“You kept things back.”
“In my position it’s expedient.” He turned away to examine a picture on the wall, the flat’s owner, a West Indian dancer. “Who’s this?”
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
“It’s dangerous to take mortal lovers.”
I decided to have a little fun with him, dropping my voice into a smoky register, “Sometimes love is worth the danger.”
Kurt turned wide-eyed, disconcertingly teenaged. “You could be found out.”
“She’s on tour.”
“On tour…” he mused.
“She’s not my lover,” I finally confessed. “It’s a six-month sublet.”
Relieved, he took in the tiny apartment. “You should have a decent flat. I’ll set up an account for your upkeep.”
“I don’t want Brovik’s money.”
Male ego took over. “It’s my money.”
“No one puts a leash on me.”
“Ethan left you penniless.”
“My suitors pay well.”
He winced. “There’s no need to—prostitute yourself.” Frowning, he tilted his head slightly to the side. “It’s wrong, that they use you so. You’re not a bird of prey, Mee-ya, but a woman in a very strange set of circumstances.”
He lightly brushed my cheek with his fingers. Tenderness was a lash and he laid it on hard, not out of cruelty, but it had the same effect. I pulled away.
“Don’t.”
His expression fell with his hand, distraught and sincere. “Forgive me. I want only to help.”
“No barter between friends, Kurt.”
His eyes, if possible, became wider. I treated myself to a good long look. Zing!
A shadow of a smile escaped him. “Friends then?”
“Sure could use one.”
I tentatively stepped toward him. He turned away, examining the piano in the corner. Opening it, he ran his left hand over the keys. His face relaxed subtly, as he struck a chord. “You play?”
“No, it came with the apartment.”
He tried another chord. “I could teach you. You are musical. Philip says you have a lovely singing voice.”
“I’d be far too intimidated. You played great concert halls.”
“A world ago…” he muttered, turning his attention back to the keys, tinkling, fooling. He longed to play but was too modest to show off.
“I’d love to hear you play.”
His face curved into a bittersweet smile. “Sometime perhaps…”
“It would mean so much to me.”
He looked up, a kaleidoscope of emotion playing in his eyes. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
“In that case it will be my pleasure.” He sat down, touching the keys lightly, getting a better feel for the instrument. I shivered, imagining those beautiful hands on me. Suddenly, Kurt was transported into another realm, where the pain and bloodshed of our world was left far behind, a place of infinite peace and beauty. Caught as I was in this nightmare, I marveled at how simply this act of sitting down at an instrument could take him so far out of himself. Or did it lead him back to his true self? Wherever it was, I longed to go with him.
“What would you like? Perhaps…” He cocked his head slightly to the side. “Chopin?” He blissfully launched into a nocturne. “Yes, Chopin, I think.”
I closed my eyes. The nocturne washed over me, beyond gorgeous, liquid notes dancing in my veins like blood. I collapsed onto the futon and lay back with my eyes closed. It went on and on through every part of me. I sucked it inside, but it was too powerful and lovely. Only an angel could distill the essence of heaven and I was too far from a state of grace to receive it. I tried to hold on and wrestle it, but it eluded my grasp leaving me breathless. Was the victim’s blood that tainted with drugs? I opened my eyes again to see if I were hallucinating, but there he was as lovely as the dawn. “Amazing.”
He shrugged. “The instrument is only fair, for you I would do better.”
I rose to my feet, shaking. Surprisingly, I was able to place one foot in front of the other and cross the room to the piano. If I couldn’t hold the music, I could hold the musician. Despite the ethereal appearance, he was flesh and blood. I laid my hand on his arm. It was warm. I leaned my head against his and reached out to his face. His eyes closed as I caressed his eyelids and cheekbones, tracing the graceful line of his nose and lips down his throat, drinking him through my fingers.
“You’re beautiful, Kurt,” I whispered, like a prayer.
“So they tell me,” he muttered.
My lips touched the artery on his throat, pulsing warm against my mouth as the engine of his heart pumped the blood through his body. His breath came harder as my mouth explored.
He stopped playing. “You want this?”
“I’ve wanted you from the first night I saw you.”
He took my face in his hands. “I’m not like Ethan, or the others. I swear. I’ll never hurt you, Mia.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Our mouths found each other, long, deep, his slight frame blending perfectly into mine. Ethan once accused me of falling for a memory of my first love, and yes he did feel like the boy I loved as a girl. I slipped off his shirt and caressed him, sweet, smooth and slender, skin creamy rose petals touched with pink.”
Joe coughed, uncomfortably. “Mia. I really don’t need to hear this.”
“Jesus, what a prude. I will tell you this, I’ve been with hundreds of men and he’s by far the best lover. It was amazing to be made love to by someone who also depended on this skill for his survival. For once I wasn’t taken. I was gifted.
Afterward, he fell into a peaceful slumber, bittersweet smile on his lips. I just sat there looking at him for hours, Psyche gazing on her Eros. I’d never seen anything so lovely.
Notes on the piano, not in rhythm, no particular order. My eyes opened on Kurt, shirt thrown over his arm as if had been in the act of dressing, but had been distracted by the piano, idly tapping at the keys, slender muscles fluttering under smooth skin, eyes darting over the keys, lush lower lip bitten in concentration. Oh my.
I sat up, the sheet falling in loose folds around my body. “Hello.”
“Hello,” he answered, not looking up as his fingers picked out an unfamiliar bit of music.
“What’s that?”
“My own composition.”
“Beautiful.”
He scowled. “If I ever finish…”
“Brovik’s made an accountant of a great artist.”
Kurt smiled slightly. “I’m much more than that. I thought perhaps I should go back to my hotel and not inconvenience you?”
“You kidding? I want you to inconvenience me, again and again. Do you have to go back soon?”
He fixed on that distant point where all the marble hardness of his features melted away, until he was vulnerable as the boy I once knew. He found the notes he was looking for and began to play softly as he spoke, “Brovik called before you woke. I told him I’ve—uh—found you. I’m free to stay awhile.”
“How long?”
He looked up, smiling impishly. “How does eternity sound?”
I was sucked too dry by Ethan to offer him much. It was too easy for him to fall victim and I drain him of all I lacked. “Kurt, I don’t like men very much.”
Amusement played over his face. “This is a warning?”
“You know what I am.”
He shrugged. “I’m not as callow as I look.”
“But your body is forever eighteen years old, and feels all the immediacy of that age.”
He looked up from the keys with an ironic little gleam. “Well—lucky you.”
“Lucky me.”
One moment he was all he looked, a lovely, charming boy, the next something else entirely, wise, knowing and deep, an ancient elf of the forest whose solemn eyes concealed a wellspring of passion and oceans of rage, that escaped in tantalizing drops when he played or made love. Yet, I couldn’t taste all
he contained, because he was Brovik’s slave and I was forbidden to trespass there. I had to be content with his body, but believe me Joe, it was a great consolation prize.
I held out my hand. “Come back to bed.”
He lay down on his back. I raised myself over him, tracing the tattoo on his forearm with my fingertip. “The blood didn’t fade it.”
“Brovik said it could be removed. I refused.”
“Why?”
Shadows fell over his face. “To remind me…”
“Of what?”
Kurt looked into a very different place than the one he saw when he played. “Bargains with the devil. It’s too painful to speak of.” He pulled me down to him, whispering into my neck, “For now, let’s forget…”
SIXTEEN
Kurt held some major demons at bay, but respecting his wishes, I didn’t question him further and thoroughly enjoyed his company. Longing for the experiences we’d both missed as mortal kids, we’d hang out in the Village among the students, not to hunt but to hear their banter and feel their excitement. Here Kurt wasn’t his usual solemn and dignified self, but frenetic and playful, as we ran from shops and restaurants to downtown clubs, and then back to my bed.
He liked rock music, which surprised me, spending hours searching out stores where he bought piles of records that he paid for with an American Express card, while I looked enviously on.
“Must be nice to buy whatever you want,” I said, on one of those occasions.
Boyish mischief sparkled in his smile. “What would you like? I’ll buy it. Anything. How about the entire store?” He picked up an album from a display. “Here, Chopin, I will buy for you—yes?” I shook my head no. “Why is it wrong to accept gifts from your lover?”
“That’s what my suitors call the jewelry they give. I consider it payment for services rendered.”
“Not from me. You liked the books I used to give, didn’t you?”
“Books are different. You were sharing a part of your soul.” I pressed up against him. “You’re the only gift I desire. The gift that keeps on giving, and giving and giving.”
He choked back laughter. “Please, you embarrass me.”
We passed a bodega on the way out of the record store, where large buckets full of red roses and other flowers stood reminding me of the night Ethan had danced with me in the ballroom full of roses, presenting me with rubies. Now that was barter. But it also reminded me of the last moment I stood in the sun. I brushed away the demon whispering in my ear, as Kurt searched among the flowers, until he was satisfied with one perfect, blood red rose.
He kissed me softly and presented it. “This won’t offend?”
“No, it’s lovely. Thanks.”
We wandered hand-in-hand down Bleeker Street, among crowds of unsuspecting kids, blending in perfectly, old enough to be their grandparents and not quite human.
I’d often waken during the day to find Kurt talking business on the phone, with mortals in Brovik’s employ. He’d sometimes leave at twilight to meet them dressed in a dark suit, and tinted glasses, his golden curls gelled darker. He appeared slightly older, if hardly his true age. I’d wrinkle my nose, telling him he looked like a nerd. But, on those evenings when he was free, I’d wake to find him at the piano composing.
He still responded evasively whenever I attempted to draw him out about his past and we never discussed our condition. We acted as mortal lovers do, went out, had fun, and then fell onto my futon to make fevered love. But finally one night, vampirism rudely butted in.
A light burned in the bathroom when I awoke. The rest of the apartment was dark, the heavy blinds and curtains still closed. Drowsily aroused, I rolled over to snuggle up to Kurt, but he was gone. The sun hadn’t set yet. Where was he?
Rising from the tangle of bedclothes, I crept up on him as he stood naked before the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection, skin blanched yellow-white as the inner flesh of an almond. His shoulder was icy cold, but he didn’t even flinch when I touched him.
He turned to me. “The beast awakens.”
He was a ghastly caricature of himself, his lush mouth gray and drawn, face etched stone hard, usually luminous eyes flat, blue buttons, hair brittle and dull. Pushing me aside, he grabbed his clothes. I switched on the lights. He covered his eyes like a movie Dracula when sunlight floods in on him, snarling—literally, “Shut them, damn you!”
I snapped them off, and lit one of the hundreds of votive candles we’d bought the night before. A small flame furtively licked up the sides of the glass as Kurt pulled on his jeans and shirt. He glanced at the tattoo on his forearm for a moment, noticed me looking and snapped, “Why do you stare?”
“I know the best spots…”
“You want to see this? It arouses you sexually?” He pressed his body against me, for once not raring to go. “By all means accompany me. See what I am.” He pushed me away. “Get dressed! Can’t stand it much longer.”
A delayed feeder. He’d waited until the last possible moment to feed, when instinct pushed one mercilessly to become a ravenous, mindless beast. Why? Ethan said this was dangerous.
We finally emerged into the street. “The piers? The river is good for dumping them.”
“No.” He set out at a brisk walk. “My flavor has a distinctive smell.”
I followed him through winding streets, past residential buildings to a maze of darkened warehouses and meat packing plants. No parked cars or mortals loitering on the sidewalks. He stopped in front of a storefront displaying questionable literature and Nazi war memorabilia in its window. The lights were off. A cage-like grill pulled over its front.
“The price of free speech,” I muttered.
Kurt scowled. “Back entrance.” He wheeled into an alleyway leading alongside the building, scanning until he found a door with a bare light bulb burning overhead. “Wait.”
Soon the door opened. Kurt pulled me into the shadows as a young man stepped outside, tall, head shaved, wearing fatigues with the arms cut out and black combat boots laced with white. Tattoos on his worm-white arms proclaimed white power, a large Swastika figuring prominently on his right shoulder. The skinhead lurched by without noticing our presence, reeking of stale beer, cigarettes, hashish and the salt-iodine odor of sex. A well pickled herring. Kurt hung back for a moment, restraining me with his arm.
He inclined his head, releasing his grip and we set off behind the intended victim, with footsteps too soft for mortal ears. The skinhead staggered around a corner, until he came upon a construction site. A skeleton of a gutted building rose above the plywood barrier surrounding it, a motionless crane standing sentinel, a steel Brachiosaurus. Next to it was a meat packer’s building. Dumpsters stood in front, stinking of rotted flesh. Kurt’s intended victim faced one, preceding to unzip. Pungent piss filled the air. The skinhead laughed to himself, tracing a wet swastika on the side of the dumpster. He turned around in our direction, zipping his fly. Kurt stared at him curiously, head tilted slightly to one side.
“Whatcha looking at, faggot?” Kurt remained silent. “Hey, your boyfriend deaf?” The victim gave me the once over, tugging his crotch. “You can do better than that skinny runt, sweetheart.”
Kurt strolled up to him, tracing the swastika on the bared shoulder. “You offend me.”
The skinhead stepped back, grinning. “I get it now, Jew boy.”
Kurt stepped back, smiling, and let loose a savage kick that sent the skinhead sprawling into the street, groaning and grasping his groin.
“Little sonofabitch!”
Kurt walked a slow circle around him and then cobra-rapid, grabbed the victim around the throat and dragged him behind the dumpster with me panting right behind. Kurt forced him to his knees, tearing into the neck, clamping his hand over the mouth to prevent screams.
After drinking his fill, he offered the victim to me but he was already dead, no delicious fear to taste, only cold blackness and alcohol. I spat the bitter blood out, wiping my mouth with the ba
ck of my hand. I let the body fall and turned around.
Kurt’s color rushed back into lips, hair and eyes regaining their luster as he stood, a silent, avenging angel. Another need overtook me. I pressed against him. He was very hard. I moaned and twisted against him, wanting him right there behind the dumpster. I reached down to unzip his jeans, but he pushed me away, turning back to the limp body, prodding it with his foot. Then to my horror he picked it up and began to strip flesh away from the corpse like peeling a banana, tearing off slabs of red muscle tissue to reveal the gleaming blue-white ribcage. Cracking the ribs open, he reached into the chest cavity, tearing out the heart, squeezing it to pulp in his fingers like a strawberry and then licking it off. A pile of offal lay at his feet on the sidewalk, with what resembled a human head still attached, bloodless shreds of flesh and bone—organs spilling out onto the sidewalk— loops of intestine, lungs, stomach popping out of the gaping wound. I stood gagging as Kurt nonchalantly walked away.
“You can’t leave this!”
His eyes narrowed to blue slivers. “It’s a slaughterhouse.”
“Maybe so but we can’t leave this here.”
He shrugged, shoving the remains indifferently into the dumpster, staring at the gore on his hands. Blood was smeared and spattered all over his face. Couldn’t walk through the streets with him looking like this, I had to lick him clean. I pulled him behind the dumpster to clean the blood from his face and hands with my tongue. Panting, he grabbed my face, kissing me hard as he pinned me against a wall. “Now we fuck!”
“You’re completely covered in blood…”
He tugged at my jeans and turned me to face the wall. “Don’t care.”
We fucked standing up, crying out like animals.
When we made it back to the apartment, Kurt collapsed on the futon, moaning. Alcohol in the blood was affecting him adversely. He sat up suddenly, vomiting blood onto the floor and all over his clothes.
“Boy, you’re a fun date.” I ran and got a large plastic garbage bag from under the sink and wet towels from the bathroom. “You should know better than to take a drunk,” I scolded him as I mopped up the blood. “Did you want to get caught? Let’s get these clothes off.” I took off his lightweight brown leather jacket, much nicer than anything I had. I sponged it off, throwing it onto the chair. Tearing off his shirt, I stuffed it into the plastic bag and then stripped off his jeans. I wiped as much blood as I could from his body and threw the towels in the bag, too.
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