laughing and catastrophically drunk men ambled past – New York piranhas, only bigger and dumber than the finned variety – and then skipped down the sidewalk, trying to walk on upraised areas. After a few metres she gave up, planted her feet in the decimetre-deep water, scowled at the sky, and walked down the street towards the tattoo studio.

  She wasn’t sure the studio would be open, but seeing as she’d been there at 2 am when they’d done her troublesome tribal, she suspected they were open around the clock. If not, she could check the opening times and return later. Part of her hoped they wouldn’t be open; then she could slink back to the cafe and think some more. At least thinking didn’t get you soaked. She turned a corner, and then stopped.

  The street was unfamiliar, full of closed shops and quiet bars she had never seen before. She turned around and looked behind her; she should have passed the studio by now. The damned rain must have confused her. She cursed, kicked a floating beer can out of her path, and waded back, peering at the shops she passed. Chips, pharmacy, liquor, a dry cleaner. Everything the body needed except a tattoo studio. The place could have closed, she supposed, but she didn’t find any storefront that matched her memory of the studio’s exterior. But everything else looked familiar: The windows, the brick walls, the faded colour on the doors. This was the right street.

  Only there was no tattooist. She walked up and down, growing angrier and more sodden with each step, but the shops stubbornly refused to make room for the parlour where she’d gotten her tattoo. The street was right and wrong, correct but studio-less. She turned to cross the street, in case that would help her find her bearings, when a taxi cut close to the curb and sent a wave of mucky water crashing down over her. Suzy gasped, stopped, and looked down. She was drenched to the dyed roots of her hair.

  “Damn,” Suzy shouted and kicked a small cascade of water after the taxi. “Stupid, bloody mindless fu – ”

  “Can I help?”

  Brimming with adrenaline after the narrow escape with the taxi, Suzy spun and raised her fists. She was prepared for anything New York threw at her, be it robbers, weirdos, or tourists.

  A few metres away a young man stood under a comically small and ridiculously yellow umbrella. Suzy thought he was twenty at the most, though it was hard to see in the rain. He was clad in a foot-long dark gray coat over a knitted jumper and blue jeans. From where Suzy stood, he looked about a hand shorter than she was, which made him quite short for a man. His hair, a short, thick and wild tussle of blackness, had the look achieved only by either an expensi
ve hairdresser or a hard storm. Her eyes travelled downwards and stayed at the sight of the man’s bright purple rubber boots, peeking out under his coat. She looked up again and was met by a wide but hesitant grin full of almost-straight and very white teeth. He was so lean Suzy could have mistaken him for a woman, a long way from her mysterious woodland lover’s metre-wide shoulders, but there was an odd similarity between the two men – the paleness of their skin, the hue of their green eyes, the tilt of their smiles. His face was narrow and somehow aristocratic, with high cheekbones sharp enough to slice her tongue open.

  Still, despite the man in front of her being blessed with the looks of Johnny Depp circa 1990, the rest was a disaster: the yellow umbrella, the purple boots, his oversized coat, the baggy trousers. He looked as if he’d fought a jester’s wardrobe and come out second. If he was local, he was either a hipster or a loonie; if he was a tourist, he was likely to be robbed, ridiculed, or both. But tourists never asked if they could help her. Tourists backed away or, when she wore her black and studded thigh-high boots, took photos. Then again, he looked genuinely shy, standing there under his miniature umbrella and blinking in the rain like a lost fool. Well, maybe not a fool; he didn’t exactly look stupid or afraid, more curious and uncertain. And he was, she had to admit, stupidly good-looking.

  Suzy tuned out her suburban warning signals, and not only because he was cute. She wasn’t one to write someone of at first sight, even if they dressed as trying out for a circus. At least she could ask what he wanted.

  “What? Suzy demanded.

  “You’re looking for something.”

  Suzy frowned. It sounded less like a question and more like a statement of fact. So he wanted to help her, which was all nice and sweet, but the man standing a few metres away didn’t look like a tourist, a hipster or a freak. Well, a little like a freak, but she had the odd impression he wasn’t. She scratched at her wrist; her tattoo was itching like crazy. She really had to get rid of the thing.

  “Maybe,” Suzy said. “There’s this tattoo studio. It’s around here somewhere.”

  “It’s hard to find unless you know where to look.”

  “You know it?” Suzy felt her hopes return. If this man knew where the studio was located, she might not have to declare the whole night a failure. Unless she was wrong, his voice had an English accent, but there were enough accents in the city to fill the tower of Babel several times.

  “It’s famous,” the man said. “The artist is one of a kind. Very good.”

  Suzy was surprised; given the studio’s small size and her spur-of-the-moment-idea to go there, she wouldn’t have thought it was well known. “He did a decent job,” she said slowly.

  “I know.” The man nodded and smiled. “Your desideres binding.”

  “I’m a who?”

  His smile turned uncertain. “Your marking.” He pointed at his wrist. “Here.”

  “How the hell do you know about my tattoo?”

  “Oh.” He looked worried. “I saw it at the cafe,” he added, but it came out as a suggestion.

  “Never pulled my sleeves up in there,” Suzy said and took a step back.

  “Oh,” he said again. “I see.” He sighed and looked up at Suzy with his big, green eyes. A quick smile sailed over his lips, disappeared, then returned to anchor there. “This isn’t going very well, is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.” Suzy was unaware of anything going anywhere. She kept her eyes on his; that smile was a fraction too wide and disturbingly attractive.

  “It’s just – ” He sighed again and grimaced, making those distracting cheekbones rise even higher. “I didn’t – he never – I didn’t know about you. What you were like.”

  “Right,” Suzy said and half-raised her fists again. “I don’t know what you’re on, but I’m more broke than should be legal. No money here. I’ll walk away now, OK?”

  “Look,” he urged. “I can explain.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  “I’m a friend of Greene.”

  Suzy’s mind began to spin dangerously while warning bells rang in her head. More damn spookiness. This was precisely what she’d returned to New York to avoid. Worse, the very mention of Greene’s name made a very pleasant warmth spread in her. She could almost smell him, as if his touch lingered. She wouldn’t mind –

  Suzy shook herself. What was she thinking? “Never heard of the guy.”

  “No?” The man hesitated. “He described you very well, thought he omitted to tell me how beau – I mean to say, how you looked.”

  “I’m going to run now,” Suzy said, “and you’re going to walk the other way. Understand?”

  “He asked me to come.”

  “He what?” Suzy blinked. “That’s just – why would he do that?” She raised her hands in an I-don’t-want-to-know-gesture. “No, don’t tell me. My head will explode.”

  “Why would your head do such a thing?” he asked. “Is there a curse in place? Perhaps I can help? I am quite skilled at removing such enchantments.”

  Suzy stabbed a finger at him. “I’ll go now. And don’t follow me.” Suzy turned on her heel and stalked away with her eyes fixed in the distance. She’d go back to the cafe. It was kitchy and gaudy and bright, but at least it was safe. Full of sugar and normal strangers. And there was coffee.

  “That’s why he told me to find you,” the man called after her.

  “Whatever.” Suzy walked on.

  “Because you’re followed.”

  Suzy slowed down. Despite her determination not to care about what the gorgeous un-fashion victim said, his words made her skin crawl. The possibly supernatural – her jury was still out and apparently on vacation – meetings she had had didn’t help. She looked around but saw no one close. No cars, no other pedestrians. People crowded the bars farther up the street, but all windows were fogged over with condensation. The rain, now approaching infernal intensity, appeared to have driven everyone away. Apart from the man and Suzy, the streets were empty. A little too empty.

  She turned around. The man had not moved expect to fold his silly umbrella, letting the rain hammer down on him and splash off his coat. Now some twenty metres away, he looked like an abandoned mannequin. Strangely, his thick tussle of hair stayed unruly instead of being plastered to his head. Suzy wished she knew what brand of gel he used.

  “What are you talking about?” she shouted. “Don’t make me call the police.”

  The man started towards her. Suzy stood still, uncertain what to do, caught between the likelihood that he was a lunatic and the overwhelming impression that he was in need of help. It most certainly had nothing to do with that smile. When he came closer, he raised a hand and pointed.

  “That is what I mean,” he said.

  Suzy’s eyes widened; the man’s features had changed. He still looked young, but the hapless naivety was replaced by concentration. He looked focused, hard and feral, and he didn’t look happy. Even stranger, he didn’t look at Suzy. The hairs on Suzy’s arms stood up as if she’d stepped on a live wire.

  Easy, now.” Suzy prepared to run. “I don’t wan’t any – ”

  To Suzy’s relief and surprise, he walked right past her without breaking pace. Was he seeing things? Had his attention turned to some imaginary person? Confused, she turned, and the hairs on her arms stood up even more.

  Less than ten metres away, three men were moving towards her. Tall, lanky and clad in tattered clothes, they closed in fast, silent as silhouettes, moving in an oddly snaking way as if sliding on the wet asphalt. Their faces were lost deep inside hoods, but unless they were the three tallest women in the world, they had to be male. When Suzy had looked around less than ten seconds ago, the streets had been empty. She had no idea from where they had come, but she wished they went back, right now. Their silence and their movement could mean only trouble.

  The young man with who’d said he knew Greene walked right towards the three men. Either he was suicidal or visually impaired; if the n
ew arrivals on this surreal scene were as dangerous as Suzy suspected, they’d eat the poor maybe-tourist alive.

  “Hey,” Suzy croaked, in want of anything more intelligent to say. “Leave him alone.” And me, please, she added quietly. For some reason, her tattoo had started to itch even more.

  The young man reached the three men, and chaos ensued.

  One of the hooded men raised a hand and Suzy saw the glint of steel. A knife. A streetlamp struck of more steel: All three carried knives, broad and curved. The knife slashed down but the young man stepped to the side, avoiding the stab by a hair's breadth. The blade arced through empty air, then again as the purple-booted man ducked under a horizontal swipe. Suzy tried to scream but the words stuck in her throat as if she had a hand around her throat. She was panicking. She was caught up in a fight between one cute, miserable weirdo and three lethal and nightmarish strangers. Vintage Suzy luck. Options flew through her head: She could fight, and be sure that she would be stabbed or worse; or she could run and hope that no one chased her. She knew neither party; perhaps they would lose interest in her if she made it far enough. But running meant leaving the hapless stranger on his own, in the hands of three ominous thugs. That wasn’t her. And the man had said he knew Greene. She’d mentioned that name to no one, not ever her girlfriends. You could only test people’s credulity so much. She had to do something, but she had no idea what. In real-time, Suzy’s thoughts were compressed to a manic oh shit I have to run no I can’t I hate New York before she forced her shocked body into co-operation. She was terrified to the soles of her feet, but she had to act.

  In desperation, she searched the sidewalk. Fighting those men with her hands was a rotten idea from the start, and the knives ruled it out completely. She needed a weapon. He eyes fell on the discarded umbrella, a strip of ludicrous yellow on the street. A few quick steps and it was in her hands. Better than nothing, but not by much. Armed with a length of weak aluminium and a few layers of a hideous yellow plastic, she turned to face the attackers.