by Lund, S. E.
He takes it back and does a small hit, and then quickly hands it back to me. I do another hit, coughing even more this time, tears in the corners of my eyes. He hands the joint back to me after a tiny puff. I comply and take in another lungful of smoke.
"You're not inhaling," I observe when he lets the smoke curl out of his mouth.
"Nonsense. What do you know about smoking pot anyway?" He takes another tiny hit and hands it back to me. "Besides," he says, the smoke coming out of his mouth without inhaling, "when you're experienced like me, you don't need as much to get high."
Somehow, I don't believe it.
"Liar." I take another hit, the smoke not bothering me nearly as much as it first did. "You just want me stoned and you sober so you can take advantage of me."
"Am I that transparent?" he says, that devilish grin on his face. Soon, the joint's just a tiny smoldering stub. I hand it back to him and he clips the end and then sucks.
"Here," he says, blowing the smoke out before inhaling. "Finish this off."
I giggle. "You're not inhaling."
"Eve, there aren't very many people who can get away with calling me a liar, or even suggesting it. Consider yourself lucky."
"You're a big fat liar." I suck on the tiny ember, holding the smoke in my lungs as long as I can.
"I am not fat." He starts to roll another joint.
"I can't smoke any more," I say, and then lean back, closing my eyes. I feel giddy, a bit dim as if I have a screen between me and the world.
"That's hardly anything. I thought I'd start off slow, since you're not very experienced."
I peer through my eyelashes and watch as he puts the joint down and then runs his hand up my bare leg, from my ankle to my knee and then up my outer thigh to my hip, underneath my nightgown. He turns to look at me and I don't hide that I'm watching him.
"You have beautiful legs."
"My ballet teacher told me I had the perfect dancer's body, but maybe a bit too short," I say, my tongue feeling a bit fuzzy already but I feel good. I stand up, and teeter a bit, but regain my balance. I stand a few feet away from the couch on the other side of the coffee table and take the first position in ballet, my feet turned out to one-hundred and eighty degrees, my arms softy curved, hands in proper position. I move through each position and back with only a slight wobble. "Not too tall, thin, legs in proportion to my torso."
He leans back, watching me with his head cocked to one side.
"Why did you stop dancing?"
I attempt an arabesque, succeeding for a moment and then try to move into a second one and lose my balance, falling into a very undignified position before trying to right myself. He stands quickly and holds out his arm, which I take, using it for balance.
"Eve, why did you stop?"
"I don't like to talk about it," I say and do another arabesque, determined to get it right.
"Obedience…" he says, frowning, a lopsided grin on his face.
"You keep saying that word," I say, and do a plié. "But you also said 'partners'. Partners don't force each other against their will."
"And you said 'all in'."
Finally I relent.
"I spent a year in and out of court after my current foster parents got custody of me. You can spot me," I say, pulling him around the table, his arm out so I can use it for balance, performing battement tendus, holding my body still while one leg moves into the three positions, front, side and to the rear. Then I perform battements, lifting my leg to the level of my hip and then moving down rapidly, repeating it several times, front, side and back, my arm moving into the correct position each time.
"Court?"
I perform a passé developpe, ignoring his question, not wanting to get into it. I start in first position, my arm out in front, my right leg moving to the front then back, and then to the side and then finally into an arabesque, using his arm as a bar for support.
"You didn't answer."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You're still too sober." He pulls me back to the couch and I collapse onto to it, my legs across his lap once more. He leans forward and takes the fresh joint, lighting it and taking a small puff to get it going. "I think I made them a little too thin because you should be feeling it more."
He hands it to me and I take it, feeling relaxed enough that I don't care how stoned I get. I inhale deeply, hold it in as long as possible, and then blow out the smoke, lying back, my eyes closed. I hand it back, peering at him under my eyelashes, pretending to keep my eyes closed, and he takes the joint and puts it between his lips but doesn't even puff on it, a smile on his face.
"Hey," I say, indignant. "You aren't even pretending to inhale."
"No, no," he says and hands it back to me. "This is about you, not me. You need to chill out. Mellow." He motions to the joint. "Go ahead. Finish this."
I take in another lungful, and then exhale. I glance at the joint. It's half gone. I'm definitely starting to feel it now, my arms and legs heavier, my mouth feeling like it doesn't really belong on my face. I take one more hit and when I exhale, I shake my head.
"I can't do any more."
I hold it out for him, turning my head away. He takes it back and taps it out, leaving it on a dish. I get up awkwardly, intent on trying out more dance steps. I hold onto the back of the other couch and try another plié, a deep knee bend and then lean back in a stretch, my arm extended. I lose my balance, laughing as I do, and he's once again at my side, catching me and holding me up.
"Hold your hand out," I say, "just in case I fall." Then I attempt a pirouette. It's a big mistake, for I knock into him, falling over into his arms, and then have to watch his wide grin at my clumsiness. I extract myself from him and pretend to be Odette from Swan Lake dancing around Prince Siegfried.
"Eve, you better sit down," he says, following me as I dance away from him. "You're going to hurt yourself."
I imagine I have on a costume with long flowing skirt, moving my nightgown as if it were a full costume. I don't care – I feel giddy, laughing as I run, my face flushed, cheeks hot. He's smiling as he comes after me and I try to elude him but he's far too fast, then I collapse into a fit of laughter when he catches me from behind, leaning back when he turns me around to face him, my arms out, my head to the side, eyes closed.
"That's more like it," he says, letting me lean back as far as possible, so that I feel as if I'm floating, falling, not caring what happens.
"I think I'm stoned," I say, my arms starting to feel unwieldy, my head spinning.
"Oh, yes. You are definitely stoned."
Finally, I stand up straight and he pulls me close and I feel so loose and free that I don't care what happens. He bends down and picks me up and carries me back to the couch, sitting down with me so that I'm once more lying with my legs over his lap, my head leaning on the armrest.
"Tell me about court," he says, his voice soft, one hand stroking my calf.
"I don't really remember," I say. "But it was very scary." I nod, my eyes closed. I feel so good lying there, so free. "I was supposed to testify about him, but he scared me and I didn't. They got custody, and then there were no more dance lessons. No more piano. Just martial arts and science."
"That's too bad."
"No," I say, wistful, listening to Debussy's Arabesque in my mind, my hand directing. I dance the steps I learned as a young girl in my mind's eye and hum the music. "I'm glad. Dance and music are pointless. Who cares? I prefer science."
"They aren't pointless. They make humanity beautiful. Worth saving."
I sigh. Such sweet thoughts.
"I wish he was dead."
"He will be."
He sits and just stares at me, his face dark.
"You're so serious," I say, giggling at the frown on his face, barely able to open my eyes. "I want to dance again, with you as my evil prince."
"I'm not evil."
"In the play – you have to be evil, the dark prince. The vampire prince. And I'm
your captive, a tiny white swan held against my will." I laugh to myself, imagining him with a crown on his head, in a dancer's costume. "You were a vicomte after all." I hold my hand up to my forehead in my best damsel-in-distress mode.
"And if I let you go?"
"Oh," I say, filled with theatrics. "What would the swan do? She'd fly away. Away to the police and enter the witness protection program, never to be seen again."
He says nothing for a long while. Finally, I force my eyes open and see him sitting there, no longer smiling.
"What?" I say, poking his arm, laughing. "The world is so smooooth. Why are you frowning?"
"Would you?"
I feel my mind tumbling, my sense of time unreal as if reality is stretched out thin.
"Would I what?" I laugh at the world.
"Would you join the witness protection program if I let you go?"
"Oh, you won't let me go, silly," I say, the thought ridiculous, making me giggle. "You'd kill me first." I tilt my throat to the side and laugh at myself. "I'm too valuable to fall into enemy hands." I make an exaggerated face of pain, my tongue lolling out to the side, then go into a fit of hysterics at the sight of him, frowning like a spoil-sport.
He leans over me, his arms on the armrests beside my head. "Is that what you really think of me, Eve? That I'll kill you?"
"Eventually," I say. I open my eyes, look up into his hooded ones. "You’re a killer. That’s what you do.”
I burst out laughing at his frown.
“What do I really think of you? Let's see," I say and smile, closing my eyes again, suppressing a giggle. "I think you have a very nice big thick . . ." I open my eyes and glance up, then convulse in laughter at the sight of his face, "piece of steak in the freezer that I feel like eating!"
"Oh you do, do you?" He smiles finally. "I thought you were a vegetarian."
"You've given me a taste for meat," I say, grinning. "We'd have to heat it up first." I practically roll around on the couch in hysterics. "Get it nice and hot!" Hold my belly. "Not too well done, though," I add, tears in my eyes, "cause I like it all nice and dripping juice!"
"Oh, believe me, it's already dripping," he says, leaning down closer, his face just an inch away from mine, smile now broad.
I scream at that. "Well you better get it out," I laugh so hard I can barely speak, "cause I got the munchies!"
I lie beneath him, his face against my neck, his nose beneath my ear, snuffling me like I'm some kind of exotic flower, the laughter slowly subsides, leaving me in a state of near bliss. It just feels so good, lying there with him on top of me, his weight comforting, his lips on my neck, his hair on my cheek.
"What do you really think of me, Eve?" His voice is so soft that I'm not sure if he actually said it. It sounds as if it's distant, as if we're under water.
"You already know."
"Say it."
"Why? Just read me."
"I want to hear you say the words."
I inhale slowly.
"What do I really think of you?" I say, now serious, my eyes still closed, my lids too heavy to open. "I think I could love you, even though you're not Michel," I say, nodding to myself. "And I hate you both. I wish I'd never met either of you."
He doesn't say anything for a while, and I just enjoy the moment, the way it seems to stretch like warm taffy, sweet and soothing.
"And if I said you were free to go? Right now? If I said you could just get up and leave, and I gave you a plane ticket and money to go wherever you wanted, start a new life?"
"Mmm," I say, imagining, shaking my head slowly. "If I could go anywhere?" I think for a moment, my eyes closed. "Wales," I say finally. "The Northern coast." I see it in my mind's eye. A rocky coast. "There's a medieval ruin there. Dolwyddelan Castle. Some days, when there's a storm, the clouds roll in off the sea and fill it up." I sigh. "I want to go back and feel the clouds in Dolwyddelan Castle."
I lie still, imagining what clouds would feel like.
"They must feel like fog." I remember fog lying thick on the ground when I lived in Wales. I remember a poem from public school I had to memorize and repeat to the class. "The fog," I say, reciting it out loud, "comes on little cat feet. It sits over the harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on."
"Carl Sandburg," Julien says.
"Yes," I say and frown, my mood shifting at the memory. "Mrs. Peacock made me memorize it in Grade Five. I cried when I had to recite it in front of everyone. I hated people looking at me, as if they could see . . . "
"See what?"
"The blood." I shake my head, remembering. "He made me bleed." I swallow. "He took pictures."
"Shh," he says, rubbing my cheek.
I close my eyes and my feelings of bliss vanish as if clouds blown away by the wind at the top of a mountain in Wales.
"Time for more," Julien says, sitting up. "You're coming down fast."
I sit up beside him and rub my eyes. "I don't want any more."
He shakes his head and picks up the joint that lies in the dish on the coffee table and lights it. "Here. Smoke the rest."
"What if I don't want to?"
"Eve."
I relent and take a hit, sucking in the smoke, holding it in for as long as possible. The buzz I get from before is nice. I like the feeling – as if there's nothing wrong in the world. As if everything's fine, happy, sweet. No troubles. When I'm done with the joint, I turn to him and watch him as he finishes up the end, the ember blazing for a brief moment before dying out completely.
He isn't Julien the vampire anymore – he's Julien the sweet man who smiles a lot and wants to nuzzle my neck – wants to replace his brother in my arms, between my thighs. When he turns back to me after closing up the baggie, I lean in and kiss him, my hand cupping his cheek, my fingers tracing his jaw.
“Sir Julien,” I say, pulling him down to me. He kisses me.
Chapter 39
"Revenge is a dish best served cold."
Pierre Choderlos de Laclos
I WAKE IN BED, MY HEAD POUNDING. Julien must have put me here when I fell asleep. I get up and go to the bathroom and wash my face, brush my teeth for my mouth feels like garbage. Julien opens the door and peeks his head around.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like I was stoned last night and have a hangover."
He smiles. "You were. I didn't even get anything out of you because you fell asleep before I could get you into bed and all my plans were ruined."
"You and your brother have so many plans," I say.
"We do. Get dressed," he says, his expression suddenly serious. "We're going somewhere."
"Where?"
"Just get dressed."
I bite back a protest and finish cleaning myself up, dressing in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. When I return to the main area, he's sitting at a counter in the small kitchen, drinking blood. He glances over at me, his expression unreadable under the hunter's face. When he's finished, he comes to me.
"Come." He reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me with him,
"Where are we going?"
"We've got work to do."
We get our coats and leave the warehouse. Down on the street, Vasily's waiting with the car. I don't know what to expect as we drive along the streets. A cold front blew in and the skies are overcast, thick dark clouds blotting out the moonlight. I shiver, burnt out from the events of the previous night.
The car slows as we approach one of the oldest parts of the waterfront, the buildings falling down, ramshackle, rusting into pieces, this section not yet having been reclaimed. I want to ask what's happening, but am reluctant. Julien hasn't said a word to either Vasily or me, nor does he look at me. He just stares out the car window at the passing scenery, his fingers tapping on the door.
The car stops at one huge building made of corrugated metal. Inside, the building is empty and dark except for a floodlight which shines down on a figure sitting in the middle of the space with his back to us, his hands tied, a
mound of small objects littered on the floor around him. To the side is a can of gas.
Once we're closer, Julien stops in the shadows, pressing his finger over my lips, motioning for me to stay where I am. He goes to the seated figure – a man dressed in a white shirt and dark pants, greying hair, his head forward.
Julien pulls out a knife and starts to circle the man, waving the knife around so that its blade catches the light and glints like a diamond. I tense, wondering what he's doing.
"Who are you?" the man says, fear in his voice once he sees Julien.
"No, the question is, who are you, or should I say, what are you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your name," Julien says, edging closer to the man, his knife flashing. "Tell me your name."
"Bob," the man says, his voice breaking. "Bob Thompson."
I gasp and cover my mouth.
"Bob." A deadly serious voice. "Do you know why you're here?"
"No," he says, "I don't."
"You don't?" Julien steps closer, and picks up one of the dark objects off the floor. "Can you tell me what this is?"
The man shakes his head. "I don't know."
"Come on, Bob. Tell us what's inside. Is it a tape? A porno tape maybe? A kiddie porn tape?"
"I said I don't know."
"Well, that's strange. You see, after a few of my associates invited you along for a ride out to Boston for a visit, they went to your little den of iniquity and found these on your shelves. So I'm a little confused. Are you sure you don't recognize them?"
Thompson shakes his head. "Some guy gave them to me. I don't know what's in them."
"Oh, I think you do. You see, Bob, a few of my men took a look. They say you were in them with little girls. Doing all sorts of very very bad things. Now do you recognize them?"
"What do you want from me?"
"I want the truth, Bob. The absolute honest-to-God unblemished truth. You see, that's my mission in life – to get to the truth, every dirty filthy ugly bit of it. I want it all. Do you think a pervert can do that if it'll save your neck?"