He turned to me then, and I was fascinated. "There is no passion in death, so it is not such a pleasant thing. I take no pleasure in death, my own or those of others. Death is a necessity, to myself, the universe -- even to you.
"I serve no Gods but the night, the stars, and hunger -- only one demands anything of me, and the effort necessary to please him is slight. Your Gods, it would seem, deny you nothing except life."
"I have more life here," he gestured to his breast, his eyes softening for a moment, almost twinkling, "than you will find in the rest of this city. I learn, I watch, I survive. These are my life. To know is enough."
"But it would be better if they knew, as well," I countered. "That is why you try to make them see."
"I tell them because they ask. Then they laugh, point their fingers, and wander back into darkness. It is not for me to judge, or to desire, but for them."
The hunger was calling to me, and I knew that if I stayed longer, much as I was enjoying this exchange, that I would feed. Something within me would not allow it. There was something in his eyes, something that reminded even me, after centuries of cynicism and loneliness, of faith. There was a promise in those eyes, and I would not snatch it from the Earth.
"I must leave you now," I told him. "To you I am not Death this night, but there are others. Walk your paths, prophesy and speak when they will listen.
"Our roads are not so different. We are solitary, we are visionary, we are free. They are lonely roads, but they are true -- keep that nearest to your heart."
With those words, and looking back only once into the flashing depths of his eyes, I was gone. I moved as swiftly as my heightened strength and agility would allow, beyond the limits of his sight -- or perhaps not. He raised his staff, and he waved in the direction in which I'd moved. I did not return that wave, but turned to embrace the darkness with new vigor.
Somewhere behind me, a beacon, a latter-day Moses, walked the streets of his own land, showing miracles to the blind and preaching to the deaf. I moved as he named me, the Angel of Death, the Grim Reaper with fangs as my scythe and hunger as my guide. We both blended with the darkness.
All around me the blood called to me. Somewhere in the shadows of the city the renewal of my own form of life pulsed through another's veins. For once, I would dine with a clear conscience -- I had spared a life that mattered, and he had shared that life with me of his own free will. Such are the miracles of the night.
Smiling Eyes and Haunted Face
Jason caught his first glimpse of the woman's eyes across a crowded bus station, just as she ducked through a doorway and out into the street. She gave no indication that she had noticed him, but he had the distinct impression that their eyes had locked for just a moment, and that was enough for him.
They were amazing eyes, dancing, bursting with energy and life, laughing at him across the room as though he were the punch line of a very, very funny joke. The lips beneath them had not smiled. The woman had not hesitated in recognition, nor had she waved. She'd merely been there, then gone, joining in with the passing crowds on the street without a backward glance. With a shrug, he moved to the baggage window on the other side of the depot and dropped his luggage claim ticket on the counter.
Whoever she was, and whatever had been so damned funny, it had nothing to do with him. He grabbed his bags and shouldered his way through the combination of disembarking passengers, hustlers, and street people who inhabited the old station, making his way toward the street and the taxis beyond.
There was something about bus stations that always made him nervous, something old and ominous. It seemed that things could happen in them that would not in any other place, and he was glad when he reached the front of the building and left the musty shadows behind.
Not a great start for the "vacation of a lifetime," he muttered, then grinned. What the hell? It was California, after all, and he was free for a glorious week to spend his time any way he pleased. From what he'd read, San Valencez was the place for diversions. That should've been enough, in itself.
He thought back to Iowa, to his small, one-room home, his cozy, boring, dead-end job at the local paper, his chair and his television. Until now, they had been his life -- all he had. It had grown that way slowly, his parents dying, leaving him alone, his friends growing up and moving away, leaving him behind.
There were people he knew, of course, but none he was close to. It was as if they were just characters in some endless play he'd become caught up in, bit part extras with no deeper meaning then a hello, how are you, goodbye. It was all an empty, hollow shell, one that he'd grown far too comfortable in.
This was the moment of change, the breakthrough. Something had drawn him here, something beyond all of the mundane dreariness. He knew no one in San Valencez California, but the up side of that fact was that nobody knew him, either. He'd seen the ad for the tickets, tucked in the upper section of the travel section of the classifieds, and something had called out to him.
Travel Greyhound . . . special rates . . . Des Moines to San Valencez California, $75 round trip . . .
He had no idea why those words had hit him with such intensity. There had been plenty of other choices in the ad, some even better deals, but San Valencez was the only one that drew him, and he had been saving long enough that he could afford to do it in style. Not that he would know style.
Jason hadn't left his house to go further than an occasional movie, or out to eat, in years. He'd met women, even slept with a few, but it was always the same. Nothing lasted. It would start out well, might even seem to be working out, but he would lose interest. They were all plastic out for something he didn't have to give. After a few weeks he always ended up so tired of it all that he couldn't even get it up.
He snapped back to reality as her eyes grasped his again, calling out to him more eloquently than any words might have done. He could only stand and stare.
She was in a small park across the street from the station, halfhidden behind a bent, twisted tree that looked as if it had been battling the poor sunlight and even poorer air of the city for too many years. She was staring back at him. Her eyes mocked him, moved him. They reached deep inside of him, pulling at his heart, reading him like a book, and still they smiled.
He felt himself blushing, felt as though she had stripped him naked and put him on display, but before he could move, or wave, or do anything at all, she was gone again. Only the tree and an empty park greeted his bewildered gaze, and he shook hishead uncertainly.
"Hey," a voice said, very near his ear and very abrasive. "Hey, buddy! You want a ride, or what?"
He snapped his eyes to the right, and he noticed for the first time the short, greasy looking man who'd materialized at his side. The man already had one hand around the grip of Jason's suitcase, and a taxi with its door swung wide was pulled up to the curb, waiting.
"Uh, yeah, I guess I do," he answered lamely. "How much to the Holiday Inn?"
"Sevenfifty, minus tip," the guy said, smiling slightly. "Name's Roy. I'll take care of these," he indicated the suitcase and Jason's other things. "You go ahead and sit down. You look like you've seen a ghost."
Nodding, Jason slipped into the interior of the cab, the musty, outoftown smell of it drawing him back to the reality of the moment. It was only seconds later that the driver slid behind the wheel, flipping the "Available" sign to the "Occupied" position and whipped out into traffic with a deft disregard for the general rules of safe driving.
Heaving a sigh, Jason leaned heavily back into the overly soft, fake leather seat. He must have been more tired out by that bus ride than he'd thought he needed some rest, and a shower. Just then he happened to glance to his right, directly into the passenger side rearview mirror, and for a long moment he didn't move didn't even breathe.
The woman's face was there, reflected from somewhere behind them, but clear not indistinct, as it should have been. He felt that odd twinge again, something deep within himself that answered her, th
at spoke to her beyond his consciousness. It was a sort of recognition, an answer to the message in her eyes.
Those eyes were still laughing, still captivating, but this time her lips moved as well, and though it was not possible – though distance, traffic, and far too much reality lay between them, he heard her whisper, softly and seductively.
"I want you."
She was gone. He still didn't breathe, not immediately, and when he did, it came in long, gasping heaves.
He was startled back to reality by Roy, who was peering at him with concern and mild annoyance through the rearview mirror. The man hollered out to him from the front seat as though talking louder would increase their ability to communicate.
"You okay, Mister?"
Jason shook his head, knowing immediately that he had shaken it a bit too hard, a little too fast to really put the guy at ease. It had also been a mistake from the point of view of the headache that was rising to claim him, dashing aside all efforts at coherent thought before he could really form them. One thing was clear, and even more disturbing than the headache. He had an erection that was threatening to burst the zipper from his pants.
I want you. Just that, nothing more. He couldn't erase the vision of her face, or of her eyes, from his mind. He was vaguely aware of the traffic as it slipped past them, peripherally aware of intermittent attempts by Roy to drag him into one conversation or another, but all that he could truly concentrate on was those words. I want you.
The intensity of the heat that was washing through him, just from the memory, was greater than anything he'd ever felt. Just from a glimpse into her eyes! It was vibrant, alive in ways he'd never experienced.
Thankfully he managed to finish the ride, pay the driver plus a generous tip, and get his room at the Holiday Inn without any further incidents. Bypassing the shower, not even bothering to stop and undress, he flopped across the double bed, kicked off his shoes, and slammed into the pillows hard. He was asleep in moments, passed out cold.
Beyond his window, where the small balcony overlooked the darkening of the city, then it's neon rebirth, The moon had risen to rule the sky. He rolled groggily over onto his back, rubbing his eyes and wincing at the rancid, travel smell of his clothing. He threw his legs over the side of the bed, already unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it off. He tossed the dirty clothes into a corner and headed for the shower.
The hot, steaming water revived him somewhat, and for the first time since getting off the bus he had a moment to try and sort out the day's events. His memories of the trip out were dull and uninspiring. Much like his life. Nothing had captivated him in years like the brief caress of this strange woman's smile.
He couldn't clear his thoughts, couldn't change his focus. He kept coming back to the woman, to her eyes, her lips. There was something about her that he recognized, not on the surface of his mind, but deeper deeper than he would have believed his senses to reach. He could still hear her whispered words, I want you. Shivering, despite the heat of the water, he felt himself growing hard again.
He took the soap, sliding it over his dampened skin, moving it down over his chest and over his thighs, then upward, teasing the tip of his erection with it, brushing it downward again and lathering the thick, curly hair beneath. A small voice in his head was nagging at him, telling him this wasn't natural that he hadn't even seen this woman's body but it didn't matter.
I want you. He cupped himself in one hand, imagining those lips closer, speaking the words into his ear, brushing over his skin and downward. He felt those eyes, roving his body, the wild mocking laughter in their depths replaced now with a hunger, a hunger for which he was the only answer, the taste of his flesh the only cure.
The heat was incredible as he formed a circle with one palm, thrusting himself against it, his mind erasing the rough, soap slickened skin of his hand and replacing it with those thin, pale lips slipping between them, feeding them.
He shuddered in sudden release, his head whipping back so forcefully that he smacked it against the tile behind him, nearly knocking himself from his feet. He clutched at the shower curtain, breathing harshly, and it bore his weight barely.
Below, the semen washed slowly down his leg, coagulating and thickening, sliding off in small globules and whirlpooling down the drain lost. His mind reeled, and the words came to him from deep inside, unbidden, "the lost children."
It was something his mother had said, something he remembered from a past long buried. Sex was sacred. Creation was Godhood, all kinds of ridiculous, hippie crap. She'd caught him masturbating once, by accident, walking into his room unannounced. It was after that that she'd spoken of the lost children, a faraway look in her eyes.
He thought of children, of semen that could drip down your leg like hot butter, or find its way into a woman and conceive a child. His own children were all lost swept away. Somehow he knew he would never be a father, could never. He wouldn't put anyone through the horrors of growing up in this plastic, empty world. He wouldn't bring someone into the world, just to abandon them. It was all too fleeting, too unfair.
He scrabbled around to face the shower head, gripped the cold water and whipped it on full force, bracing for the shock as the frigid water began washing over him, pushing the memories back inside, where they belonged, returning him once again to a world his mind seemed overly fond of vacating all of a sudden.
"Jesus," he breathed, catching his breath in quick gulps as the icy stream pushed the hair from his eyes and removed the last of the soap from his body. He turned it off, brushing the shower curtain aside and reaching for a towel.
A few moments later, nearly dry, the towel draped casually about his waist, he ran his comb a few times through his hair and turned to the door, returning to the main room of the apartment.
As he turned to the window, he saw her, and his heart nearly stopped.
The woman it had to be her, though he could not see her face, stood on the small balcony, staring out over the city below. Her hair, long and silvery, blew about her in the clutches of the wind, dancing over slender shoulders and halfway down the taut V of her muscled back.
She turned as he stood there, slowly, parading herself before him with her arms lifted and her smile wide. She wore a skintight outfit of deepest black maybe spandex, maybe leather. From where he stood, he couldn't tell, nor did he dwell on it.
She was exquisite. Her breasts jutted against the material, pressing toward him as though yearning for his touch. Her hips swayed to the beat of silent music. His towel, not tightly wrapped in the first place, gave way before the thrust of yet another erection, dropping to the floor at his feet.
His face reddened, and he could see the mocking smile return to those eyes, but she did not look away. She licked her lips hungrily, reaching one arm out to him, beckoning. Mesmerized, moved slowly forward, reaching the sliding glass door of the balcony after what seemed an eternity and scrabbling at the lock, thrusting it to the side.
She did not hesitate. Before he could utter his halfformed questions, who... how ... she was against him. His thoughts erased instantly, all but one. Leather. The material was definitely leather, and she had it pressed so tightly against his skin that it seemed to be her own skin, sliding over him, molding to his form.
Her eyes were very close now, so close that he could see himself reflected in them, so close that they filled his vision. There was still mockery in them, still laughter, but there was more. The hunger he had superimposed upon them in the shower was clearly visible haunting. It burned there, licking at the surface and reaching out to tease at his senses, to burn within him as well.
"I want you," she breathed, and the scent of her breath faintly sweet, like that of jasmine, or incense, wafted around him, pulling him in deeper.
Her own clothing disappeared from her body in an intricate tangle of probing fingers, tongues, and acrobatics, ending up in a heap beside his towel left behind, as she pressed him slowly but steadily toward the bed.
His mind
fought to reject it it was all too impossible, too frightening. The fight was lost before it had begun. She had begun a steady, laboriously complete exploration of his chest with her tongue, swirling it around the tips of his nipples, brushing lightly across the soft hair in the center and winding downward with excruciating slowness.
The touch of those lips was not the fire he had anticipated, but ice as though cubes of frozen liquid were being slid across his body. The sensation was enticing, incredible.
He put his hands on her shoulders, tried to lift her upward, to bring those lips to meet his own, but she brushed his effort aside, glancing up once with eyes that warned him off, clinging fast to his flesh with incredible strength. He shuddered at the sight of the hunger, wanton now and grown beyond all control, that swam in those eyes. It was like a drug, rushing through his own eyes and into his soul, heating the fires of his own passion. She hungered, he was the cause. It was erotic beyond his imagination, beyond any sexual encounter he'd ever faced. The need was palpable in the air, was real and cloying sticking between them and cementing their flesh, one to the other. She hungered she wanted him. To be the object of that desire, that burning fire, was consuming, incredible.
Then those lips settled over his erection with their icy embrace, his own heat clashing with their smooth, arctic softness. He arched his back, nearly bending double as she took him in, took him further than he would have believed possible, sliding lower and lower toward the flesh of his groin as though she would consume him, swallow him whole.
His mind was a void, a quivering miasma of incredibly erotic sensitivity and helpless release. He felt himself shooting off inside her, felt her working at him with everincreasing force, everincreasing hunger, drawing forth his seed, his very being, not stopping for breath, or pain, going beyond the levels of orgasm and into those of some other world, some dark, overpowering erotic nightmare plane.
When he woke, she was sitting on the edge of the bed. She held out her hand, and he saw that she held a cigarette, already lit. It was one of his.
A Taste of Blood and Roses Page 6