Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  “As I said, there are provisions. His estate was to be held for you for twenty-five years after his death. Had you not turned up by then, all of his assets would have been transferred to an organization know as The Cadre. The same is true if you refuse. But I urge you to consider this carefully; you’ll be turning your back on an enormous fortune. Something that could support you quite luxuriously for centuries.”

  “Centuries?” I gave a nervous laugh. “That would be fine, if I could only live that long.”

  “Ah”—Victor smiled—“just a figure of speech, you understand. I merely wish to impress upon you the vastness of his wealth.”

  “Oh.”

  Victor walked over to the window and pulled the drapes aside, looking out. “We’ll have snow later on tonight,” he remarked flatly, then turned back to me. “And although I know that you’re a night owl, I’m afraid that it’s getting a little late for me. Can we make arrangements to meet tomorrow, or the next day? I’ll bring the papers and you can review them at your leisure.”

  “That would be fine,” I said, cautiously studying his movements. It bothered me that he seemed to know more about me than he should, but it was obvious that he had been a close friend of Max’s. And despite his many flaws, Max had never once risked the exposure of what I was. “Trust him,” the voice in my head whispered, and I complied. “When would you like to meet again?”

  “Here, tomorrow night, say around eleven. I still have The Imperial to run, you know.”

  He went to the desk and retrieved his briefcase. “May I escort you somewhere?”

  I nodded and walked with him out of the office. When we reached the door to the bar, I turned to him and disengaged my arm from his. “Actually, Victor, I think I would like to stay here for a while, in the club. I could use another glass of wine and some company.”

  “I’m sure you could.” We went into the bar, and he took my hand. “Good night, then, till tomorrow.”

  Although I had told Victor I desired company, it was not really true. Being present in a crowd of humans was enough for me. But as I started my fourth glass of wine, a man stopped at my table. I looked up at him, taking in his expensive suit, manicured hands, his unnaturally even teeth exposed in a seductive smile.

  “Hi.” For an opening statement, it was unimpressive.

  “Hello.” I tried to be cordial, but resented his intrusion on my thoughts.

  “Are you Deirdre?” At my nod, he pulled up a chair and sat down. “Fred sent me over, said you might like to meet me.”

  “Fred?”

  “You know, the bartender.”

  I looked over to the bar and the man I had recognized waved at me with a knowing look. “Oh, Fred.” I gave a small, sardonic smile; he was trying to make up for his past rudeness now that I was his boss. So much for the lack of ulterior motives.

  I shrugged and looked the man over again. Fred must have learned a lot from watching Max arrange my meetings; he certainly had a feel for the kind of man I preferred. And although I should not have been hungry, my appetite awakened instinctively. Maybe I should give Fred a raise, I thought, and smiled at the man again, this time warm and welcoming.

  “Did he happen to say why I might want to meet you?” The question was abrupt, but my voice was low and husky and he took no offense.

  “No, just that you’re new in town and seemed lonely.”

  “Make that newly back in town, and you would be right. And lonely? Well, you are here now, so how could I be lonely?” I wet my lips and crossed my legs under the table, lightly brushing his leg with my foot. “Would you like to dance?”

  His name was Ron Wilkes, an attorney with an elegant condominium in the best part of town, a wonderful stock of wine, and an enormous round bed complete with red satin sheets. After we spent an hour consuming two bottles of his best Merlot, he seemed extremely drunk. I feared that he might pass out before he got around to seducing me, but he eventually led me to his bed.

  When it was all over, I lay on my back, his head nestled on my shoulder and his arm heavy on my stomach. I wiped my mouth and stared at the mirrored ceiling, trying not to recall how long it had been since I had made love to a man who was not drunk, trying not to recall who that man was. It did no good. Mitch’s face was etched on my memory, his body permanently bonded to mine. I sighed and Ron stirred briefly.

  “Deirdre,” he murmured, and reached his hand up brushing against my nipple.

  “Ron, I have to go now.” I shifted away from him, but he pulled me back.

  “Don’t go just yet.” He was still strong, still aware—I had taken only a small amount of blood, more a token than a meal—and he was not as drunk as I had thought. Pushing himself up on one elbow, Ron gave me a sleepy smile. “That was wonderful.”

  Looking up at his face, I felt a strong surge of guilt. Coming here with Ron had been a purely instinctual reaction. I had not needed his blood, had not needed to feed. It had been unfair of me to use him this way; he had not deserved it. His only mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And my mistake was in not taking enough from him to leave him open to my suggestions. I decided that I would have to bluff my way out of this one.

  “Yes,” I agreed languidly, stroking his hair, working my way down to the small mark at the base of his neck. He flinched slightly and I gave a nervous laugh. “But I am afraid you’ll have to keep your shirts buttoned for the next week or two. I got a little carried away.”

  He fingered his neck delicately and gave me a searching look. “You bit me?”

  “Yes.” I could see the blush creep over me through the mirror.

  “I thought so.” I tensed at his words, but there was no fear or alarm on his face, just a satisfied smile. He plumped one of the pillows, rolled over, and sat up, drawing the sheet over us both. “Actually, it was a unique feeling. Very erotic. And well worth it.”

  I laughed, relieved. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Would you like to do it again?”

  I found his blasé attitude rather shocking. “What, bite you?”

  “Among other things, yeah.”

  I sat up and threw back the sheet. “Some other night, Ron. I really do need to leave.”

  “Okay. Can I call you?”

  Gathering my clothes, I shook my head and began to get dressed. “I’m staying with a friend right now, and I forget the number. But I have your card; I’ll call you.”

  “That’d be great.” He got out of bed and went for his clothes. “Let me drive you home.”

  I zipped my jeans and smoothed the sweater down over my hips. “No, it’s late and you need your sleep. I’ll take a cab.”

  “If that’s what you want.” He came over and gave me a small hug and a kiss on the forehead. Then, with his arm still around me, he walked me to the door. “See you soon, huh?”

  Victor’s weather prediction was correct. The streets were slick and the sidewalks lightly dusted with newly fallen snow. By the time I reached the brownstone in which Mitch lived, my cloak was almost completely white, and, since I had no body head to melt it off, practically frozen stiff. I hung it over the shower in the bathroom and pulled a chair up to the window, watching the snow until the sky began to lighten. Then I pulled the drapes closed and crawled into Mitch’s bed.

  My deep, dreamless sleep was interrupted shortly after three the next afternoon by the insistent ringing of the phone. I ignored it at first, but still it kept ringing. Finally I dragged myself from the bed and answered.

  “Deirdre, did I wake you?”

  My pulse jumped at the sound of his voice.

  “Mitch.” I whispered the name, fearing that it might not be him.

  “Hi.”

  I smiled, thinking how he always paused in conversation, collecting his thoughts and choosing the words carefully. I waited and he continued. “Look, I’m, well, I’m really sorry about last night. I don’t quite understand what happened, what could make me do that to you. I barely even remember it, except th
at they’re all talking about it here.”

  “I’m sure they are.” A trace of amusement crept into my voice and I laughed, rubbing my jaw in remembrance. “It was quite a greeting, Mitch.”

  “Yeah.” He paused again and I closed my eyes, imagining him, not as I saw him last night, but as he was before. I could almost see him run his fingers through his hair in a tired gesture, almost see the glint in his blue eyes. “They said I knocked you flat. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mitch, not that it much matters. But how are you?”

  “I don’t know. I feel normal, I guess. They tell me I’ve been here for over a year, and that seems right. I can remember most of what went on, but almost as if it were a dream, or something that happened to someone else. And when I woke up this morning I barely knew where I was. The whole thing is so strange.”

  “We need to talk about this, Mitch. You must try to remember what happened to you so that we can fight it, so that it won’t happen again. Can you arrange some privacy for us this evening? This isn’t the sort of thing we want to discuss in the presence of your doctors.”

  “Well . . .” His voice was evasive, uncertain. “I’m not sure that they’ll leave us alone. I think they’re afraid I might hit you again. But come anyway, come as soon as you can.” There was a pleading in his voice that twisted my heart.

  “I’ll be there by seven. And Mitch?”

  “Yeah?”

  Taking a deep breath, I began, rushing my words together, to say what I didn’t want to say. “I don’t want to make this situation any more difficult for you. I am pleased that you seem to be doing better and will do anything I can to help you. Anything at all. But be assured that when you are fully recovered you won’t need to worry about my presence. I’ll go and let you live a normal life again.”

  “Deirdre, I . . .”

  “No, Mitch, you know this is how it must be. Don’t deny it. There’s no place in your life for me. We both know that.” I let my tears fall unchecked, but was pleased that there was no sign of them in my voice. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  I hung up the phone before he could say anything more. Rolling onto my stomach, I buried my head in the pillow. It was totally absurd for either of us to believe that our relationship could have any better an outcome than it had two years ago. Nothing had changed; I remained what I was and ultimately Mitch would not be able to live with the truth of my existence.

  “Then why are you here?” Max’s deep voice resonated in my mind. “There are many others to be had and much sweeter blood to drink. You’re still so young, so naive; let me show you what awaits you.”

  Suddenly my mind was filled with a whirl of exotic images: men and women as carnal vessels of lust and hunger, flesh pressed against flesh, bodies and limbs intertwined, the salty flavors of skin and sex, the forbidden rush of blood, the flooding of the blood, overwhelmingly sensual in its taste, its power.

  “Let us go, my love,” he urged. “Let us go now. We could leave tonight; I know of places we could go where no one would ever find us. Places where we would be treated as gods, places where we could establish our own dynasties. There is nothing for us here. Nothing! But the world outside is waiting and if we leave I can be with you always, to teach, to experience, to live.”

  My body responded as if he were there; his breath was hot on my neck, his fingers tracing the bones of my spine. I could feel his strong hands grasp me, his nails penetrate my skin, his hungry mouth fasten on me. Max’s passion and urgency were mine. I writhed and shivered in torment under his dominance.

  I rolled over again, my back arched, my breath escaping in quick, frantic gasps. “No!” I cried, pressing my fingers against my eyes until hot red spots appeared beneath the lids. But still the images continued, flowing through my senses. I pressed harder, as if to tear the thoughts from my mind. Finally, the pain brought me back to myself and drove him away. Then, when my blurred vision returned and the red spots faded, I got up from the bed. Trembling, I walked down the hallway and stepped into the shower.

  Chapter 8

  After the shower I wrapped myself in a towel and went back into the bedroom. Opening my suitcase, I looked over the clothes I had brought with me. None seemed suitable, so I went to the phone and dialed a number I remembered well.

  It was picked up on the first ring, the voice crisp, professional, and unfamiliar. “Griffin Designs, Ms. McCain’s office.”

  “I would like to speak with Betsy.”

  “May I tell Ms. McCain who is calling?” The tone of voice was curt and the last name was emphasized, as if I had no right to use the given name. The secretary’s attitude annoyed me, and I had no desire to publicize my presence, but I supposed it could not be helped.

  “Deirdre Griffin.”

  There was a slight pause, as she remembered me. “Of course, Miss Griffin. I’ll put you right through.”

  Before I could even react to the change from rude to gracious, Betsy McCain’s brisk voice burst through the phone.

  “Deirdre, what a surprise. I’d no idea you were back in town. How are you?” I was surprised at her warmth; we had become acquainted only at the sale of Griffin Designs, and although by the end of the deal we had each admitted to a grudging admiration of the other, I would never have considered her a friend. Still, her reception of my return was welcoming.

  “Fine, Betsy. And you?”

  “Better than ever.” I heard her take a sip of something, and she continued. “Business has been hectic, but wonderful. Your last show was so good and we had all those orders to build on. I’m afraid I did have to make some changes though. And I’ve not been able to capture the Griffin romance, or so the critics say.” Her voice had a brittle and sly edge. “I, er, I don’t imagine you’d consider signing on for a while as a consultant, you know, just while you’re here?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I won’t be in town for too long.”

  “Too bad. Anyhow, what have you been doing?”

  I almost told her the truth and smiled as I imagined what her reaction would be. Well, Betsy, I’ve been in Europe, draining the blood from tourists. Remembering her as cold-blooded and calculating, I suspected she might even approve. I laughed at the thought. “Oh, nothing of much interest, traveling mostly. But I wonder if you could do me a small favor.”

  “Anything, Deirdre. I still feel a little guilty, but only a little, mind you, that I bought you out so cheap. I don’t mind returning the favor, provided it is a small one.” Her statement was not entirely humorous, and I admired her honesty.

  “Well, you see, I came back in a bit of a rush and wasn’t able to bring much with me. I need some clothes—you know my taste and size—and a hairdresser. And I would like them to come to me. I realize this is a little unorthodox, but I’m expecting some rather important calls and don’t want to leave my apartment.” The lie came easily to my lips; I was accustomed to covering up my lack of daytime appearances. “I would be happy to pay extra for your inconvenience, of course.”

  Betsy barked out a short laugh. “No inconvenience, Deirdre, but of course you’ll pay extra. How soon would you like all this?”

  “Is this afternoon too early?”

  “No problem.” She took another sip.

  “And while you’re at it, could you send some coffee along? I haven’t had any time to shop at all.”

  “Okay, decaf or regular, ground or whole bean?”

  “Ground, I guess, the other doesn’t matter.”

  “Fine. Now, where are you staying?”

  I told her and expressed my thanks. “You’re a real life saver, Betsy. It’s wonderful of you to do this.”

  “Oh, hell, Deirdre, it’s not often that a fashion great comes to me for help. I’m delighted, I really am. See you soon.”

  By the time the doorbell rang, I had managed to dress and brush my teeth, but had no opportunity to apply any makeup to liven my pale complexion. It really doesn’t make any difference, I thought as I cautiously opened the door to four
women, one of whom was Betsy McCain.

  She was exactly as I remembered her, dressed in an extremely tailored suit, her short, dark hair perfectly groomed, her handshake firm.

  “Jesus, Deirdre, what the hell have you been doing to yourself? You look like death warmed over.”

  I laughed. “You haven’t changed, Betsy. Still as blunt as ever, I see.”

  To my surprise, she looked embarrassed and a slight blush crossed her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I know. And you are right, I do look terrible.” I turned to look at the women she had brought with her; one of them made a move to open the drapes. “No,” I said, harsher than I intended. “Don’t open those. I have a headache”—I lowered my voice a bit—“and the sunlight makes it worse.”

  Betsy gave me a quick look, then nodded at the women. “We have some extra lights in the car, bring those in.” Then she glanced over the apartment with an amused smile on her face. “Not quite what I would expect of your place, Deirdre. It’s nice, but somehow it’s just not you.”

  “Mitch lives here.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes sparkled at the mention of the name. “I remember, he’s that sexy policeman you were dating. Are you still seeing him?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t feel inclined to relate the story to Betsy McCain. She seemed friendly enough, and although it would be a relief for me to have someone to confide in, I knew I could not indulge in that luxury. My last female friend had been brutally murdered, a direct cause of our relationship. “And I’ll be seeing him tonight. So you’ll have to work magic.”

  Betsy stood smiling behind me as we both looked into the mirror. My hair was as close to its original auburn as was possible, my nails manicured, and makeup had coaxed a delicate color into my complexion. She had brought with her eleven outfits, mostly dresses, and for that night we had chosen a winter-white wool sheath. It was, I thought, too short and too tight, but Betsy assured me it was a perfect fit.