Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  I gathered up my cloak and couldn’t resist a theatrical swirl as I settled it on my shoulders. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  “Wait,” Mitch called as I left. “I’ll walk you out.” He strode beside me, we went out the front door together and on to the street. He looked around and seeing no one, gave me a brief kiss. “I’d wait forever,” he whispered, “but if you’re not ready in an hour . . .” I laughed at his feigned threat. He gestured for a cab and when one stopped, he helped me in. “I just want to do some checking on what’s going on. And I want to get myself reinstated on the case. I won’t be long.” He gave me another kiss, closed the door and the cab moved away.

  Upon my return to the hotel, I gave Frank a curt nod and went directly to my room. I had not been there for a week now, but it was clean and sterile for my arrival. I entered without turning on the lights, dropped my black cloak on the floor and shed the rest of my clothes on the way to the shower. I made the water hotter than usual, to wash away the reek of the morgue that still lingered about me.

  I dressed with great care, selecting a forest green sheath with a high neck and a low-cut cowl back. I wore a thin gold necklace, gold button earrings and pulled my hair up from the sides with combs, the rest of my hair rippled down my bare back. I applied my makeup carefully and tried to coax as much color into my pale complexion as possible. For a finishing touch I changed my contacts to a pair tinted deep green to complement the dress. I checked the clock and discovered that Mitch’s prescribed hour had elapsed. He would arrive soon.

  One hour later I still sat in the near darkness of the room. I rose from the sofa, went to the window and pulled the drapes aside. The streets were still crowded with people hurrying to their various destinations, but I saw no one familiar. A shadowy figure walked below my window, it might be Mitch, I thought, feeling a rush of anticipation. But as I watched, he passed the hotel entrance without a backward glance. It was not him. Disappointed I closed the drapes, then went to the bar and opened a bottle of wine to kill the time, to calm my nerves as the minutes dragged. There was work on my desk that I wanted to finish sometime this weekend; I turned on the light and tried to review the plans for the show, but I could not concentrate and kept checking the clock in disbelief. I put aside my work, switched off the light and went back to the sofa, the wine and the darkness.

  Sometime after midnight I abandoned all pretense that he would show. I had waited over three hours listening for the phone, a knock on the door or even a set of approaching footsteps. I drank the last bit of wine. He wasn’t coming, I decided.

  “Damn him.” I flung the crystal goblet against the wall, taking a perverse delight in the destruction of the delicate glass. Then I rose from the sofa and began to remove the clothing I had so carefully donned earlier in the evening. I kicked off my shoes, tossed the dress into a corner of the bedroom, removed my jewelry and the combs from my hair. Wrapping myself in a black silk robe, I found a broom and swept the broken crystal into a corner; the hotel staff could clean the rest tomorrow. Just as I was opening the next bottle of wine, and pouring another glass, the phone rang.

  “Miss Griffin?” Frank’s tone was uncertain.

  “Hello, Frank. What can I do for you?”

  “There’s someone here to see you. Detective Mitchell Greer. What shall I do?” I could sense an excitement in his voice; this would probably be one of his most memorable evenings here, with policemen and detectives hauling out residents at all hours.

  “You’ve certainly had one hell of a night, haven’t you, Frank?” I spoke more sharply than I had intended to. But after having led such a secretive existence for so long, I was growing steadily more angry over the intrusions into my life.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, damn it all, Frank, just send him up.”

  “If you want, Miss Griffin.” He hung up the phone.

  I had a few minutes before Mitch would arrive, so I mussed the covers on the neatly made bed and ruffled my hair into a mass of tangles. There was no reason to let Mitch think I had waited patiently for his arrival. Let him think I had been sleeping, that his lateness had not bothered me.

  When he knocked, I closed the bedroom door and turned on the lights in the second half of the suite. I answered the door, pushing the hair out of my eyes and affecting a sleepy smile. “I’m sorry,” I began. “I fell asleep. I can be ready . . .”

  “Forget about it.” He slammed the door, pushed past me and stalked into the room. He picked up the bottle of wine and gestured with it. “Don’t you have anything stronger than this?” He rummaged around behind the bar.

  “I think there may be a bottle of scotch. Try the bottom shelf.”

  Even before I finished speaking, he found the bottle along with a glass and some ice. He threw the cubes savagely into the glass and filled it to the top. Then he sat on the sofa and glared angrily into his drink. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” I responded as angrily as he had. “You’re the one who didn’t show up when expected. I do not like to be stood up.”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I’ve got three dead bodies, two of them tied directly to you. I jeopardized over twenty years standing in the department, almost got removed from a very important homicide case, one that I now feel personally involved with. I believed you when you told me you knew nothing about Andrews’ death. And I believed you when you told me you would not be seeing Max Hunter. Then I discover that you slinked off to him last night and met some unlucky chump who just happened to turn up dead with your business card in his pocket.” He drained his scotch and went to the bar for another. “What will you try to make me believe next, Deirdre? That you’re not involved? That it’s all just a coincidence? I’m sorry, but I’ve been at the job for far too long to believe in coincidences.” He stood at the bar, glaring at me and swirling the ice cubes in his drink.

  “Mitch, I . . .”

  “I wasn’t done yet. Let me finish. To top it off, as if all that isn’t enough, I believed in you.” His voice softened now almost to a whisper. “I really thought we might have a chance together. I fell for you, hard, and I got the feeling it was returned, regardless of your promiscuous habits. And what did it all get me? Nothing but lies, from the beginning to the end. But before I leave here tonight, lady, I will get the truth from you.”

  I summoned what dignity I could, clasped my robe tighter around my body and pulled myself upright. “I did not lie to you, Mitch. I knew nothing about Bill Andrews’ death and I know nothing about David Leigh’s. Yes, it is all a coincidence, and I’m sorry that you can’t believe that. There are stranger things in this world than coincidence. I want to help you, I really do, but I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “Well, for starters, you can explain why, although you told me you weren’t going to, you went to Max’s club last night. It couldn’t have taken you more than ten minutes to get to where you said you weren’t going.”

  “What is it about Max that bothers you? I have already told you that he is not a threat to you in any way. Max is an old friend, that’s all.”

  “But you met him after you said you wouldn’t.”

  “I ran into him on the street, Mitch. It wasn’t planned or arranged. It was just by chance that I saw him at all.” He gave me a sharp glance. “I know, I know, you don’t believe in that either. Give me the benefit of the doubt, Mitch. Even criminals are thought to be innocent until proven guilty.”

  He met my eyes finally and a small smile began to play on his face. “I guess I’ve been a little too rough on you tonight, huh?” He took one sip of his drink and then another. “It’s just that the job is getting to me, the press is clamoring for a solution and we’re no closer to that now than when Andrews died. And there’s something about Max that really gets to me, his attitude, his lifestyle, something. I don’t know. When I spoke to him tonight, he was polite and solicitous, but I had the feeling he was laughing at me, taunting me. And when he speaks of you, I get angry—just hearing your
name on his lips—well, I can’t really explain it. He talks as if he owns you, protects you, as if you were his child, or his wife.”

  “I am neither, Mitch. He oversteps his bounds a lot, and he interferes with things when he should stay out. But for all that, he is still my friend.”

  “How close a friend?”

  I sighed and moved over to him. He looked up at me, his eyes locked on mine. “Mitch, there is nothing between Max and me, now. You must believe me.”

  “I do, but . . .”

  “Jesus, Mitch, will you just drop it? I do not want to spend the rest of the evening talking about Max. Do you?”

  “No, not really.” He drained his drink, got up from the couch and set his glass on the bar. “Look, I know it’s late, but would you like to go out for a while? Maybe we could take a walk or have dinner? Are you hungry?”

  I shrugged. “Whatever you’d like, Mitch. It doesn’t make any difference to me. Let me change first, though.” As I walked past him on the way to the bedroom, he touched my arm and turned me around to face him.

  “Deirdre, I’m sorry.” He held my arms in his gently, then rubbed his hands up and down the sleeves. I felt my stomach tighten in anticipation and smiled up at him.

  “It’s okay, Mitch. Actually, I am flattered that you like me enough to be so jealous. Just don’t mention his name again.”

  “I promise.” He tightened his grip on me and his eyes lit with desire. I thought to myself, before his mouth came down to mine, that this night would make up for those countless others.

  For what could have been seconds or years, the kiss continued. He slid his hands under my robe; they felt grainy against the soft skin of my back as he drew me closer. His arousal was evident and I arched my body into his. He held me tightly with one arm, while struggling to remove his coat with the other. He switched arms, and removing his coat entirely, exposed his shoulder holster and gun. I reached a hand up lightly to touch it.

  “I don’t think you will need this now, do you, Detective?”

  He agreed with a smile that lit up his eyes and draped it and his shirt over the back of a chair. He reached for me again, and as I went to him, the silk robe slipped over my shoulders. I dropped my arms and let it fall.

  “Deirdre,” he whispered into my hair as he lowered me to the floor. “You make me crazy.” I twined my arms around his neck, drew him down to me and silenced him with a kiss.

  Chapter 9

  We lay sated and exhausted. Mitch rolled over, leaned on one elbow and smoothed the hair from my eyes. “God,” he said, his voice somewhere between a laugh and a moan. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  “Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  He smiled. “No, not for that.” He laughed for real this time. “I mean making love on the floor, like a couple of kids.”

  “I do have a bed, but you seemed so eager I hated to spoil the moment.” I stood up and he followed me. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

  “You’re cold, let’s get you under the covers.”

  I stopped in the bathroom and removed my contacts, then turned out the lights and entered the bedroom. From his breathing I could tell that Mitch was already half asleep; I could feel his body warmth emanating from the bed, could almost hear the beating of his heart. I could even smell the blood in his veins, beckoning me.

  “This will be harder than I thought,” I whispered to myself as I tried to slide into bed beside him without disturbing him. I settled in and he rolled toward me.

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, nothing important.” He rubbed his hand up and down my thigh, massaging and caressing. “Mitch,” I admonished him gently, “you have to work tomorrow. Don’t you think you should get some sleep?”

  “As if I could, now.”

  I caught my breath and my body relaxed under his ministrations, but my mind raced. I had conditioned myself for many years to look at sexual play as a prelude to feeding. I felt my canines grow in anticipation and when his mouth replaced the hand on my thigh, I moaned aloud.

  That sound was all the encouragement he needed. He teased and nibbled until I began to thrash and flail in arousal. When I thought I could stand no more, he plunged into me deeply.

  “Jesus,” I cried and he fell upon me heavily, pinning me to the bed. My mouth was resting against his shoulder, then his neck which I kissed and suckled, not biting, not yet. I couldn’t let this happen, but it was happening, the hunger for blood had awakened within me and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want it to stop. I flung one arm around his neck and pulled him to me tightly. I was ready, I needed only his blood.

  Time stopped; all the universe seemed to be waiting for this one moment. My mouth opened as if of its own will, my head fell to the side, my teeth contacted flesh, and hot, sweet blood filled my mouth and throat. I swallowed frantically and realized from a sharp pain in my shoulder, that I had turned away from him, that I had bitten myself.

  “Thank God,” I whispered reverently, as orgasms overcame us and we shuddered in our pleasure.

  Finally, he reached over and turned on the light. I hid my eyes with my one arm, keeping the shoulder I had bitten pressed to the bed. “Turn it off, Mitch,” I complained.

  “I just want to look at you,” he explained. “You’re so beautiful.” I squinted up at him and he smiled, reaching over to touch my lips.

  “Deirdre, you’ve got blood on your mouth.” He wiped it away with his finger.

  I felt myself blush, warming with embarrasment and fear. “I guess I bit myself,” I said as casually as possible. “I’ll probably be all puffy tomorrow.”

  “God, I hope so.” He snuggled next to me. “That was incredible, you know?”

  “I know.”

  He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Comfortable silence enveloped us, and I traced a shadowy scar down the right side of his body. He jumped and laughed and took my hand. “That tickles.” He raised my hand to his mouth and gently kissed my fingertips.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I interfered in a knife fight.”

  “Did you stop it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” We lay silently again and I thought he had fallen asleep. I closed my eyes with a sigh and began to drift.

  His voice brought me back. “Deirdre?”

  “Yes?”

  “What was he like?”

  “Who?”

  “Your husband. The one you never talk about.”

  “Oh.” I paused, collecting my thoughts, wondering just how much I should tell him.

  He mistook my pause for a reluctance to talk. His voice was tentative, soft. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. I just wanted to know what kind of man could make a woman like you close herself off from life.”

  “I don’t mind talking about him, really. It just seems there is no point in it. I mean, he’s dead and I’m alive and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “He meant that much to you, then?”

  “I loved him. But there are times when I can barely remember his face.” I had never talked to anyone about this, not even Max. It was hard to separate his death from the awful transformation that had overtaken me at the same time. In my mind, it was all the same. “But then I have a dream that brings it all back.”

  “That must be awful.”

  I was silent again for a time. I could hardly recognize the voice as mine when I began. “I was there, when he died. I almost died myself. It was raining and the carr . . . the car . . . he lost control of the car and we overturned. I don’t remember too much after that.” I shuddered and continued in a whisper. “But when I woke in the hospital they told me he had died.” I was amazed at how much pain was in my voice, amazed at the tears I brushed away. It had been, after all, more than a century ago. “I was pregnant; I lost the baby. They said I couldn’t have any more.”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked over at me, his eyes intense with shared pain. “But I’m g
lad you didn’t die.”

  I gave a small smile and touched his cheek. “I’m glad, too.” I knew then I could not admit that until I had met Mitch, I still wished I had died, or at least had been allowed to live a human life following the accident, to die of natural causes. Suddenly I was overcome with anger at the person who had caused my existence, the one who I, justly or not, held accountable for my life as it was. Because of him, I had lived long enough to meet and fall in love with the one person who could have replaced my dead husband. And because of him, I could never have Mitch the way I wanted to.

  “Damn,” I swore and punched the pillow angrily.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “Why is life so complicated?”

  “It seems good enough to me right now.” I looked over at him and he was smiling. “After all, here we are, you and I. We seem to be doing just fine.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He reached over and turned out the light, then pulled me close to him and kissed me. “Deirdre.” His voice was trembling. “This is probably not the right time to say this, and I don’t want to scare you off, but I love you.”

  “As you get to know me better, Detective, you’ll discover that very little in this world scares me.” It wasn’t true, I was frightened of him, of life, of what this relationship could mean. Then I realized a sarcastic answer was uncalled for in this situation. “Mitch,” I tried to soften my reply without making the committment I knew he wanted to hear, the one I had no right to make. “I didn’t mean it like that. Why would I be scared of you? Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, good night.” He rolled over and was asleep in what seemed seconds. I listened to his rhythmic breathing, and mouthed the words I wanted, but did not dare to say.

  “I love you, Mitch.”

  “Deirdre, if you’re there, pick up the phone, please.” Through the closed bedroom door, I could hear the pleading in Gwen’s voice on the answering machine. Mitch was still sleeping; I reached over and touched his hair gently, then rose from bed to take the call. She was in the midst of her frantic message when I picked up the phone and interrupted her.