by Christian, M
You might imagine, as I would have if it had not happened to me, that a near-zombie girl would just stand there like a big blow-up doll. Not at all. I am a seemingly will-less creature, and let me tell you, it takes a great deal of will to resist sex. All living things are designed for it. It is their singular purpose. There was no doubt about this in my body. Horny as any bitch in heat, I was down to the basics. I was consumed with a slimy, single-celled reproductive certainty, swamped with a kind of glandular ecstasy. I couldn't fight it. I wanted to crawl up the wall. The world turned hot and juicy.
Imagine that you are eating a peach and it begins eating you back. That's how surprised Alain was when the laconic object of his attentions mounted a counter attack. I wanted to devour him, and I don't mean metaphorically. This is the point at which murder takes place – murder or self-immolation. This is the lust that kills. Remember the praying mantis, the black widow spider, crimes of passion and desire. But, something inside me – some ancient parasitic wisdom – prevented me from devouring him. It did not stop me from trying to swallow his tongue. The drooling thought "deliciousness" popped into my head, and my salivary glands sprang a leak.
Meanwhile, I had become a balloon. All my hormones adjusted their levels and discharged. I was enflamed and unstoppable. My breasts, which I have already explained, were plenty large, seemed to swell. My womb seemed to have opened up like an umbrella, the blood in it beating like a big Vodoun drum. I imagined my lips splitting, oozing blood; breasts spilling milk; innards raining spicy mucilage. I was caught in my own monsoon. I wanted more.
More, it seemed, wanted me, too. I could feel it making a case for itself between my legs at the Ark of the Grand Central Orifice. Taking a deep breath that collapsed our cheeks, I sprang, wrapping my legs around Alain's waist. Like a prizefighter caught by a hard right hook, he staggered and very nearly fell. To his athletic credit, he managed to retain his balance. Then we became a kind of carnival balancing act, a two-torsoed creature waddling into the bedroom where we turned and collapsed onto the bed, which, in turn, collapsed under our weight. Kaboooooom.
Now Alain was beneath me, his face under mine, his lips pink and tasty. I slipped into the saddle, slid onto that brilliantly designed, perfectly sculpted horn. What a ride we had then, my pony and I. Alain was watching me with a mixture of terror and desire. He could no more stop than a male mantis can shake its amorous mate. I was a pole dancer sliding up and down, a jillaroo bouncing along in the outback, a frigate ship tossed on the Cape of Good Horn. Straddling him, both hands on his chest, I rode him into the sea. I was in some kind of organic nirvana. Mandalas and kaleidoscopes were opening up like flowers deep inside me. Waves of purple and pale chartreuse, plumes of iris and swamp grass scrolled past my upturned eyes. Lust flashed giddy tattoos all over my flesh in a rose-red flush. I couldn't actually hear it, but I was wailing like a cat in heat, my caterwauling sailing up and out the window, turning heads all along the canal. The big dopamine hit mushroomed up and into my brain. "Oh, oh, oooooh," I crooned as the dike burst and the waters of the Isslemeer came in, flooding Amsterdam.
I think it was good for him, too. He lay still for a moment, his face in a grimace. "God," he said gazing up at me in a kind of adulation. "God, that was good. What exactly are you on?" he wondered aloud and put his hand over his eyes.
I sat looking down on him, my body suffused by a delirious glow. A silky endorphin parachute was carrying me back to the bed. I was paralyzed and couldn't move. Not unusual for me, but I had also found peace and a strange form of union. In Alain, I'd touched some lost part of myself. I was transformed forever. That's how I became Alain's slave.
Alain, on the other hand, bounced up out of bed. Dressed in the only thing that mattered at this point – his watch. He consulted it for direction.
"Ach," he exclaimed, exploding into action. "Time to go. We'll be late."
Pulling me out of the bed he paused for only a moment to give me a lingering kiss. "I like you," he said. "You're different." Then he slapped my ass and herded me into a tight little washroom where we shared the coffin-sized shower. Before we left the houseboat, he got us both dressed, slicked back my hair and painted a number on my forehead.
"Sit there, just like that," he said, positioning me in front of a mirror. Then he stepped back and snapped a picture. This is the only thing that I have left of Alain: this picture with the grim woman with a number on her forehead, looking into a mirror; the photographer behind her, the camera hiding his face.
I saw the grins and furtive glances in our direction as we stepped from the houseboat.
"How are the cats, Alain?" asked an old neighbor, raising a brow.
"Grrrr," Alain growled back playfully, hurrying us along.
Our destination, he informed me, was the nearby restaurant and café: In de Waag.
"This," said Alain, playing tour guide again as we approached the hulking brown edifice – he was very proud of his city–"is an important historical building. It was built in 1480, or thereabouts, as the city gate. It's the oldest secular building in Amsterdam.20
"You see that octagonal turret?" he whispered, leaning provocatively toward me and indicating a corner tower. "That was an anatomical theater. The Surgeons Guild built it in 1691. It housed northern Europe's very first public dissections. You know that painting, The Anatomical Lesson of Professor Tulp? Rembrandt painted it here. He lived nearby. Visiting the theater was one of his favorite pastimes. Have you seen it? No? Well, I will take you to see it one day." He added this last remark, absently, for he already had spotted his contact.
Marie sat at one of the Internet stations just inside the door, her long blond hair hanging on either side of her face like lank curtains, her small, monkey ears poking through. She was absorbed in her e-mail. Alain put a hand on her shoulder.
"Marie?"
She looked up and blinked, the real world pouring into the virtual.
"Oh," said Marie and smiled warmly, her small nose wrinkling and rearranging the freckles on her face. Then she saw me and recoiled. "Uh," she exhaled as though stunned. "And who is this?" she demanded in Dutch. I noticed that she was looking at the number that Alain had written upon my forehead.
"Number 421," said Alain with a smile. "Erin, I'd like you to meet Marie."
At this point, Marie rose from her spot at the line of computers. I should say unfolded – she was tall and thin and she wore platform shoes that added another four or five inches to her nearly six-foot height. Obviously one of Alain's models; number 420, I assumed.
"Ummm," she said slowly. "Come let's play a game."
"No time," said Alain.
"Please, please," begged Marie. "There are three of us. Three is the perfect number. Please, Alain. Exquisite Corpse.21 You never play anymore."
Alain looked besieged. "She's addicted," he laughed. "Not this time, Marie, we must get down to business."
Marie looked down at the floor, then she glanced at me with disdain and wrinkled her nose again in her rabbit-like manner. "Oh, alright," she sighed, folding herself back into her chair. "I found it online, you know."
"What?"
"Exquisite Corpse."
"Marie."
"Okay. Okay." She looked up at Alain and smiled. "How is Lou Lou?"
"Fine."
"Your 'little sister' Lou Lou should be careful. She hangs out with too many criminals."
"And you don't?"
"Well, it's different for me." Marie tossed her long hair. "I am protected. I have some very powerful friends." She had one eye on the screen. "So, have a seat and we'll talk. But what about her? Can she make herself useful? Get some coffee?"
I was not really paying much attention because something, a darting figure silhouetted for a moment in the sunlit café entrance, had caught my eye: a boy – he looked fifteen or sixteen – small, yellow-haired. He beckoned to me, or seemed to. I took a few steps toward him.
"Going somewhere?" asked Alain.
"We have our busine
ss," reminded Marie.
"Yes, that's right. Go on, Erin. Marie and I have a few very pleasant exchanges. I will find you when we are finished."
Dismissed like a dog, but I barely heard him. I was already headed toward the door.
My eyes weren't quite ready for the change in light. The café light was soft and creamy. Outside the sunlight was brittle and hard. It crashed into objects and exploded off surfaces. The figure was haloed in and disguised by this brilliance. He was poised at the stairwell, expectantly, energy gathered for an ascent, but he hung back, not yet committed to the climb, waiting, it seemed, on me.
Naturally, I followed, but slowly, dallying on the stairwell, reluctantly entering the little brown door at the top.
He was waiting for me just inside. Very short, this Dutch boy, and I saw now, bedraggled. Oily brown locks streaked through his straw-colored, shoulder length hair.
"Well, here we are," he laughed from a pair of very dark, swollen lips. He was strangely bloated. The length of his thin arms, revealed by the short sleeves of a royal-blue T-shirt, were tracked with needle marks that had turned black. They looked like long tangles of blackberries.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, "I just couldn't resist."
That's all he needed to say. I already knew who he was.
BETWEEN DESPAIR AND ECSTASYANGELIA SPARROW
The Seed of the Serpent grew strong in the land and the Sons of Adam cried out to the LORD for they were sore afflicted by those who hunted the night.
The LORD heard their cries and called his angels to him, saying unto them, "Go now to the daughters of men that you find fairest. For my people are pursued and devoured by the Serpents. Go and give my people undying champions to hunt those who would destroy them.
The sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all they chose. There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown, for they stood against the Seed of the Serpent.
"What a load of arrant horseshit." Marcus muttered as he stepped to the next track of the CD in his player. He had heard the Undyings' version of the Creation Myth a number of times in training, and more on instructional CDs like this. The Council demanded that all materials start with the story, just to remind the Immortals, and their human servants like Marcus, that they were special snowflakes. Most Immortals believed it. Marcus had simply held his tongue all through the long years of his training.
Finally, the voice came back. "Hello, Marcus. You have been assigned to attend to Samil. You have access to his dossier. We need you to provide all standard services, as well as frequent reports. Samil is three thousand years old and needs closer monitoring than younger Immortals. He is one of the oldest still in the field. We have every confidence in you. Ihulim levaviim!" Good wishes expressed, the CD ended. He read the dossier the rest of the ride.
The taxi pulled up in front of an ordinary-looking house. Clean and crisp with a small valise at his feet, Marcus rang the bell and Samil benAriel opened the door. There was no invitation to enter, but Marcus knew better than to expect one. Undying never invited anyone into a dwelling. He stepped over the threshold with the assurance of a man entering the last place he would ever live.
"You must be Marcus." Samil gave him a smile that made Marcus' knees feel weak.
Marcus observed as Samil showed him around the house. Samil was not a messy man, but tended to surface clean. The kitchen was all gleaming stainless steel with two refrigerators and, Marcus had no doubt, two sets of dishes in separate cupboards. He'd seen the mazuzah on the door and knew that Samil observed all the rites of his faith, with one or two notable exceptions.
Most of the Undying were religious in some fashion, usually monotheistic. Marcus believed it was a defense mechanism to deal with the Council's mythology.
"Very good, sir," Marcus commented as the tour finished in his own apartment off the pantry.
Samil handed him a credit card. "Buy groceries with this. I leave the kitchen to your judgment. I assume you understand my dietary habits. Laundry is simple enough. I am allergic to most fabric softeners. Help yourself to the cars. The keys are on a pegboard in the garage." He handed over a slip of paper with three alphanumeric codes on it. "The top one is the front door. The middle is the garage. The bottom is the house security system. Don't lose them."
Marcus nodded. "Yes sir. Any foods in particular you favor?"
"I grew up in...Israel. Let that be your guide."
Marcus wanted to laugh. Samil's Israel bore no resemblance to the modern glass and steel of Tel Aviv or the solar farms near Kvutzat Yavne. Samil's Israel had been only a generation or two out of goat-skin tents.
Instead, he gave the usual small incline of his head. "It was my guide, but surely you have favorites or special treats I should keep around."
"The upper cabinet closest to the garage door," Samil said, leaning back against the wall. Marcus swallowed hard at the display, all golden skin and dark eyes, with a full mouth that just begged for kisses. He was much too well trained to let his eyes drift to Samil's crotch. "Any other questions?"
"Will I attend you as well as cook? And what do you prefer I call you?"
Samil's lower lip did the sexy point thing when he smiled again. "Samil."
"So, we are to be on a first name basis?"
"It is easier. And I usually don't need a great deal of attending to."
The suggestive tone behind those words coupled with Samil looking him over in minute detail made Marcus very glad of the bio-control classes that prevented him from blushing. Samil seemed dreadfully amused by all of this. Marcus decided that after so many millennia of life, one either had to laugh at everything or go completely mad.
He'd seen the mad ones, the Undying unable to cope with living forever. He, like all trainees, had spent a six month tour caring for them under Mount Olympus. There they would go or be forced into small chambers to starve into Sleep, a deep coma state from which they could only be awakened with difficulty. Undying could not die but they could kill and sometimes the insanity made them violent before they Slept. Not every trainee survived that tour of duty.
Samil left the kitchen. Marcus slumped against the cabinets. He'd known the placement would be challenging, but none of his experience around Undying–sane and otherwise–had prepared him for this one.
Still, he was trained. He would do what Samil required of him. Marcus familiarized himself with the kitchen, until he was sure he could cook with a minimum of difficulty. Then, he took the keys to the Lincoln and went to the store.
The next morning, Marcus rose early, showered quickly and set out the makings of breakfast. He was unsurprised that Samil did not rise until nearly eleven. The Undying kept late hours of a necessity; Samil later than most, since his cover businesses did not open until evening.
Marcus sighed and wondered again how he'd managed to land the crime-lord. Oh, the Council knew best, surely, he thought as he chopped mushrooms for the omelet. After all, it wasn't as if that august body had let the vampire they claimed was Cain himself escape the custody of their research wing to slaughter half of a remote Greek village. It wasn't as if–
The alarm clock interrupted his thoughts. Marcus heard a shower, then soft chanting in Hebrew. He busied himself getting breakfast.
Samil went about his routine, mostly information-gathering followed by an evening out at a variety of clubs. Marcus drove but did not go inside. He tumbled into bed with the dawn, regretting that early alarm clock.
The third morning, Samil brought files to the breakfast table with him. He shoved them at Marcus. "See if you can find the swindle. Damned if I know. Too many hours of staring at balance sheets makes them all run together."
Marcus had the answer by dinner. He set the food and files in front of Samil and gave him a small smile.
"Who?"
Marcus
tapped the relevant line on a vendor delivery sheet. "Here. He has a thousand items coming in, but he's only moving nine hundred out. He's probably only ordering nine hundred, fiddling the receipts and pocketing the leftover money. The driver may or may not be getting a cut."
"Ah, William. I knew he was greedy when I hired him, but I didn't think he was stupid." He rose and headed to the back room, beckoning Marcus to follow.
Marcus hung up his apron and arrived in time to watch Samil punch in the code. The door revealed a bank-vault style room with every piece of lethal equipment Marcus had ever seen and a number he hadn't.
Samil chuckled. "Most people think it's the basement."
"Very nice, sir," Marcus said, eying a gleaming Walther PPK.
"William works out of the back of my club, where you came to interview."
Samil needed to say no more. Marcus picked up the little black automatic and checked the ammunition. "I think he's starting his last shift." He slipped on a shoulder holster and secured the weapon. "Very good, sir. I'll be home to make dinner."
* * * *
When Samil came to supper, Marcus set the meal before him on good china. Beside it, on a small paper plate, layered in plastic wrap, was a most unusual side dish.
When Marcus cleared to serve dessert, Samil unwrapped the plate of decidedly non-kosher mountain oysters. The sauteed mushroom caps arranged around the two ovals of meat were the final ghastly touch. Marcus prided himself on complete presentation.
Samil looked up at him. "So, what is it that you would like to do for me?”
"Anything you require of me, sir. You need not eat that. I simply opted to surprise you per your orders." Marcus set the fruit pavlova in front of Samil.
"And I am notably impressed. Please remove it."
"Very good, sir. I promise I did not damage the kitchen's kosher with it." He saw Samil nod. Just to give his employer something to think about, he ate one of the mushroom caps as he left the kitchen to dispose of William's last remains. He returned and cleared the table, washing the dishes by hand. Samil stayed seated and watched.