Vengeance

Even as a child, Alessa had never felt the compulsion for the docks that Lara had. The city of her birth held no charm for her, and this place in particular repelled her, rife as it was with memories she would have preferred to forget.

She had meant to leave that night, her quest concluded. And yet here she was, and what had driven her to this spot she could not say, moving like a ghost among the uncompassionate decay that once had been the playgrounds of her childhood. Her heritage was rooted here, submerged beneath these cobbled avenues, emanating from the muted glow of the iron lamp posts and the ancestral breath of rain-bogged earth, masked now by exhaust and neglect.

The heritage of another time.

And coming to this place of dim pain, she stopped, her feet caressing the crumbling stone of the seawall. It was here, on this very spot, in what seemed so many lifetimes ago, that her once-carefree youth had been sacrificed to a profane love, dooming the future to an unrealized past.

An oil barge thundered into the harbor, its belly heavy with crude, and her mind drifted back to a different age, when the creaking of wood and the whisper of canvas were the only sounds to herald an arrival from the sea.

The ship passed through the harbor, its wake dredging up a forsaken ache for simpler times. Times when there were still dreams of hope and sunlight.

Times she would trade her immortal soul to regain.

“Alessa.”

The voice oozed from the darkness, pure and tremulous. Real, and yet…so unnatural. Not a mortal voice at all. And she, so lost in those long ago thoughts, had not even felt his approach.

She turned now, a shiver of lust coursing through her veins.

His face was still swathed in shadow, though every feature was ingrained in her senses. The broad sweep of the shoulders, the careless rake of ebony hair across the high forehead, the thick slash of brows that could offer the impression of sublime intelligence one minute, and savage ferocity the next.

In the darkness his eyes glowed like cut glass. Gypsy eyes, she once had called them. It had been too long, but the memory returned with all its former potency.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, her own voice sounding small in his presence. He stepped forward; long, delicate fingers stretching for her.

“A while. A dozen or so years, I suppose.” A wave of doubt rolled at him from her. “He sent me. To watch…wait.”

She didn’t need to be told the subject of his vigilance, nor even his choice of locations. With the exception of motive, his purpose was essentially the same as her own. Sooner or later, even the most reclusive of creatures must resurface. For a maverick like Lara, it was inevitable. Despite the danger it implied, they both knew she would not be able to resist the temptation to return to the scene of her most irreverent conquest. It was the same dauntless audacity that had inspired her pursuit of the love of her youth. The same impertinence that had sparked Alessa’s insidious infatuation. No wonder the Maker had sent his most trusted protegé to retrieve her. If anyone could convince Lara to surrender her unsanctioned autonomy, it would be Danté.

“So you’ve been here…all this time?”

He nodded, releasing her, moving with that lithe grace that characterized their kind. He stepped onto the seawall, the backdrop of light-spattered water framing him like a modern Zeus. He belonged in these settings, in the world of mortal time, as he called it. Back in the Maker’s citadel, he had been one among many, but here he was a god. It wasn’t so much in his stature or his strength, or even the debilitating effect of his gaze.

No, with him, it was an aura. An undeniable manifestation of raw, omnipotent power. Even she was not immune to it.

“Tell me, Alessa,” he pressed deliberately. “Are those your indiscretions I’ve been reading about in the paper?”

She was stung by the question. “I thought we knew each other better than that.” She shook her head. “We both know who is responsible.”

He muttered something about the imprudence of fledglings, of unbridled passions. “A danger to us all,” he concluded with a meaningful glance.

Another reproach. She let it pass, satisfied for the moment merely to be with him again. Too many years had separated them, and even the most potent of recollections can dim with time. But he was here now, clad in his trademark black; a sports coat of good taste and current fashion. A turtle neck sweater and slacks. Perhaps a bit overdressed for the climate, but for a creature such as himself, whose only reference to heat was the warmth in his veins, it was an unnecessary concern.

He had turned back to the water, his gaze scraping the surface like a laser, aware at once of the kaleidoscope of life that teamed within its inky bowels, and inhaled deeply, sucking in its damp breath, suddenly overcome by the realization that he would indeed miss it when his task here was complete.

The sea was in his childhood, now so many centuries past. Long-forsaken memories reduced to fragmented impressions. An ageless wind, whispering to him of the mysteries of life above the chill dance of unforgiving tides. Never a ripple about the secrets his fate would reveal.

A sailor, he’d been. A warrior. Young and strong and fearless. But he had relinquished all that when he was captured and brought into the realm of the Maker. There he had learned fear and obedience, but also love. And eventually, when he was deemed worthy, power.

It wasn’t the forensic definition of the word; the acquisition of men and gold and property. No, the power he’d learned about in those early years was the release from the bonds of human regret, of mankind’s self-contrived morality. It was the absolute power of a superior will over a weaker one.

When his time had come, it was without recrimination that he had bade farewell to the impotence of his former existence and embraced the Maker’s creed.

And yet, at times such as this, an unspecific yearning would tug at him. A craving for answers that never had been found. For revelations that, despite his command and sagacity, still eluded him, buried somewhere deep within that undulating womb of life.

Perhaps that was as it should be, for he was no longer a part of life’s fabric, and even mortality must be allowed its secrets.

He sighed, shaking his head, nearly forgetting his companion, but her presence intruded upon his thoughts now.

Sweet Alessa; in so many ways, still so young. He hoped the impressions he was receiving from her now were wrong. Her loss would pain him to the end of time.

Many lovers he had taken over the years, fledglings whose transitions were nurtured by his tainted trust, but there was something different about this one; lover, daughter, sister. Never before had he experienced such a kinship.

He had recognized it for what it was long ago: a dangerous thing. A thing that could drive him to disobedience. That was why he had agreed to leave the ancestral home of his kind and re-enter the mortal world when the Maker had suggested it. Perhaps He, too, had recognized the potential.

And now she was here, and all the old feelings were returning. He had thought himself beyond all of that. It was demeaning for one such as himself to fall prey to this weakness.

He wanted her to go, and yet he was drawn to her like a moth to light. Drawn to her rabid vitality, to her voracious lust for life. In her arms, he no longer felt like the ancient thing he had become. In her arms, he was young again. He was, once again, the warrior.

Wrong. All wrong.

“Why are you here, Alessa?”

“He sent me. To find Renaud.”

His eyes alone told her he did not believe. Renaud was nearly his contemporary, and a notorious renegade, even for their kind. Many had tried, but none had succeeded in returning the mutinous deviant to the fold.

“No,” he told her. “We both know you’re not ready for that. Now tell me the truth.”

She avoided his eyes, cloaking her thoughts, and he marveled at her newfound strength despite the anxiety it caused him. Had it been so long?

“I thought if I found him, He would reward me.”

“Your reward will come when you prove that you are ready,” he replied, making his voice sound hard.

“I am ready.” She moved closer, her eyes pulling his to her. “And I found him, though he’s gone now for all time.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been away a long time, Danté. I’ve learned a great many things. How to create…and destroy.” She smiled at the wonder in his eyes now. “I took his head.”

He grabbed her again, the tenderness gone from his touch. Rage flashed in his eyes, but it was fear that pulsed through his veins. Fear for her.

“You know only the Old Ones have the power to destroy.”

She jerked free, her eyes defiant. “Why? I’ve developed my power. And now I have his as well.”

“Fool. Have you no idea of the consequences of your actions?”

“I had to do it,” she interrupted. “He was going to destroy her.”

He stopped, the retort snagged in his throat. “Lara?” She nodded, reveling in the momentary victory. “So…you've seen her?”

“We are together again.”

So, that explained her presence. Alessa had been reunited with the only creature who could replace him in her dark heart; the creature whose untempered lust had delivered her to this life. Yes, he could smell the change in her now; strange that he had not noticed before. Well, as much as it pained him to disappoint her, he would not be deterred from his task. The Maker wanted Lara, and so He would have her. There would be no negotiation on this point, even if it was Renaud who had cast the original stone. Lara’s fate, like that of her unruly sire, belonged to the Maker.

He met her eyes, an expression of pure evil slashing his handsome features, and Alessa acknowledged a momentary pang of pity for any soul unfortunate enough to fall prey to the spell of his beauty. His was not a will accustomed to being challenged.

“I’ll share her with you, Danté,” she offered, measuring his intent. A peace offering; the spoils of victory?

He snorted impatiently. “You know I no longer indulge in such things.”

“Ah, come now, my love. Even you haven’t grown that cold.” Her fingers traced the hard line of his chin, bringing a reluctant curl to his lip. “You would taste of me now, would you not?”

Treacherous creature. He snatched her hand, bringing it to his lips, unable to stifle the rush of pleasure her words sent through him. “Are you offering?”

“How can I refuse?” She moved into him, opening herself to his embrace. “It’s been too long, Danté.”

“Yes,” he murmured, taking the offered sacrifice.

She moaned as his teeth entered her, immediately lost in the fervent rush of liquid bliss. It was different among their kind, this aberrant union. For all the unnatural passion, there was no life in their commune. No obsessive hunger for living warmth, for the dying thunder of lost mortality. With them, it was nothing more than coupling; the carnal fusion of a like species.

And it was over too quickly. As was the case with those of his age, the bond had lost its importance.

“I don’t look forward to the day when I am so easily satisfied,” she whispered to him now.

“That is what holds you back, my dear. You’re still too attached to the physical. To these…sensual pleasures.”

“Is that so bad? After all, what would you do if I weren’t? Take a mortal lover? Make another fledgling slave?”

His eyes softened almost sadly now. “That day will come, you know.”

“Yes, I know. And perhaps by then I won’t care. Perhaps by then I’ll lose my taste for such things. And then again,” she added with a meaningful look, “perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll merely bury the feelings, as you have.”

If he could have blushed, he would have. She alone knew his true weakness, a weakness that could mean destruction should it ever be discovered by his contemporaries.

He stared at her, marveling at the reflection of light and water in the hungry depths of her eyes. “You’re wrong about me.”

“Am I?”

“I will miss you.”

She sighed, still bargaining. “Then we should make the most of what we have. Stay with me now.”

“You know where my loyalties lie.”

“Maybe it’s time you broke free.”

“I can’t do that. I belong to…Him.” A shadow crossed his face again, darkening his features.

“What is it?”

“I fear for you now, Alessa. You have committed a forbidden act. He will show no mercy.”

“Will you tell Him, then?”

“I won’t need to.”

She thought about that for a moment, then shrugged; a childlike motion. “It will be worth it, to have what I want.”

If capable, he would have surrendered to the jealousy her betrayal provoked. Would she be willing to risk as much for him? The prospect stirred a desire to protect her from the justice he knew would be forthcoming.

“Vengeance is a dangerous thing for our kind.”

“He would have destroyed her,” she repeated.

“Perhaps that was her destiny.”

“I could never allow that.” She slipped away from his embrace, turning back to find him, her eyes glittering coldly.

“Why not?”

She offered an icy smile. “Because, my dear, I want that privilege for myself.” 

The Conversation

The Conversation

 

“Didn’t you get married?”

When Joey didn’t answer right away, I couldn’t tell if he was thinking up a good lie or just reluctant to talk about it.

“We split up,” he finally replied like it was no big deal. But it was too quick.

“What happened?” Cassie asked without looking up from her plate. Thirty years and she still hadn’t mastered the concept of boundaries.

“Just grew apart?” I offered as a bailout.

“I don’t…” he shrugged. “I don’t know. It was all good for a while. I mean, really good, you know? It just…” He lowered his voice, like he was talking to himself. “Just not good enough for marriage.” After a moment, he raised his eyes to me. “You know what I mean?”

Part of me really did, so I nodded. “Sure. It’s like…I love you more than anything but…not all the time.” He started nodding along with me. “I mean, there’s a whole wide world out there and while I love having you as a safe haven in it…”

“It’s not your whole world,” he finished.

Close, I thought, but still not quite there. How do you tell people you’ve known almost your whole life–well, your early life–that the person they thought they knew as you didn’t exist? That you weren’t the fun-loving comedian they remember from high school? You never had been. It was all an act, a mask you hid behind so no one would know that you really couldn’t stand to be around them. Not them in particular, but people in general.

It had nothing to do with the self-indulgent, narcissistic boredom people feign today. Not to get all metaphysical, but it was more of a desire to filter out the noise so I could hear what the universe was saying to me. Everyone has moments when they want to unplug and run away. I’d just been having them my entire life. Like I wished everyone would go find another planet and leave me alone.

“Actually,” I ventured, “I think it’s more like, I love you, but seriously, could you just leave for a while?”

“Great,” Cassie huffed. “We’ve reached the philosophical portion of the evening.”

Ignoring her, Joey grinned at me. I grinned back at him, then something…I don’t know…something…stirred. Down there. It had been so long, I’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

No, that’s a lie. I hadn’t forgotten. I’d just given up hope. Figured it was just another one of those delightful benefits of aging. Well, for most people. Not the ones in the commercials–the Viagra-popping, tennis playing, perfect teeth smiling Stepfordbots. No, the real people. The ones who either stayed between the lines with a life mate, hooked up with the first lost soul they could snag, or took care of things the old-fashioned way while ignoring the missing parts of that union.

I guess if anyone was reading my mind, that would sound pretty cynical. Must be the years talking. Who am I kidding–I was born cynical.

Joey looked away first as Cassie came up for air, oblivious to anything but the plateful of boiled shrimp she had just finished meticulously peeling. She glanced between us and frowned.

“What’d I miss?” She continued before either of us could answer. “She the one you met in college? Denise, Debbie…D-something?”

I bit my inner lip, still trying to process what had just happened. Joey? He’s like a brother. Well, maybe a cousin. Second cousin. Okay, really good friend. Still…

“Ellen,” Joey furnished before reaching over and nabbing one of Cassie’s shrimp, popping it in his mouth with a boyish grin. I smiled to myself, recalling what a huge part of my early life that grin had been. Like his laughter, it was honest and carefree; an act of pure enjoyment. Some would say infectious. Not that I was one of them.

It didn’t matter how upset or depressed or disappointed I was, Joey could always cheer me up. Never mind that half the time it was at my own expense. Well, maybe not quite half the time.

Actually, that kind of stopped after tenth grade. That’s when I noticed something new in his smile. I figured it was just part of growing up, but deep down I knew that didn’t explain the sadness. The sense that he had lost something. I ignored it because it didn’t fit the carefree Joey image I had created in my mind.

I could almost feel the metaphorical slap across the head then–the duh moment. Was he living behind a mask, too?

Cassie smacked his hand and snapped her teeth at him the way she used to do when he stole her food in cafeteria. We all laughed and Joey grabbed another shrimp. Cassie fought him for it, then he leaned his head back, holding the shrimp above his mouth and daring her to come get it.

“Go ahead,” Cassie said with a face. “I don’t want it after you've played with it.”

Joey grinned, then his eyes flickered over to me, and…

Everything stopped.

A lifetime of what-ifs shuffled through my mind, like one of those old flip pads cartoonists used to simulate film, while Time took a time-out. Like the Earth’s axle suddenly froze up and the world ground to a quietly screeching halt.

Yeah, I know. I’ve heard people say it before–Time stood still. I’ve even used the expression in my writing, but really, that’s all it is, right? A corny expression?

Maybe the weed we’d smoked earlier in the car was better than I thought. Maybe it was some time stopping, mind twisting, ecstasy weed. The Guy said White Widow. You’d think at least one of those millions of café goers would’ve Yelped about effects like that.

Joey released the shrimp and it dropped into his open mouth while he ducked away from Cassie’s slap. I laughed at their game–on reflex–but my attention was all on watching the muscles in his neck as he swallowed the shrimp.

“Asshole,” Cassie declared playfully.

“That’s me,” he agreed, jumping to his feet and heading into the kitchen. “Anybody else want something to drink?”

“I’ll take another beer,” Cassie called, raising her empty bottle for him to claim. He grabbed it then looked at me.

“Sam?”

I glanced down at my glass, where I still had a finger of bourbon. “No, I’m good.”

When he didn’t move, I raised my eyes to find him looking at me. Thinking maybe he hadn’t heard me, I repeated my answer.

“I’m sure of that,” he murmured with a slow grin that didn’t show a hint of boyishness, then turned back toward the kitchen.

What the hell? Was I imagining this? Was I really thinking about what I was thinking about? Is there a full moon or something? Did I accidently dial up some porn in my recent internet foraging? Get a grip. It’s Joey. You know, Joey. Best bud from fourth grade.

“I can get us tickets, if you guys want to go,” Cassie was saying. “Sam?”

“Huh?” Quick, what was she saying?

“Big surprise,” she sighed. “You weren’t listening.”

“Sorry,” I replied, rubbing my temple. “I uh…had a moment.” Boy, did I ever.

“Remember when we used to say that in high school?” Cassie laughed, then shook her head, her smile fading. “And now we really do.”

“Maybe it’s just the alcohol,” Joey chuckled, handing her a beer and flopping into his chair. He unscrewed the cap of his own beer and took a long pull then tipped his head toward my glass. “You are drinking the hard stuff.”

I frowned–was he saying I was a lush? He must’ve read my expression because he practically fell over himself to apologize. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just kidding around, you know?”

“No, it’s cool,” I assured him, too quickly, and hoped he didn’t notice.

“I knew that.”

Shit, this was getting way too complicated.

He dropped his eyes to his bottle then murmured, barely loud enough to hear, “You looked like you could use some cheering up.”

Too bad. I heard it, but I acted like I didn’t because I didn’t want to ask what he meant. I mean, I wanted to know, and I wouldn’t stop him if he wanted to volunteer the information. But I wouldn’t ask for it.

Cassie saved us both by reminding him that he still hadn’t answered her earlier question. Bless your anal-retentive heart.

“What question?”

“Is your ex-wife the one you met in college?”

He glanced between her and me. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

“Yes,” Cassie replied. “Full disclosure. We haven’t seen each other in fifteen years”

“I saw you last summer,” I interrupted.

Cassie rolled her eyes at me. “As a group. We haven’t seen each other as a group since our five-year reunion.”

“Why did we do that again?” Joey asked, obviously deflecting.

“Do what?”

“Have a five year reunion instead of the usual ten?”

“Some of us went to both,” I said before I could stop myself. He looked at me.

“Really?”

I shrugged. “I was in town. Roxie and John were there.”

“What?” Cassie gaped. “That’s the whole reason why we had a five year reunion. They said they were going to be working in Japan then.”

“Well, they were there.”

“Did they say what happened?”

I was really over this particular subject. “I didn’t ask. We only talked for a few minutes.”

“Are you kidding? You guys used to do all kinds of stuff together.”

“Yeah, in a group,” I snorted. “To be honest, I really didn’t talk to her much then. And John I didn’t know at all. I was already gone when they met.”

“She was kind of uppity,” Joey remarked, causing me to throw him a grateful smile.

“Thank you.”

“Just cause her family lived in Snell Isle.”

I raised my glass and tinked it against his bottle, and just like that, everything was back to normal.

“Hmph,” Cassie said thoughtfully. “I could swear you were at their wedding.”

“Nope. You must be thinking of the other Sam.”

“What other Sam?”

“I don’t know,” I said, jumping up and heading for the kitchen. “Anything else to eat in here?”

I wasn’t really hungry–I’d just polished off a 12 ounce ribeye and all the fixings a couple of hours ago–but I was seriously getting tired of Memory Lane of the Rich and Famous. I stuck my head in the fridge and spotted a bowl of cut fruit. I grabbed it and three forks and headed back into the livingroom.

“No,” Cassie barked when she saw what I was carrying. “That’s for breakfast.”

“Too bad, I want it now.” I dropped the bowl on the coffee table and handed Joey a fork, then tossed another to Cassie before using my own to stab a big strawberry.

“Hey, I wanted that one,” Joey protested.

I popped it into my mouth and gave him a big chipmunk smile. “Oops.”

“You two are just alike,” Cassie sulked, cornering a chunk of pineapple.

“Great minds,” Joey mumbled as he stuffed three grapes into his mouth.

Cassie finished chewing and swallowing, then grabbed a piece of apple and looked between us, grinning. “I’m glad it turned out to be just us.”

“Me too,” Joey agreed, winking at me.

“Uh, yeah,” I added uncertainly. He was fucking with me now. That’s what all this was. A little weed, a couple of drinks, some old friends, and suddenly my mind is taking the scenic route through the gutter.

I looked up at him again and our eyes met and in that instant I knew that for all his teasing, the invitation was there, but Joey would never be the one to make the first move.

That would be up to me.

Gifted

If it hadn’t been for Thomas, Gary never would have made it to that Christmas.  Thomas was always there, always had a smile, a shoulder, a hand to extend, and Gary truly believed that no matter what he did, that hand never would be retracted.  That’s why he worked so hard to get the house ready, even though he wanted nothing to do with the Yule this year. Sharon bitched constantly about the all the trees he bought, but he wanted the house to smell like a forest when Thomas came back from Canada; to feel at home. Maybe then he wouldn’t go back and they could start the whole thing over again from the beginning. Of course, he refused to even consider the alternative, which was what Sharon kept harping on.

“He’ll surely think you’ve lost your mind,” she told him over and over again, as he dragged one after another of the trees through the double French doors leading from the back porch. The dining room looked like Sherwood Forest, with wind chimes and stuffed birds adorning the branches. Sharon packed her bags and moved out on the twenty-third. As soon as she was gone, Gary drained her waterbed and filled it with dirt, then planted dozens of seedlings in it, draping them with miniature lights and wooden figurines.

With the house to himself, Gary listened to the clocks ticking down the minutes to Christmas. Soon. Soon they would both be here in this house, both under the sky-blue ceiling and the glow-in-the-dark stars sprayed across the plaster heaven. Here among the pines and the spruces and the firs that scented the air. He boiled apples on the hearth and cinnamon sticks on the stove, and delighted in the effect on his psyche. It was wonderful; a true Christmas.

And he waited.

On Christmas Eve, a package arrived, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a cord, the address scrawled in black marker. He found a knife and cut through the bindings, tearing away the paper. Inside, hidden among shredded newspapers from Vancouver, was a framed picture of Thomas in a three-piece suit standing outside a condo. The note explained that this was his new house; he had found a good job as an accountant with a prestigious firm and was too busy to leave right now. Have a nice Christmas. Love, Thomas. Nothing else.

Gary stared at the picture for hours, holding it up before him as he wandered through his forest, a forest that seemed suddenly stupid. After awhile, he found a nice clearing and sat down and piled up some logs and started a fire.

Eyes

The killer stares back at me with ice blue eyes. Eyes spiked with a hunger that demands to be fed. Eyes that gleam at the lush gore of severed flesh, savoring the tortured intimacy of slow death. That dull with the cold bloom of the mangled corpse as the rage slowly seeps away, flowing pure and red.

Eyes that keep their promise.

These are the eyes I meet as I prepare to leave my house, the darkness having wrapped its whorish arms around the city like an empty, pulsing womb. A womb the eyes need to see cut.  Cut and bleeding and raw. A womb that no longer could birth the monster where madness held its ravenous roost.

These are the eyes that check once more for the soothing presence of the machete, tucked lovingly inside the oversized coat, before turning away from the mirror and heading for the door.

The Edge

This story was inspired by the Golden Earring song, Twilight Zone. What if you woke up in a strange place with a gun in your hand and no recollection of who you were or how you got there?

Somewhere within the barren house a clock counts a muted chime: one, two. I stare past the hot silver weight in my hand at the woman on the floor, her blood shimmering like cherry-colored oil on the slick white tile, framing a ragged hole between vacant eyes.

Green eyes.

I have no memory of who she is or why I'm here among these stark walls. My brain is numb. I know myself only from scent, and a name that flashes like a neon sign from oblivion...Mike. Mike Salino.

The thought is somehow calming, a buffer against the madness. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing myself to relax, and gradually other images begin to filter through. A business trip; I came home a day early, phoning from the hotel, leaving a message on the machine telling Beverly to pick me up at the airport at 8:30. Waiting an hour; finally grabbing a cab, figuring she's working late. It's raining--that miserable, bone-numbing February rain. Soaking me as I run up the driveway, calling out to her. The house is dark but for the light under our bedroom door. Someone is in there talking; laughing. The kind of laugh we used to share just after...

Tony?

February 3rd, 2008. The date is tattooed on my memory.

My wife and my own brother.

The blood from the woman's ruptured skull is beginning to congeal, turning dark and dull, and before I can stop it, the bile rises in my throat, my knees jarring on the stark white tile, my body convulsing, its bitter soup lacing the soured carnage on the floor.

I drag myself to the kitchen. Rinse out my mouth. Splash cold water on my face. Look around; purged and newborn.

There's no evidence of who might live here. No mail on the counter, no notes stuck to the refrigerator. Not a stray hair or a wisp of lint or a water spot on the glazed perfection. Just a calendar on the wall, Xs crossing off the first three days of February...2013.

2013?

God, are those my screams? Anguish careening off unfamiliar walls, chasing me through the house, past the black empty windows and the white tiled bathroom until my flight is arrested by a flawless, floor-length mirror.

I stare back at the face reflected there, a rim of mottled gray, eyes as dead as the woman’s. I forget I'm still holding the gun until I smash my hand against the glass.

There's a clean towel in the kitchen, and I'm careful to set the gun down on the counter before wrapping the wound.

The gun; I should leave it there. Should wipe it clean and walk away, but it calls to me; a molten god.
I pick it up. Cradle it in my palm with cold intimacy. No cop in the world will believe I'm not the one who pulled that trigger. Who watched with calculated composure as hot metal seared through vital flesh.

I have to get out of this house.

I retrace my steps, back through the foyer, past the cooling corpse, down the glaring corridor that opens into a lush bedroom suite. A wall of glass frames a bed smothered in satin. Black-framed abstracts splash across white walls. Polished chests stuffed with silk and lace. It reeks of excess.

Twin dressing rooms lead to separate bathrooms, a woman's with dresses cocooned in filmy plastic, a man's lined with drawers on one side, suits and shirts on the other. Shoes aligned precisely on the carpeted floor.

I strip and select one of the suits, a gray pinstripe. Perfect fit. A pair of black wingtips slip on like they're made for me. Better.

I scour my old pants for a wallet; nothing. Ball up the blood-spattered clothes and stuff them in a pillowcase. Move to the night stand on the left side of the bed; the side I’ve always preferred. Beverly used to call it protective instinct. Anyone would have to go through me to get to her.

Anyone but…

The drawer reveals some photos, several sets of car keys, a small box of shells. Forty-four magnum. I glance at the gun, pocket the shells, pick up the top photo. A woman posed on a beach in a red string bikini. A handwritten caption: Sara in Bimini, April 7, 2012. Our honeymoon.

The room starts to spin, the nausea returning. I sift through the keys, grab a set with a BMW fob, notice a business card. Sara Barnes-Salino, Attorney at Law.

I drop the card and slam the drawer shut, heading back to the man’s closet. Moving with purpose now. There's a jewelry box in one of the drawers--tie tacks and cufflinks; a Rolex watch. I need cash; I’ll settle for value. I slip it over my wrist.

Sliding the box back into the drawer, I spot a manilla envelope tucked against the back of the chest. I pull it out; the front is stamped EVIDENCE--DEFENSE COPY. Half a dozen black and white eight-by-ten glossies inside. Pictures of a crime scene; graphic detail.

The first is a wide shot of two bodies on the floor; a man and a woman. The bed in the background is rumpled, abused. Splattered with gray.

I flip to the next picture, unable to stop myself.

The man’s chest is laid open, the outline of shattered bone glaring white against the gray pulp. His head hangs to the side at a crazy angle; the neck broken. Something about the jaw, the line of his nose...

The tangle of dark hair hiding his face.

The woman looks worse. Half her face is gone; a mangled puddle of gore with a single, vacant eye.
Green eyes—you can never tell what they're hiding.

…my own brother?

The eye in the photo is staring at me with Poe-ish accusation. Even in death, green eyes don’t change.

I slip the pictures back into the envelope and tuck it into my jacket, calm now as I walk back to the kitchen, the judge’s thunder still crackling through my head.

Temporary insanity.

Pity…you would have thought she was smarter than that.

Invictis

Now that you’re all here, I would like to ask you to sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night for you, and I certainly don’t want you jumping up and trying to run out of here mid-tale. Truth be known, I’ve satisfied my needs for the night and I’m in no mood for that sort of scene. Besides, the doors are all locked, so where would you go?

I’ve allowed you to enter my world because I felt you were of an open mind and might have something to offer besides that maddening essence I smell pumping through your veins, so don’t make me regret my decision. Trust is a hard thing to come by with my kind, and once it’s broken, we are a nasty sort to deal with.

And just exactly what is my kind, you ask? I think you know by now. Did you really think it was fiction I was laying down? Please, give me some credit. If it was art I was seeking, I’ve been known to be quite literate with a knife.

That was meant to be a joke, though I suppose I can’t blame you for not laughing. My sense of humor tends to be a bit…depraved. I should warn you, there are others of my kind here, and some not nearly so agreeable as myself. For instance, that toothsome fellow lurking in the corner over there would sooner devour you than give you the time of night. Normally his tastes run more to younger flesh, though judging by the way he’s eyeing the lot of you, I’m sure he would forego that preference tonight. However, we won’t concern ourselves with that at the moment. I assure you, you’re quite safe…for now. Even he wouldn’t violate the sanctity of my lair.

Ah yes, that is what we call it—a lair. No white picket fences or two-car garages for us. We tend to like things a bit on the murky side, and we’re sticklers for our privacy. It suits our lifestyle far better than picture windows and prying neighbors.

Where was I? Oh yes…I have a tale to tell you, though I’m not sure what I’ll do with you once I’m done. You see, revealing myself to you is a direct violation of the code we live by. Hopefully, none of my brethren will rat me out on this one, though I may have to promise them something special to buy their silence.

But I’m stalling, and you’ve been so patient. Or is it fear that has sealed your lips? Either way, I won’t bore you with all the superstitious nonsense you hear and read about us. Let’s just cut to the meat of it, those philosophical issues that separate our species, the first of which would be guilt.

Despite what you might have heard, it’s not an issue with us. To experience guilt would imply a sense of morality, and I’m afraid that’s a purely human attribute, a tool used to keep you from indulging your bestial instincts. What use is that to creatures such as ourselves? We ARE the beast. We kill because it is our nature, and because, like all creatures, we want to go on.

To bring the concept closer to the bone, do you feel guilty when you bite into that steak on your plate? After all, it was once a cow. See, not so different after all. The thing that separates us from the other predators is that we are the most vicious and indiscriminate of all, and you, unfortunately, are our prey.

Oh, and there is one other thing. A pretty big thing, actually. Immortality. Yes, we can live forever, if that is our choice. And why wouldn’t it be, you ask? Well, I would have to agree with you there–why wouldn’t anyone want to live forever? But there are others–elders of our kind and some unbalanced fledglings—who’ve either lost or never had the stamina for immortality. And stamina is a requirement. It can sometimes get pretty lonely, watching all that you know whither and die, but after a few mortal life spans you learn to adjust. You either become a sponge, soaking up the latest trends and tempo of the mortal world, or you involve yourself in the nightly intrigues of your brethren. The key is to stay busy.

Naturally, there are ways we can meet our end, prolonged exposure to the sun being the biggie. We’re not exactly great worshipers of that fireball in the sky. Our skin isn’t configured to soak up rays, and so far, there isn’t a sunblock with a high enough SPF rating to change that. Not that we immediately turn to ash when caught out after dawn. That’s another misconception. It’s more like a slow burn…imagine popping yourself into a microwave on a power level of, say five. Yeah, you get the picture. Not very pleasant, to say the least, though one can survive it—if the damage isn’t too severe.

I could go into other, less appealing methods of thwarting immortality, but it’s probably best I save those for another time. After all, there is a point to this gathering, and I promised myself I would stay on topic tonight.

Why am I telling you this? Hmm…good question. Maybe it’s your silence, who knows? It’s fascinating, actually…mortals who can keep their mouths shut. I’m quite sure you’d be singing like a canary if you knew half the stuff that goes on around you while you sleep. That is, until I ripped your throat out. Can’t have you talking to the wrong people, can we?

You there, sit down. I already told you, I’ve satisfied that need for the night. But you’ve distracted me again. As I said, I have a reason for revealing myself to you, which will become more obvious when I’ve finished my tale. But first, you deserve to know what you’re getting into.

There’s a whole world out there you never see, and that’s just the way we like it. Birth, love, hate, ambition, death…much like your own world, but one of greater beauty, darkness, and savagery. And it all starts with a simple act of passion we call the Change. That’s what happens when a mortal is made one of us.

Naturally, it’s not all sweetness and light. In fact, it’s completely hellish, when you get down to it. Just ask any of my kind. The Change can be a beautiful experience, or it can be a trip straight out of a page from Dante. Regardless, dying isn’t fun, and unfortunately, that is a requirement to become one of us. It’s pretty traumatic stuff; certainly not for the feint of heart. That’s why a lot of potential fledglings never make it. They haven’t the stomach for it.

That first kill is, well…a killer. There are no words to describe the compulsion that drives you toward it. You simply have to experience it to know, and for those of us who have, it’s something you never forget. It haunts us every night, especially if we go too long without feeding. Believe me, that’s not a pretty sight. No, dieting is definitely not a wise decision for us.

Other than that, unless you look closely, you probably wouldn’t be able to tell we’re any different than you. It’s only when we step into bright light or begin to move that the guise becomes obvious. Yes, we move differently than you. See, like this. No, I’m over here now. You didn’t even see that, did you? I walked slowly…for us. And yet, when we want, our movements can be languid, almost hypnotic, but then, you knew that, didn’t you? That part of the legend is true. We are sensual creatures…creatures of dark passion and darker desires. I could make you scream with the most intense pleasure with just a touch. Would you like to see?

No, I thought not. Besides, I’m sure than would make short work of the evening’s intent. Even I don’t have that much self-control.

But you look like you could use a drink. A little wine, perhaps? Please, feel free to help yourselves to a glass. I’m a bit thirsty myself from all this talking. Shall we take a break? No? All right then, I’ll get started.

My tale begins in the coldest winter anyone could ever remember in the high passes of the northern Italian Alps. The year was 1784. I was seventeen; the only daughter of an errant thaumaturgist. That’s what you might call a sorcerer today. Actually, sorcerer might be a little overdoing it. While a direct descendent of a Druid priest, my father really wasn’t much of a conjuror. My mother was the one with the power—a witch who passed her gift on to me—but she’d had the good sense to die in childbirth. I say good sense, because it saved her from meeting my father’s fate. But I get ahead of myself.

Superstition was the national past time in the mountain villages in those times, and with good reason. There was a cabal of bloodthirsty warlocks in the vicinity who made traveling at night more adventurous than hailing a cab on a Friday afternoon in Harlem. Yes, we all knew about them, but back then there was such a thing as respect for beings like that. There were no assault rifles and flame throwers, the likes of which have been used to take out entire clans of our brethren while they slept in recent times.

Anyway, these warlocks, who went by the pretentious moniker of The Order of the Black Star, developed a personal interest in my father. They were recruiting, you see; sort of like corporate head-hunters, scouting the best talent for their cause. They approached him several times, on the sly, of course, though he recognized them for what they were and would have none of whatever it was they were selling.

As you can imagine, that didn’t sit too well with the haunchos of the Black Star hierarchy. No one refused them and lived to brag about it. So they decided a little taste of revenge was on the menu for my father.

Now if you think they merely killed him to satisfy their iniquitous sense of justice, you don’t know anything about Thelemic orders, which is really not surprising, since that’s just the way they like it. And The Black Star, being the poster child for covert operations, took that one step further. The Cosa Nostra have nothing on this bunch. They especially prided themselves on the originality of their retribution. Scorn, in particular, seemed to bring out their perverse streak.

So my father had no idea what he let himself—or me—in for. I would imagine straws were drawn up in the Black Star homestead to see who would be the one to exact the punishment. As it happened, the lucky winner was a man known only as Invictis, a former magician from Vienna—which happened to be Black Star Central, as geography goes. He was dispatched to my father’s house to do whatever it took to defend the cabal’s good name.

In those days, I slept in the garret above the little cottage that housed not only our living quarters, but those of a small and varied menagerie of animals that kept my father and I from starving during the frigid days and nights of winter. Three stories from the ground would seem a safe, albeit cold, place to spend one’s nights, but that wasn’t the case when it came to these supernatural jackals. The walls were easily scaled, the tiny window offering no barrier to the larger creature’s passage. He slipped in and crept into my bed without a sound. The only evidence of his presence was the unnerving chill that accompanied his advance under my gown.

I awoke with his cold breath on my face, his black eyes holding mine in thrall as he slid his icy hands around my neck. Part of me was terrified, but at the same time, I had to admit to a growing sense of excitement. After all, life was pretty boring in our village, and winters were especially tedious. I was lost in a twisted adolescent fantasy that maybe he wasn’t as scary as he looked when his lips brushed across my neck and his teeth entered me. I became aware of the most exquisite pain in my throat as his mouth began its deadly work, sucking my blood from the wound. I was growing weaker, a feeling akin to floating overtaking my limbs, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, and then gradually even that grew silent. It was the last time I ever heard it.

When his mouth finally pulled away, I remember in some dim portion of consciousness wanting to cry out. I was painfully aware of everything around me—every sound and scent, regardless of how insignificant—though I could not process the information in any known form. It was as if I merely existed as a sponge for these stimuli.

I heard something tear, like flesh being punctured, and then he was pressing his wrist to my lips, and the first searing drops of his blood trickled into my mouth. At that moment, every desire I’d ever entertained was answered. I clutched at the offered limb, attacking the wound with eager abandon. More, my body screamed, but my cold-hearted sire had already pulled away.

I was starving. Not the kind of hunger you’re familiar with—the unspecific growling of an empty stomach. No, this was a hundred times worse, and it radiated throughout my body. I was certain it would consume me if I did not feed it as soon as possible.

As I mentioned before, the Black Star were a treacherous lot, and they lived up to their reputation that night. My sire, knowing how I would awaken to his world, called down to my father, who was asleep on the floor below my own. By that time, I was ravenous and ready to devour the first thing that came within reach. Unfortunately for my father, that meant him.

My existence after that night became a blur of blood and suffering. I’m not proud to say I was little more than a rabid animal, killing anyone and everyone who crossed my path. For my actions, my new captors punished me, locking me away without blood for weeks at a time, hoping by their cruelty to force me to control my bloodlust long enough to develop my magical abilities. All their efforts accomplished was make me hate them even more. While part of me was as anxious as they were to get my deadly appetites under control, I had no intention of playing good little soldier for their twisted agenda.

Eventually Invictis, growing tired of babysitting what he called a mindless, rabid dog, washed his hands of me and turned me over to the Council. They unanimously voted to end what they called a pointless experiment by having my Sire put me to death. I will add here that it is the accepted protocol among our kind that the Sire be the one to destroy an errant child. In this case, however, my sentence was postponed by an unknown benefactor who left the door to my cell unlocked the night before my execution. Needless to say, I wasted no time taking advantage of the reprieve.

I likely would have ended up finding death regardless had I not stumbled into the territory of a clan of vampires who, it turns out, were sworn enemies of The Black Star. I agreed to provide them with information about the cabal’s operation in exchange for protection. In the end, we all got what we wanted. The Black Star’s ranks were all but decimated and I received the long-overdue training to control my bloodlust.

Yes, I agree this is all ancient history, but there is a point to my tale. You see, while The Black Star’s power was indeed crippled by the efforts of my adopted clan, a few of them managed to escape their brethren’s fate. They went into hiding, no doubt hoping to out-wait our campaign against their order. Over the years, we have managed to weed out many of the survivors, but there are still a few stragglers left.

Ordinarily, we would be content to simply live and let live—after all, we’re in no position to throw stones–but warlocks are a tenacious lot. Once they latch on to an ideal, nothing short of death will change their minds, which means every time another one surfaces, he starts recruiting new neophytes to rebuild the cabal. And trust me when I say that is something you do not want to see happen. The Black Star makes the Third Reich look like a boy scout troop.

And that brings me to the point of tonight’s gathering. You see, you are all in danger of being recruited to the cabal’s cause. That priest your congregation holds in such high regard–the one who enthralls the women and elicits such admiration among the men? Well, let’s just say he isn’t from Omaha, nor is his name Father Raymond. And those changes he’s recommending? A slippery slope, my friends. It all seems to reasonable now, but then, it always does—at first. By the time you realize everything isn’t as innocent or reasonable as you thought it was, it’s too late.

I know, coming from me, that statement seems a bit innocuous. And yes, it very well could be me who is lying right now, though I challenge you to come up with a reason. After all, the only thing I could possibly want from you is your blood, and I could take that whenever I chose. I have no need to spin fantastical tales to win your trust. If you don’t believe that, I’ll be more than happy to provide a demonstration.

So what is the danger, and why am I risking my very existence by revealing all of this to you? Well, consider this. Since we wiped out their hierarchy, The Black Star has had to adapt, become more subtle in their approach. People don’t fear magic or warlocks any more. The new magic is logic, and they have become masters of manipulating it. Manipulation that can take the form of a priest who inspires unwavering trust and devotion among his flock. After all, Jim Jones’ followers didn’t believe the warnings about him either.

What’s that? Who is Father Raymond? Finally! I was beginning to think you would never ask. The truth is, the man you know as Father Raymond is, in fact, my old Sire, Invictis. Which brings me to the reason why I’ve risked telling you.

You see, you're going to help us rid the world of him, once and for all. And please note—that was not a request.

Hand-Painted Pottery

“You’re going to use a knife?”

Rene paused, his eyes shifting from the glimmering dagger to the nude woman stretched before him on the bed. He’d picked her up at The Cave, one of those goth hangouts where the death groupies, as he liked to call them, came to roost. This one was a little young--probably just barely legal--but she’d practically fallen into his lap when he told her what he was.

“You’d prefer something else” he asked, flipping through his mental Rolodex to recall her name. Something with an A; Andy, Angela, Angeline. Yeah, that was it. Angeline.

“Well,” she pouted, “I just thought you’d, you know…use your teeth.”

Rene smiled, showing her what she wanted to see. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he lied. “The knife is so much cleaner.”

She reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her breath hot against his ear. “I don’t care about that. I want to be like you. You will make me like you, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck. “I promised you immortality, and I never lie.”

“Will it…hurt?”

“Not at all. In fact, you won’t even know it’s happening. Now lay back and relax.”

He crawled on top of her, his hands caressing those secret places she sought to protect, and within moments she was writhing beneath him like a cat in heat, pressing her body against his, as though she could merge with him. Feeling herself special because she had what he said he wanted.

“Angeline,” he whispered, his tongue tracing hot circles on her neck, prolonging her agony. “I need your blood.”

“Take it,” she urged breathlessly, turning to offer her neck. “Do it now.”

He smiled to himself. Oh yeah, I’ll do it. He pulled back, eyeing his target, his mouth opening wide to accommodate the awkward length of the teeth before biting down and plunging them deep into her neck. She gasped, her back arching off the bed, her nails digging into him as his mouth closed over the leeching wound.

“Oh, that feels so…weird.”

Rene grunted, unable to speak as the blood filled his mouth. After a moment, he opened one eye and, satisfied that the girl was lost in her fantasized ecstasy, stretched a hand under the pillow next to him, feeling for the ingenious little contraption he’d rigged for just this occasion; a length of clear medical tubing with a soft rubber suction cup on the end. He slid the cup under his mouth and reached for the switch that operated the small, nearly silent pump beneath the bed. Within seconds, the tubing pulsed with the girl’s blood.

She moaned again, her eyelids fluttering, and Rene made a pretense of ravaging her, rubbing his bare flesh against her own until she retreated into that dream world she’d created in her young, deluded mind. So easy.

It usually took about fifteen minutes to drain them. He could have done it faster with a more powerful pump, but the noise might have aroused suspicion. Besides, he kind of liked watching the life fade from their cheeks, their skin growing first pale, then almost blue, imagining what must be going through their minds as they died. Occasionally one would open her eyes, staring up at him in dumb comprehension, but by then, most were too weak to put up much of a fight, and those who tried were easily subdued with a whiff of the chloroform-soaked rag he kept next to the bed.

Angeline wasn’t one of these. She died quickly, silently, and he liked to think, gratified. After all, she’d gotten what she wanted. Well, almost.

He was still contemplating this when Joel’s brusque voice brought him back to reality.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were starting to enjoy this.”

Rene turned, strands of dark hair falling across his face, his pale, slender body appearing almost ethereal in the dim light, and sneered. “You really think I like this stupid charade?”

Joel moved from the doorway, his brawny presence overwhelming the room as he closed the gap between them. Rene backed away from the bed and into the heat of his arms.

“I don’t know, I think you look kind of cute,” Joel teased, kissing him roughly on the lips, his big hands sliding down to cup Rene’s balls. Rene moaned, suddenly giddy with lust.

“I need you,” Rene murmured into Joel’s chest, his hands returning the ever more insistent caresses. “All I ever see anymore is the studio and those damn bars.”

“It won’t be long now,” Joel promised. “Another show like the last one, and we’ll be sitting pretty.” He glanced beyond Rene to the body on the bed. “Guess we should take care of her so you can get back to work.”

Rene followed his eyes and nodded reluctantly, wishing for once he could just forget the studio and fall asleep in Joel’s arms. It had been so long since they’d made love, and he knew it would be well past dawn before he finished in the studio and crawled upstairs. By that time, Joel already would be up and gone.

“Can’t we just skip it tonight?”

“Come on, Rene, you know the blood isn’t the same once it’s cooled. It’s just one more show, a few more pieces. Now take out those silly fangs and help me get this body out of here.”

* * *

“These pieces are beautiful, Rene. You truly are a genius, isn’t he, Joel”

Joel nodded at Morgan Wills, who was still holding the latest creation from Rene’s wheel. Morgan had been Rene’s agent for the past year, ever since he’d started selling the line of pottery he called Du Sang. Morgan turned the piece in her hands, moving it closer to the light.

“Sure you won’t tell me the secret of this patina?”

Rene glanced furtively across the room at Joel. “We’ve been over this before, Morgan. An artist never reveals his secrets.”

Morgan sighed, setting the piece back on the shelf. “Oh well, I tried. So what are you calling this one?”

“Angeline.”

“Yes, of course; always after a woman.” She turned to Joel. “Don’t you get jealous? After all, he’s never named one after you.”

Joel shrugged. “Rene claims it’s for his mother. This way he gives her immortality through them.”

“Them?”

“You know, the women…in the pottery.”

Morgan glanced back at her client, who looked away, avoiding her gaze. Wondering what the hell Joel was trying to do. It was bad enough he had invited Morgan over so early in the day. Rene had barely gotten the studio aired out before she’d arrived.

It was Joel’s idea to use the kiln to burn the bodies. Rene had balked at first, afraid the scent of roasting flesh might pervade his clay, but if it had, it only had added to the mystique of the Du Sang name. The seductive lines of the pottery with the unique, reddish hue had become an instant success. People who once had ignored his work now couldn’t get enough of him. He was the hottest property in town, and he owed it all to Joel, who never let him forget it.

“You just keep making your little pots and vases and I’ll take care of the money,” Joel had told him the morning after their first night together.

Joel had approached him first, claiming he’d seen the raw genius in Rene’s work. That Rene just needed the right marketing scheme to jump start his career. They had talked about it all night in a coffee shop after the art show where they’d met, then Joel had accompanied him home and seduced him in his own bed, not that Rene had put up much of a fight. The fact that a man like Joel could find him attractive was both a thrill and a curse. Sometimes Rene couldn’t decide which.

Yeah, they were bleeding ’em dry at the cash register. It should have been everything Rene had ever wanted. Artistic success, a man who loved him. True, he still had problems with the whole vampire thing. It was just a bit too contrived for his tastes. He had no qualms about luring the women to their deaths, he just would have preferred doing it without all the subterfuge.

“Believe me, this will work,” Joel had assured him the first time he’d seen him in his disguise. “Besides, what woman is going to let a guy like you take her home, much less steal her blood?”

Rene resented him for that, though in fact, he had never had any inclination to care about what women thought one way or another. They were to him like alien beings. Before this little gambit of Joel’s, the closest he had been to that nether region of womanhood was his own birth, and that suited him just fine.

No, Rene cared nothing for the women he seduced and even less for Joel’s ridiculous method of getting them, and yet, sometimes, when he was crouched over their bodies, the taste of their blood ripe in his mouth, he couldn’t help feeling an undeniable sense of power. A feeling that he was the master, instead of just another victim. Just thinking about it got him hard.

“Perhaps someday you’ll name a piece for me.”

Rene blinked; Morgan was still prattling on about the pottery. “You’re already immortal to me,” he said quietly. “You were the first to believe in my work…besides Joel.”

“Nonsense, Rene. You’re an enormous talent.”

“Watch out, Morgan, we don’t want it going to his head,” Joel quipped. Rene managed a smile, choking back his retort.

“I’ll bet I have these pieces sold before Friday’s show,” Morgan continued. “Will you have any more by then?”

Joel spoke before Rene could protest. “He’s got a couple in the works right now, don’t you, darling?”

* * *

“I would have preferred that you let me decide when and how much I work,” Rene snapped after Morgan had left. “After all, I’m the artist here.”

“Don’t get bitchy with me,” Joel shot back. “You’d still be begging for scraps if I hadn’t pulled you out of the heap. Do you know I was offered eight thousand dollars for the Melissa piece?”

“Yes, I have so much to thank you for.” Rene’s dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Oh, please, save the tortured artist routine for your victims. I’ve got to go to work.”

He stormed out of the studio, slamming the door behind him. Leaving Rene alone with his pain and his doubts. Certain it wasn’t work that Joel had run out to. That he likely was meeting another lover. After all, unlike Rene, Joel was a stud; tanned, blond, and buff, the kind of man you saw on magazine covers.

Just thinking about him in the arms of someone else caused Rene’s stomach to clench. It was stupid and unreasonable, but he couldn’t help himself. No matter how much Joel lied or how badly he treated him, Rene still loved him. And he hated himself for that.

When Joel still hadn’t returned by nightfall, Rene swallowed his pain and donned his disguise, setting out for the evening’s hunt in a reckless mood. Looking for answers to questions he didn’t dare ask.

He skirted his usual haunts, wandering down dark, unfamiliar streets until he found himself standing outside the door to an obscure little bar near the waterfront. Without knowing why, he opened the door and walked inside.

The place looked like a dirty womb. The sporadic lighting emitted from candles nesting in outcroppings on the wall was the only source of illumination. Everything else was dark--the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the furnishings. There were few tables, and those were huddled against the wall, leaving a narrow pathway to the bar.

Rene threaded his way towards it, noting the near absence of customers; a threesome at one table deep in conversation and a couple of women who looked like they were ready to pass out. A strange, toneless music played in the background, reminding him of the murmur of disembodied voices. He sat down at the bar and ordered a double bourbon, intent on numbing the ache that was clawing at his gut.

That’s when he noticed her.

She was watching him from the opposite end of the bar. A face more pale than his own and eyes that seemed to devour the muted light. He looked away, turning his attention back to his glass, but he could feel her watching him.

“You’re like me, aren’t you?”

He looked up; she was sitting right beside him. “What do you mean”

She smiled, and even in the murky light, he caught the silvery glimmer of her teeth resting against her lower lip. “I could tell as soon as you walked in. You have the hunger.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he started to protest, but she cut him off, clamping her hand around his wrist and yanking him towards her with a force that caught him off guard. He stared into her eyes and saw something that reminded him of himself.

“You wouldn’t have found this place if you hadn’t been looking.”

Rene was aware that his heart had started to beat faster. What did she mean?

“I just came in for a drink.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Sure you did.”

They sat like that for awhile, silent, while that weird music wound through his head, until gradually he felt himself being transported away from the bar and everything else that constituted his world as it had come to be. Like he was looking at his life from outside himself. Seeing the things he had, and the things he felt he couldn’t. The things that gave him strength. He glanced at the woman, saw that she was smiling. Like she knew.

“I want to show you something,” she whispered, pulling his hand off the bar and guiding it up her leg. Under her dress. Pressing it against the warm bulge hidden there. He gasped, his eyes growing wide.

“You’re--”

“Not what I seem. Nor are you. Pity, that we have to hide behind a mask to get what we want. What we need.” The woman who was not a woman smiled again, her eyes telling Rene that they shared a kinship. “I can show you how to use what you have to get what you need.”

“And what is that”

She leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. “Revenge.” She smiled at his reaction. “Yes, you know what I mean. And don’t let anyone tell you it’s best served cold. Nothing is better cold.” Her tongued flicked out, licking her lips. “It should be hot…and pulsing.”

Rene suddenly felt dizzy, like he’d been drugged with possibilities. She stood and took his hand in hers, pulling him to his feet.

“Come. You have so much to learn.”

* * *

It was late when Joel finally got home. He stole up the stairs, expecting to find Rene bent over a lifeless body. Instead, he was greeted by a woman whose pale, ethereal face and dark eyes seemed at once exotic and strangely familiar.

“Where’s Rene?” he asked, glancing around.

The woman stepped away from the bed, approaching him with the swagger of a streetwalker, her tight skirt riding just below her crotch, a crocheted sweater barely grazing her smooth midriff.

“Oh, you mean your friend?” She draped a slender arm around Joel’s neck. “I think he had a little too much to drink. He said something about going down to the studio, then I heard a thump.” She shrugged, moving closer. “He might have fallen.”

Joel turned and started towards the door, but the woman grabbed his arm, spinning him around.

“Nothing you can do for him now. On the other hand,” she purred, tracing a perfect blood red nail down the front of his shirt, “I could use some help, if you don’t mind.”

Joel’s lips curled in a smile. “I don’t mind at all.”

She kissed him and pushed him towards the bed. Joel’s hands cupped the cheeks of her ass, pressing her closer, but she pulled back.

“Not so fast, darling. Lay down.”

Joel happily obliged as the woman proceeded to undress him, then climbed onto the bed, straddling him.

“Aren’t you getting undressed?” he asked.

“Not yet. I want to do something else first.”

She leaned over him, her tongue circling his nipples, tracing up his chest to his neck. Joel relaxed, his arms wrapping around the woman’s waist, his hands trying to work their way inside the tight panties. She pushed them away and lapped at his neck, her hands teasing his cock to erection.

“Your friend told me you were into blood,” she breathed.

“Hmm?” Joel mumbled, distracted by the sensations he was feeling.

“He said you liked to play vampire. Would you like to play with me?” She nipped playfully at his neck. “Like that?”

Joel moaned, nodding, and turned his head to give her better access.

“How about this?”

In one swift move, she pinned Joel to the bed and clamped her jaws onto his neck. He began to buck, trying to push her away, but she reached across the bed and grabbed a rag from the night stand, pressing it against his face until his world went dark.

The blood from the bite on his neck was flowing cherry red across the crisp white pillowcase beneath Joel’s head. The woman stretched out beside his prone body, her arms wrapped lovingly around him, her face nuzzled against his neck, her mouth working the wound with the rhythm of his dying heart.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “Forever.”

* * *

The gallery sparkled with the finest jewels of the city’s art crowd, all fawning over the latest Du Sang exhibit. Rene stood near the entrance, greeting guests, Morgan bent to his ear.

“Just look at them. They love you. I think we’ll sell everything before the night is out.”

Rene nodded, his eyes drifting around the room. Morgan glanced at him, misinterpreting his silence.

“Stop pouting, Rene. I’m sorry about you and Joel, but honestly, I never could see you two together. You’ve got to put it behind you and move on.”

“I loved him, you know,” he said without looking at her.

“You still have your work. Take that new piece of yours. So bold, so powerful. It’s like nothing you’ve done before.”

Rene smiled to himself. “You like it, then?”

“I love it. I’ve had three offers on it already. What did you name it?”

He pulled his hand from his pocket, brushing a stray hair from his dark eyes, his nails gleaming blood red in the flickering light.

“Joel. It’s the first of my new all-male line.”

Curiosity

Wendy stepped off the ladder and turned, looking around the shop with a satisfied sigh. Finished. She’d dusted every last nook and cranny, just like old Mr. Custos had instructed, though she didn’t know why. It’s not like they were rolling in business. Other than the occasional browser who wandered into the Curiosity Shoppe, she’d only seen one customer actually buy anything during her first week as Mr. C’s assistant.

“There is a buyer for everything here,” the old shopkeeper told her daily. “The art of it is matching them up.”

She couldn’t complain; after a youth spent jumping from one foster family to another, the shop was the closest thing to a home she had ever found. And while he may have been a little eccentric, she found she liked working for Mr. Custos. He reminded her of a kindly old grandfather, and his shop was crammed with the most unusual assortment of treasures she’d ever seen. Snow globes with real diamond dust perched next to jars floating with strange items like baby pig’s ears and eye of newt. Antique drum-playing monkeys nestled on shelves next to handwritten books in every language imaginable. Exquisite, jewel-encrusted hat pins protruded from a black velvet head with real turquoise eyes, and a full-sized carousel horse leaned in a corner next to a tall futuristic clock chronicling the time left to the end of the world. That one gave her the creeps.

While some of the items she could understand–who wouldn’t want a solid gold desk lamp or a miniature scaled replica of the Taj Mahal adorning their office?–others were just plain odd. Like the pocketwatch that kept perfect time–backwards–and a collection of carved Inuit jewelry boxes with dancing grizzly bears in tutus. And perhaps the oddest thing of all was that none of the items sported a price tag. When she asked Mr. C about that, he told her it was because each item was only worth what the prospective buyer could pay. She thought he was kidding until she witnessed him selling a silver compact with a charmed mirror that showed the viewer’s dreams, rather than their reflection, to a sweet old lady for $20.00.

“That was all she could afford,” he told her when she asked about it later.

The entire shop was a wonder for the eyes and ears, but it was the shelf behind the main counter that piqued her interest more than anything else. That’s where Mr. C kept the special items, the rare, one of a kind pieces. One in particular especially seemed to preoccupy the old shopkeeper. Every morning after he’d opened the shop and made his tea, he would take it down from the shelf and polish it, his fingers moving wistfully over the time-burnished rosewood. A treasure box of some kind, it was carved with figures from ancient mythology. Gods and goddesses in ceremonial dress danced across the intricate panels.

“It’s a puzzle box,” he told her when she finally got up the nerve to ask. “Handmade by wizards for an ancient Persian prince. He commissioned it to safeguard his most prized possession–his daughter.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning closer.

“See this?” He slid a small panel aside, revealing a tiny etched glass window. She closed one eye and placed the other against the opening, peering inside the box.

“It looks like a room.”

The box couldn’t have been more than ten inches wide by six inches high and deep, and yet, looking through the window, it seemed at least three times that size inside. The sides were lined with an elegant floral pattern, and the bottom with what looked like a thick Persian carpet. There was even furniture inside; a small tufted stool, a delicate writing desk, and a brass bed with satin covers.

“It’s adorable,” Wendy laughed. “But I don’t understand how a box could safeguard the prince’s daughter.”

“Because he loved his daughter so much, the prince was willing to indulge her every whim. However, when she asked if she could marry for love rather than accept the match he choose for her, he found himself in a conundrum. He couldn’t refuse her, and yet he wasn’t willing to let her make a mistake. Instead, he created a challenge. He had her placed inside the box and made it known that only the man cunning enough to free her could win her hand in marriage.”

“So who freed her?” Wendy asked, allowing herself to be drawn into the tale.

“No one. Because the box was magically sealed, the princess was sentenced to spend eternity inside, waiting for her prospective husband to rescue her.”

Wendy looked inside again, shaking her head. “Well, there’s certainly no one in there now.”

“No, there isn’t,” Mr. Custos sighed sadly, turning and placing the box back on the shelf. “And that’s a shame, because I have a feeling the new owner will be coming in tomorrow to buy the box and he’ll be expecting to find a princess inside.”

With story time over, Wendy went back about her work, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the poor princess trapped inside the box. When it came time to close the shop for the day, she said her goodbyes and ducked around the corner to wait for Mr. Custos to head to the diner across the street for his blue plate special like he did every night. She watched him go inside, then let herself back into the shop with her key and tiptoed around the counter.

The box was heavier than she would have thought, causing her to almost drop it as she lowered it from the shelf. “Now to find out how to open it,” she murmured as she started poking and prying at the various panels along the top and sides. She’d been at it for close to fifteen minutes when her fingers brushed across an uneven spot on the bottom. She pushed and heard a soft click, then the lid popped open with a dusty hiss.

“Oh my!” was all she had time to say.

The next morning, the shopkeeper arrived at nine o’clock sharp, as he always did. He unlocked the door, lifted the shades, and stocked the till from the safe in the back before making his tea. If he thought it odd that he had to move the puzzle box aside to place his cup on the counter, he didn’t mention it. Nor did he think to wonder what had happened to his absent assistant. You see, he didn’t have time.

At nine-fifteen, on that sunny Friday morning, the bell over the door chimed and a man walked into the shop, wearing the somber look of someone who has lost something dear to him.

“May I help you?” Mr. Custos asked.

“I’m not sure,” the man replied, looking around as though surprised at finding himself there. “Do you have anything that can turn back time?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Too bad,” the man said. “Perhaps something for an old fool, then? My daughter was dating a man I disapproved of, and when I forbade her to see him, she ran away with him. She was my pride and joy, and now she’s gone.”

The shopkeeper nodded knowingly. “I can’t bring your daughter back, but I might have something that will ease the pain of her loss.” He pushed the puzzle box across the counter. “Let me tell you about another man who tried to control his daughter’s life.”

When he finished the tale about the Persian prince, he slid aside the window panel in the front of the box and bade the man look inside.

“See, she’s still in there. A daughter who can never run away.”