Her mouth fell against mine, hot and hungry, sucking the very air from my lungs in a rush of searing heat. My mind railed against the contact, struggling to regain control of the limbs that no longer seemed to listen so that I might push the spirit away. But my body was no longer my own. With one kiss, Sarelia had stolen my willpower in its entirety. With one caress, I was completely consumed. I stood helpless as all thoughts of Malorie slowly drifted away upon the wind like so many flecks of ash.
We fell together to the earth in a breathless tangle of limbs and heated flesh. Writhing. Gasping. Moaning. We burned together as creatures constructed of lust and lust alone and in the haze, my very clothes seemed to melt away. Nothing else existed in such a space. Nothing save for Sarelia and myself.
I opened my eyes and immediately regretted it. I didn’t even remember closing them. Beneath me, Sarelia writhed, blinding in her brilliance, every curve awash with a searing golden light. Her hair fanned out around her face like long tendrils of flame that licked along the grass, devouring it slowly. But it was her eyes that I could not bear to meet—her eyes, as dark as a moonless night and yet hotter than smoldering coals. They hooked into me nice and deep, holding me frozen atop her, threatening to never let go.
“Take me, Daniel,” she commanded and her voice surrounded me, filled me. Every inch of my skin thrummed with the power of those words. My mind resisted quietly, a faint voice that was easily lost in the searing waves of desire that crashed about me while my body moved of its own accord, eagerly obedient.
My blood roared in my ears, an inferno that raced along my body, licking, lashing, tearing me apart, ripping me from the inside until there was nothing left. I was hollow. I was hungry. My lips blazed across Sarelia’s skin, kissing, biting, licking. I devoured her, drinking in her heat, her very essence, and still I hungered for more.
“Take me, Daniel,” she breathed against my mouth and I felt myself snarl in response, the sound rumbling up from the very depths of my soul. Primal. Feral. Sarelia chuckled then, the sound low and dark as it purred from her beautiful golden throat.
Think I’m funny, eh?
My hands struck out, fingers wrapping like manacles about her slender wrists, nails digging into her soft skin as I pinned her arms to the earth on either side of her face, trapping her beneath me. She hissed. She writhed. She arched upwards, bucking her body as if to throw me. But I was strong, stronger than I had ever been before. I drank in her power, her heat, and I laughed. I triumphed.
I was merciless as I moved against her, hips pulsing in a fierce rhythm, taking her as she had so commanded of me. Growling and bucking, my teeth closed about the elegant curve of her neck, sucking deeply of the sweetness of her skin as I bore downwards into her perfect form. I was an animal. She tasted of summer.
I couldn’t get enough.
I tasted over every inch of her that I could reach. I was greedy. Insatiable. And I didn’t give a fuck. For hours, it seemed, we moved as one—hours that stretched into another lifetime in its entirety and for each moment that passed, I felt like a god. The energy, the power, the fire, it pulsed through my veins in a rush of mingled pain and pleasure and I embraced it like a long-lost friend for as long as I could bear it. But I could not hold it forever.
My release came suddenly and without warning and with it, a sense of relief that washed through my limbs as I felt my body and my mind become joined once more. I was my own man again.
“It is done,” Sarelia breathed against my ear, sending a shiver jolting down my spine. Suddenly, I found the heat of her body to be almost unbearable and I rolled from atop her with a groan, eager to put some space between us. Shaking, panting, I struggled to my feet as my eyes cast about for my clothing. I found them resting in a neat pile next to the stream, each piece carefully folded and waiting for me. I didn’t even bother questioning it. Nothing made sense anymore, anyway.
“Malorie?” I croaked, my voice hoarse as I struggled back into my jeans, my eyes uneasily slipping back to land on Sarelia’s form where she stood but a few feet away, calm and clothed once more. She merely arched a slender eyebrow at me as if speech was so far above her. I growled then, embracing my newfound bestiality. “Our bargain, Sarelia.”
“Heal her yourself,” the spirit purred, turning her back on me as she began to prowl towards the edge of the clearing. Her indifference was infuriating. I stalked after her.
“Damn you, Sarelia! We had a deal,” I snarled, my fingers moving to close about her shoulder so that I might wrench her around to face me once more. She was quicker.
“Silly boy,” she hissed, her eyes dark as she spun about of her own accord. “I have given you the power you need. Now, heal the silly chit yourself and leave me be.”
I stood dumbfounded for several moments as I held Sarelia’s gaze, searching for any hint of guile that might have been lurking there. I found none.
“The power? So, that’s it? You’re just…going to let me go?” I didn’t understand. I hadn’t asked for any power. I had only asked that she heal Malorie. But Sarelia had said something…I would see you reborn. My eyes narrowed. “You never give something for nothing, Sarelia. What’s in this for you?”
She smiled. Her smile was almost as infuriating as her indifference, for it was cold and mocking. I wanted nothing more than to slap it from her face but I resisted, more from a sense of self-preservation than that of willpower.
“It was a fair exchange,” she whispered and there was a finality to the words. I stood and watched her go, silent and yet wary. I knew this wasn’t over. I could feel it in my bones. No matter what Sarelia said, there was something else she was after. We would meet again.
And I would be ready.
“Malorie,” I murmured into the sudden stillness of the clearing as I hurriedly gathered up the rest of my things. In my jacket pocket, I found the lighter and the bundle of the sweetgrass once more. Hands shaking, I lit the dried twist of grass and as the smoke began to curl from the end of the bundle, I began to make my way slowly about the edge of the clearing. I completed the circle, watching as the smoke wafted into the space, dismissing any remnants of Sarelia’s energy that might have remained. I was thorough.
I was stalling.
What would Malorie say when next she saw me? How could I possibly explain what had happened? I couldn’t. No, I wouldn’t. She would be well and that was all that mattered. Let her family think their prayers had finally been answered. Let it be a miracle.
I sold my soul for you, baby. I gave away myself for you.
Well, at the very least, Sarelia had been right about one thing –it was a fair exchange. But for whom, exactly?
Blood on Love
by Alessia Brio
At thirteen, I thought I was the only person on the planet who could smell what people were thinking. At seventeen, I knew better.
At thirteen, the world was black and white. Merciless absolutes. At seventeen, I began to see the terrible beauty of color.
At thirteen, I cut myself to feel white pain. Voluntary pain. Cleansing pain. It muted, temporarily, the jet-black pain of solitude. At seventeen, however, I cut myself to smell the mystery of blood and taste a force more powerful than death.
It’s no wonder the vampire mythos is so popular, but the books and movies have it all wrong. The only blood with any real power is our own.
Mom knew I cut. How could she not? I never bothered to hide it. She never bothered to care. Without my father, she wilted like the big baskets of flowers behind the funeral home, just taking up space until collection day, when the trash truck took her to the life dump. Her thoughts, too, smelled of dying roses.
The spring of my sixteenth year, surrounded by the loamy scent of fresh graves, I saw L’Aran for the first time. I have no doubt it was not the first time he saw me. He thought familiar smells. Strong and enticing with a hint of metallic danger. Like blood.
I rolled my eyes when he told me his name, and he apologized for his parents’ infatuation wi
th dragon lore. Having been christened Jadzia, I sympathized. He offered his condolences, but I told him she’d died years ago. He ran his fingertips over the lattice of my scars, and I smelled his understanding. My life slipped onto a different set of tracks. Just like that.
I was about to ask him what he was doing at the cemetery when a whistle pierced our connection. His head whipped toward the sound moments before he ran off, leaving my arms tingling with the memory of his touch.
I didn’t see him again for months, but I’d sense his presence in the wee hours of the dawn. I touched myself where and how I wanted him to touch me, and I smelled his cinnamon desire, red as the burning horizon.
The mundane continued to swirl around me, gnat-like. I paid it little attention. An aunt had legal guardianship until my looming majority, but she cared only about the trust from my parents’ estate. From the smell of her, it was substantial. Underlying that smell, however, was the dank odor of mutant cells multiplying at an impressive rate. In weeks, I would be free of her.
L’Aran showed up again at her funeral. I smelled him long before I saw him, tucked behind the large oak at the edge of the property. His presence baffled me. Confusion smells like a carnival, both tawdry and intriguing.
When the ritual ended, we walked together along the gravel path. I didn’t need to ask the questions that danced inside.
“When one of us dies, they are preoccupied. I can get away for a while.”
My first glimpse of belonging. It smelled of the sea. I took L’Aran’s hand, and he smiled.
“My mom?”
“And your aunt. The dormant generation. As was my father’s. Did you know your grandparents?”
I shook my head, remembering the whispered tale of their disappearance, as another piece of my puzzle slid into place. L’Aran squeezed my hand.
“Am I in danger?”
I smelled his impulse to lie, and my heart skipped a beat when instead he nodded. The warmth of acceptance eclipsed the expected fear.
“Who are they?”
Before he could answer, the whistle. Cold and shrill and demanding. “Take me with you,” I blurted.
“Don’t be afraid. They’ll protect you.” I smelled, rather than heard, the last bit.
“I’m not afraid,” I whimpered in frustration. “I just want to be with you.”
Summer was hot and lonely and so dry my tears evaporated before they could drip from my eyes. I ached for L’Aran, in turn worried then angry, and distracted myself by volunteering at the homeless shelter downtown. The smells of desperation and decay were more depressing than those of my own self-pity.
I cut again. And again. Just to convince myself that I was alive. It was never my intent to garner pity or even to harm myself, as odd as that might sound. It was more self-preservation than self-destruction, although no counselor I ever encountered understood the distinction. I marveled that I could still bleed, when I felt so hollow. I anonymously gifted large chunks of my inheritance to those who still carried a lingering peppermint scent of hope.
That autumn, on the morning after the first frost, I woke to a cacophony. At first I thought it one of those obnoxious political discussion programs originating from the television. The figures surrounding my bed argued, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were in my bedroom. They smelled like church incense, but it originated from their robes, not their minds. The fog of sleep disappeared the moment I heard them mention L’Aran’s abduction. They had my attention, but even my shouting failed to garner theirs so absorbed were they in their bickering.
I dressed quickly and threw some essentials into a backpack. Credit card, cash, ID, phone, charger, toothbrush. Pausing, I glanced over my shoulder at the package of razor blades on the bathroom counter. Some girls had stuffed animals for comfort. I had my blades.
Hoofing it toward the cemetery, I wondered how long it would take for them to notice I was gone.
I sat, my back against L’Aran’s oak tree, and closed my eyes. There wasn’t a soul in sight. I could smell anyone approaching well before I could see them, anyway. Or so I still believed.
I dreamt of my childhood, the patchwork of houses and schools, friends left behind with promises to keep in touch until I simply stopped trying. The immediacy of youth is not conducive to long distance friendships, even with the best of intentions. It always felt to me as if we were fleeing a nebulous threat rather than the job transfer explanation. Now I knew the accuracy of my intuition.
“You came.” L’Aran’s thoughts carried the scent of milk chocolate pleasure.
I threw myself into his arms, elated. It took a moment for the significance of his presence to sink in. “You faked your own kidnapping?”
“Not exactly.” He held me at arms’ length, and I smelled his truth. “There was a real attempt. I just...took advantage of it. We have to move fast. They’ll look here. The others, too.”
He led me down to the river, and we waded along its banks. I assumed it was to hide our trail. In a way, I soon learned, I was right. Those searching for us could track us by our water, and the river provided a form of static interference. It jammed their radar, so to speak.
For hours, L’Aran thought-spoke as we trudged through the muck. I absorbed as much as I felt my brain could hold, from the history of hunting our kind—labeled Sensors by those who sought to mimic our abilities by dissecting our brains—to the wild and evolving variations in those abilities. Everything from pyrokinesis to precognition to, well, smelling thoughts. We were a race hidden in plain view, a not-so-secret society of misfits and nut cases.
We could mate, I learned, with another of our kind, but the children of such unions were dead ends. Not only were they without extrasensory abilities of any kind, they were sterile. No grandbabies on that path. Only mating with a mundane, as regular humans were called, would consistently pass along the genetic material necessary to propagate our kind. Even then, the extrasensory abilities always skipped a generation.
I studied L’Aran as he info dumped. Tall and lithe, almost elfish in an Orlando Bloom fashion. He seemed so strong and self-assured. I would’ve been attracted to him in any situation. Our innate bond and its inherent danger only added to his mystique.
How surreal this life twist. And yet it felt right, like coming home. I belonged. In hindsight, I should’ve paid closer attention to L’Aran’s words instead of drifting into a fantasy of our future. But, when he started into the genetics and the experiments and the selective breeding programs, I zoned.
I tripped over a fallen tree limb and landed on my knees. L’Aran extended his hand to help me up, his eyes widening when he saw the blood trickling down my calf.
“Sharp rock,” I shrugged. “I’m okay.”
So much can change in an instant.
I saw two of them emerge from the trees along the riverbank ahead, beckoning to L’Aran. I saw L’Aran turn away. I smelled his icy terror when he discovered several hunters on the opposite bank. I saw him dive. I felt his arms, pulling me beneath the surface. The muddy water muted my senses. I could neither see nor smell. Doubly blinded.
We swam, his hand wrapped around my wrist, pausing only when necessary to breathe. Like a crocodile, just my nose would pierce the surface, take air, and resubmerge. Each time, I would attempt to scent our pursuers. Nothing. Then again, I couldn’t smell them earlier. Their thoughts were either shielded... or unscented. I didn’t like what the latter implied.
L’Aran could stay under far longer than I, abnormally so. For each of his breaths, I needed four or five. I experienced a moment of panic when we lost contact, then his hand again found me. Perhaps he could see through the muddy water as well.
It seemed like hours, but it was probably far less. I stopped. My body refused to swim another stroke. I’d been on the go since abruptly waking, without any form of sustenance beyond L’Aran’s presence. Danger or no, I simply had to rest.
My head rose above the water, relieved to take an unrestrained breath, only to have
a scream pull the air from my lungs when I discovered the hand holding my wrist was not L’Aran’s.
The chokehold came from behind, and a cold breath rasped against my ear. “Quiet, fool! The hunters are still around.” To the other, he continued, “At least four of them.”
I tried to fathom their thoughts, but all I smelled was truck stop air freshener. No doubt intentional, and powerful enough to cover damned near any psychic stench. They weren’t without a sense of humor, which was some small comfort.
“Where’s L’Aran?” I demanded. Struggling was pointless. They were both bigger, faster, and clearly stronger.
The curtain of air freshener weakened somewhat, and I smelled their confusion. “He either escaped, or the hunters got him.”
“He would never leave me.” How I knew that with such certainty was just another mystery.
“This is, regretfully, true.” He threw back his hood, revealing a gentle countenance. “Young lady, we require your assistance. It is most urgent.”
Looks like Gandalf, talks like Alfred Pennyworth, I thought, but I replied, “Talk to me... and turn off that damned smell.”
They led me to what appeared to be an old fishing cabin a short distance away and took turns answering my questions. The hunters were the muscle behind a consortium that sought to subjugate Sensors. This much I knew from L’Aran. He feared them. He did not, however, fear my captors. They were benevolent, for the most part, yet controlling. Much like parents, but far broader in scope. I likened them to a clumsy version of Dune’s Bene Gesserit.
“What will they do to L’Aran?”
“If you can imagine it, they will do it. And then some. I am certain their first order of business will be to harvest his sperm.”
I winced, physically and emotionally. Could there be a greater theft of being?
“That is the least of it. They will then begin to... experiment. Time is not on our side.”
Just One Bite Volume 4 Page 5