Lust Bites

by Kristina Lloyd

  The speck grew larger then separated into two specks, moving at quite a rate. Animals? People in skidoos? Esther extended the aerial of her satphone and tried for what felt like the hundredth time. Nothing. Dead. Her flare gun was clipped to her parka. Apart from a Swiss army knife, it was her only weapon.

  The two blobs were getting bigger and bigger, their speed disturbing, unnatural even. Esther began to run, as fat as an astronaut in her snow gear. Then she screamed, realising these were people and they were advancing with the speed of a cheetah. And then she screamed again because they couldn’t possibly be people, couldn’t be.

  Hand in hand, the two things slowed and pranced towards her, a woman in a stained floral dress and a lanky man in black, the skier with the purple eyes. Simeon.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ gasped Esther, arms pumping, blood pounding in her ears.

  Laughing and leaping, the creatures released each other’s hand, frolicking this way and that as Esther stumbled on, boots sinking into the snow, heavy as lead.

  ‘Hey, we meet again,’ said Simeon. ‘How’s tricks? This is my friend, Suzanne.’

  ‘Hi there!’ said Suzanne, waving.

  ‘Billy! Help!’ cried Esther, hardly knowing what she was saying.

  Simeon laughed. ‘Billy, help,’ he mimicked. His black hair flew behind him, his teeth flashed in a grin, and his eyes burnt like violet fire. Esther knew she mustn’t look into them. Mustn’t get caught.

  A few feet ahead, Suzanne laughed, dancing in side steps, her blonde hair streaming, cowboy boots flicking up snow. Esther tugged off a glove and grabbed her flare gun. It was made of lurid-green plastic and she aimed it shakily at Simeon who gambolled alongside her like a tall jerky imp.

  ‘Hey, Suze,’ he called. ‘She’s got a water pistol!’

  ‘Cool! Is it loaded?’

  Esther turned to Suzanne, pointing the gun at her. The gun had only one shot and, while it wasn’t deadly, at close range it could injure. When Suzanne skipped closer, Esther pulled the trigger. A red light flashed, a bang followed and Suzanne yelped, doubling over and clutching her stomach.

  Esther swung her pack from her shoulder and hurled it at Simeon with all her might. He caught it deftly and cast it to the ground with brisk contempt. Suzanne, still bent double, took a couple of steps backwards then raised her head. She glared at Esther through a tangle of hair, her eyes a dazzling sapphire blue.

  ‘You bitch,’ she snarled, spittle flying from her lips. ‘Get her, Sim.’

  Simeon launched himself, knocking Esther to the ground before she could even call out. He straddled her and tore at her parka, fibres spilling. Esther screamed, thrashing beneath him, snow flurries whipping up around them. Simeon grabbed her clothes and ripped the layers. One, two, three, and she was exposed, flesh bared to her bra. He grinned down at her.

  ‘Please,’ gasped Esther, skin scorched by the cold air. ‘Please, no.’

  Simeon fell on her, driving his teeth straight into her throat. Esther howled in pain. She tried to fight back, fists flailing but he was strong and solid on top of her.

  ‘Stop! Let me go!’

  The suction on her neck was furious, pulling on sinew and muscle, hoovering up blood. A hand slammed between her thighs and squeezed her hard, but it meant nothing to her. Her body seemed to be drifting into another realm. The pain subsided, and Esther felt her energy fading fast. Her struggles weakened and she stopped thumping him, fists too slack, arms too heavy.

  ‘Stop,’ she whimpered, dizzy and light-headed. ‘Plea–’

  The blood poured out of her veins, draining her mind and limbs. Her hands and feet grew numb and tingly. The world seemed muffled, time elongating.

  I will not die, she thought. I will not die.

  But she was slipping, losing the will to fight. Her vision grew dim. She saw snow through a filter of black hair then the snow receded, shrinking gently to nothing. A new blackness moved in her mind, wavering with peppered stars and with slow explosions of purple and blue, languid fireworks smudging her consciousness.

  ‘Billy’ she wanted to say but the word wouldn’t form in her mouth and she didn’t know what it meant anyway.

  She tried to pull back, to reach the whiteness of snow again and understand the word. For a moment it was there, a brighter light, and a man who was both weak and powerful. Then she retreated, the blackness swarming and shimmering, and it might have been peaceful there, sinking into sleepy death, except her head was suddenly full of screaming, her teeth were chattering and the earth was splintering like shattered glass.

  The weight lifted from her body.

  Shrieks and voices stormed her mind.

  ‘I’m on fire!’

  ‘The sun!’ screeched the woman. ‘I’m blistering!’

  ‘I can’t see!’

  ‘The sunrise!’

  ‘Acid attack! I’m blind! My eyes are melting.’

  ‘Run!’

  ‘But I want her, Suze. I –’

  ‘Sim, run! Here, take my hand.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Sim, forget her! Come on. Run. The bitch is practically dead anyway.’

  Billy was in the gym doing pull-ups, grunting through gritted teeth.

  He was still in agony, his insides shredded with pain. Ever since waking, he’d felt as if he were being ripped internally from heart to gut. He guessed the dream in which he lay dying was somehow to blame. The pain was under his scar as if his old wound were opening up, threatening to burst him apart from within.

  He pushed past it, heaving his chin above the bar then lowering himself to a dead hang. Normally, he’d do the exercise with weights on his legs but, Christ, not today. He’d kept his boots on and that was tough enough. The pain was worsening minute by minute and when a new shard sliced into his neck, Billy dropped from the bar, cursing. He tumbled to his knees on the mat, clutching his neck. Fuck, that hurt. Must’ve pulled a muscle.

  He knelt for a while, filling his lungs with slow breath, squeezing his fists when the pain soared. Several minutes later, he heard the noise of a skidoo echoing within the dome. Someone was pulling on the starter cord.

  Billy was on his feet in an instant.

  Those two. Simeon and Suzanne. Of course. The evil fuckers, they were leaving, fleeing the scene of the crime, no doubt.

  Because the pain wasn’t just Billy’s. It was Esther’s as well. It shamed him that he hadn’t recognised it. He was a fool, a useless fucking fool, so caught up with himself he could barely see beyond his own head. Esther was dying.

  He strode for the exit, hearing the skidoo whinny and splutter. In a storage room off the tunnelled white corridor, Suzanne was pulling desperately on the starter rope while Simeon piled a sledge with possessions, his limbs angular and frantic.

  ‘This fucking place,’ he wailed. ‘We’re out of here! At least in New York you know when it’s dawn!’

  They were covered in blood, hair wild, faces scorched. Billy had no time for them. He grabbed his sunglasses then he was out on the icecap, nostrils twitching for the scent of Esther. The sun had just set, leaving a line of volcanic red bleeding into the dusk. It tinted the distance, the ice shimmering like a glacial poppy field, serene and unsettling. The first day of the year, and it was over almost as soon as it had begun.

  Billy followed his senses, pain still gripping. He ignored it, running as fast as he could, fearing it might not be fast enough. Strength was leaking from him just as life was leaking from Esther. Minutes later, he saw her, a hump on the ice, and he ran harder still, muscles on fire.

  When he reached her, he flung off his shades and fell on all fours, limbs quivering, gasping for breath. Esther lay on a stain of crystallized pink, her blood seeping down into the snow. Her dark hair was mussed and matted, and her neck was twisted at a grotesque, broken angle.

  ‘SelinI’

  Carefully, Billy tipped her to face him. She was as pale as a corpse, her eyes blank, her mouth slack.

  ‘No!’ roared Billy. ‘No. Come b
ack!’

  There was no response. It couldn’t happen again, it couldn’t. To see a loved one die twice was beyond any hell.

  ‘Stay with me. Selin! Esther! Stay!’

  She gazed up at him with an expression he’d seen before, empty eyes looking right past him. Her dark lashes were tipped with frost and the snow was sludgy with the warmth of her spilt blood. Billy shuffled closer, rose-pink snow slushing around his knees. Oh, if he could be her, dying on the ice, and if she could have life, he’d swap in a heartbeat.

  ‘Essie, please.’

  It was hopeless. She was at her end now and so was he. He couldn’t go on after this, no way. He would beg another vampire to stake his heart and bury it high in the Arctic where it would freeze for all eternity. If Simeon loved him, he would do it. He would put Billy out of his misery.

  Esther’s eyelids flickered. She seemed for a moment to focus on him then she was lost again.

  ‘Oh, God.’ Billy fell on her neck, putting his mouth to her gaping throat. He didn’t drink but he felt the tremor of a faint pulse. She was alive, just.

  Billy had no choice. He tugged the dagger pendant from his neck and sliced it across his wrist. Blood gushed. Cupping Esther’s head, he pressed his wound to her lips.

  ‘Drink!’ he commanded.

  His blood flowed over her face, dribbling into her ears and hair. Esther’s lips didn’t move. Billy might have been back in that courtyard, a dead woman in his arms, Nadir admiring the pink fountain.

  ‘Drink!’ cried Billy, and his voice cracked into a sob. ‘Please! Please drink!’

  Moments later, Billy felt her lips stir against his wrist. He hardly dared breathe. And then he felt what he’d so often dreamt of in re-imagining her death: the first blissful pull of her taking his blood.

  ‘Selin,’ he breathed.

  His hopes began to rise as the pull strengthened, her lips fastening tighter on his wrist. Eternal life might be a curse but it had to beat eternal death. Her suck grew firmer, Billy’s vampire blood pumping into hers, a poison to nourish her. Esther’s eyes sharpened and she watched him with soft confusion before lowering her lids, drinking contentedly.

  All Billy could hope was that she wouldn’t hate him for this. He would help her through the transition, and if she loved him as he loved her, it would be a merry, hellish joy to tackle eternity together.

  Billy dipped his mouth to her neck, taking a sip of her blood. He took a little more until he was slurping gently. He could feel what he wanted to feel: the weakening pulse of her human heart and the tinge of his own sweet poison. For several dying beats, it felt like he too had a pulse and a life. Then the moment was gone. Their hearts were still.

  Billy raised his head, blood dripping from his smile, teeth stained pink. He wiped strands of sticky hair from her forehead.

  ‘You belong to me, Esther,’ he said. ‘And I belong to you.’

  Esther gazed up at him, eyes glowing with a new energy, bright and fierce. She smiled back, her teeth as pink as his.

  ‘I know,’ she breathed. ‘And I always did.’

  Buddies Don’t Bite

  Portia Da Costa

  1

  ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’

  Teresa Johnson trudged into the cosy, softly lit kitchen and flung her bag across the room, grimacing at the thought of her mobile and her PDA in a thousand bits, but in no mood to really care all that much.

  ‘Idiot!’ Avoiding a damage inspection, she headed for the fridge. First things first, she needed wine. Then a think.

  Yanking open the big old refrigerator door, she stilled herself, closed her eyes, breathed deeply. Tantrums were pointless. And so was breaking things. Whether that be her wine or milk bottles, or the ones containing Zack’s peculiar ‘iron shake’.

  ‘Chill out … chill out …’ Reaching in for her Chardon-nay, she wondered for the hundredth time what was in those dark-brown vacuum-sealed bottles lined up on the middle shelf. She’d opened one once, and it’d made her cringe. The heavy earthy raw-meat smell had been disturbing. Poor old Zack having to drink that mucky stuff for every meal. She didn’t envy him his anaemia and food allergies.

  Almost overfilling her wineglass, she teetered over to the refectory table and slumped down in a chair. Her anger was all but gone now and dim disappointment felt like a low pressure front.

  ‘So what’s it to be, Teresa?’ She took a long slurp of wine. ‘To wedding or not to wedding? Is it nobler in the mind to stay at home like a cowardly, boyfriendless reject? Or to take arms against a sea of smug marrieds and lovey-dovey couples and get laughed at because I’m a loser?’

  ‘Talking to oneself is the first sign of madness, my dear, didn’t you know that?’

  Wine went everywhere, and Teresa’s chair rocked on its back legs. She braced for impact with the hard kitchen floor and the thump of pain – then she found herself upright with her heart pounding fit to burst.

  ‘Zack, for Christ’s sake, don’t sneak up on me like that! I hate it when you creep around and I don’t hear you!’

  She’d definitely felt her chair going over, but now it was four square again, and she was on her feet. And there was Zack, her tall, dark and handsome landlord, mopping efficiently at the spilt wine on the table with squares of kitchen roll.

  Teresa glanced at the bottle, disorientated. Even allowing for spillage there was plenty left. She wasn’t drunk and she wasn’t imagining things.

  Zack had put in one of his famous appearances right out of thin air.

  And now – domesticated yet still manly – he was cleaning up her mess and making her ears burn with guilt. ‘Oh, God, Zack, I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t yell … it’s your house and you’re entitled to creep about if you want to.’

  ‘No problem. I’m just sorry I startled you, love.’ With his usual deftness and elegance, her landlord made short work of the clean up operation, and in what felt like a split-second, he’d poured her another glass of wine and was nodding for her to sit back down again.

  Not for the first time, Teresa decided that it was a criminal waste to live every day with an unusual but desirable man like Zachary Trevelyan – and not be anything more than good house buddies. His narrow elegant face was alight with pleasure, even though he’d just been soundly bellowed at. What normal man would suck up such abuse and still smile?

  ‘Better now?’ Before the words were out, he was sitting down opposite her.

  ‘Yes.’ She was. It was always better to be looking at Zack than not looking at him. She loved his beautiful calming stillness that was such a contrast to the spookily swift way he sometimes moved. What would be even better was for him to move swiftly in her direction, take her in his arms and kiss her – instead of clearly observing the boundaries of their respective personal spaces.

  In the interests of long-term house harmony and cordial landlord/tenant relations, Teresa always squished down hard on the temptation to think of Zack in ‘that way’. But it was hellishly difficult when even after six months of friendship and platonic cohabitation he still did the maddest, hottest things to her hormones.

  He was far from her usual type.

  The accursed Steve and various assorted men who’d preceded him, had all been healthy, tanned, gym-buffed and metrosexual, and Zack was as far from that as it was possible to be.

  The word ‘Goth’ always sprang to mind when she looked at him. Tall and lean and vaguely etiolated, he had all the characteristics of a typical night dweller, which wasn’t at all surprising, considering he suffered from photophobia and sun sensitivity on top of his other problems. And yet his pallor captivated her. As did the stylish gauntness that seemed to suggest his bones were just a bit too big for his skin.

  The lean sharp lines of his cheekbones and his jaw conferred on him a louche romantic glamour that reminded her of those sexy silent movie stars who dressed as sheikhs and wore eyeliner. Couple that with the kind of dark curly hair that could have looked like a yokel on anybody else, but suggested wild Byron
ic decadence on him and the most hypnotic blue eyes, the colour of a rare antique perfume bottle.

  Teresa surreptitiously clenched her teeth. If exotic Zack had shown even the slightest hint of a whisker of a glimmer of interest in her, there would have been no need to go out with substandard men like Steve anyway.

  ‘Come on, love … what’s the matter? You can tell your Uncle Zack.’

  Slipping into ‘therapist’ mode, Zack crossed his long lean arms in front of him, and then settled into a perfect waiting tranquillity. Playing up to his own gothic image, he was wearing a loose frilled poet’s shirt, half open down the front to show a tasty wedge of his smooth hairless chest.

  Teresa stilled too. She’d whirled into the house in a maxi state about a micro drama, and now, after five minutes with Zack, she could barely remember what had been bugging her.

  Looking into his clear blue eyes, she felt a low internal thud deep in her body.

  This was the man she’d wanted to go to the wedding with, not Steve. It had never really been Steve. He was just a substitute and she almost felt sorry for him, despite the fact he was a rat. She’d only started dating him because Zack, her dearest friend, was off limits.

  She’d fancied Zack, despite his peculiarities, ever since the first moment she’d set eyes on him, one night in a local coffee house. Then, as now, he’d offered sympathy – that time over her losing her flat when her previous housemates decided to sell up. They had been total strangers and yet he’d offered her the hospitality of his big rambling house and without thinking twice, or even once, she’d accepted.

  Her fingers prickled with the desire to reach out, unwind those strong arms of his, and coax him to rewind them around her. She wanted to kiss his sweet red mouth, push her tongue between his lips, and find out if those large, white teeth of his were really as sharp as they sometimes looked. She wanted to rip his shirt all the way open and kiss his chest – and maybe his neck too. Perhaps she’d nibble him a bit? She often seemed to find herself imagining that. She wanted to peel off those tight black jeans that clung to his lean legs like liquorice – and see if the astonishing bulge she sometimes saw there was as magnificent as it was in her fantasies.