by Angela Allen
“I’ll be waiting for you in the massage room when you’re done.” She hands him the towels.
“I’ll be right out.” He winks at her—another dangerous mistake.
While he is in the bath, Selena prepares and awaits his arrival. Her fingertips tingle and she can feel the warmth begin to build. Her blood runs hot and a growl threatens to slip from her throat. She slides out of her clothes and puts on a sheer dressing gown open almost to her navel. She dabs a drop of Egyptian musk behind each ear and at her wrists. She smiles with anticipation as she hears his approach.
“All ready, sugar.”
Selena turns. “Then lie down on your stomach and let’s get started,” she says in a deliberate monotone.
“How about if I start out on my back? I like to watch you while you work.”
The corner of her mouth lifts slightly. “Whatever the customer wants.” She slowly approaches the table and places her palms on his bare chest.
“Hmm, that feels good already,” he murmurs.
“This is only the beginning.” She adds oils to her hands and runs them across his skin, pressing tentatively at first and then with more pressure, drawing pleasure from the sounds of his breathing and soft moans.
Selena inhales deeply and her eyelids flutter closed. Then, as if a door or window were suddenly thrown open, a gust of wind spirals through the room. The flames from the candles flap madly. Selena hovers above him as the room darkens and her eyes turn a brilliant yellow-gold. All the while she strokes him, caresses him, lulling him into submission.
She rips away his towel, exposing his swollen genitals. She growls deep in her throat, incisors appearing as she prepares to impale herself upon him.
He looks up at her and terror suddenly registers in his eyes. He opens his mouth to scream the instant she eases down on him, capturing his length, and the cry locks in his throat. Selena tosses her head back in pure carnal delight, giving him a few moments of unforgettable pleasure before she begins to drain him dry.
Every nerve ending in her body is on fire; her skin vibrates from a tension hot enough to ignite. Her cry for deliverance is animal-like as she lifts her prey’s head, bares her teeth and sinks them deep into his neck. His body convulses, once, twice as his life spurts out of him and into her.
Selena is frenzied now. The blood, the hot sap is not enough to put out the flames. She sinks her teeth deeper, hitting bone, ripping flesh and tearing it away.
“Oh my God!”
Selena snaps her head in the direction of the voice. Blood and torn skin drip from her mouth.
Horrified, Vincent turns and stumbles out the door. He runs for his car as a wave of nausea overwhelms him, spinning his head and clouding his vision. He drops his car keys three times before he can get his fingers to open the door. Hurry…hurry…beats his heart. He doesn’t want to be the next victim to be pounced upon by that thing…that creature…that…Selena.
He can’t wrap his mind around it. It must have been an apparition, someone that looked like her, he frantically tells himself, finally getting his shaking fingers to hold still long enough to fit the key into the lock. His lovely Selena isn’t some vile animal with fangs and yellow eyes, the thing nightmares are made of.
But it is her. Deep down in his gut he knows it is her. He climbs into the car and tears away from the curb, tires squealing as he races down the darkened streets of Manhattan. He’d slept with her, been inside her body, tasted her. Oh God. Oh God.
Breathing hard Selena relinquishes her victim, dropping his lifeless body back onto the table. His limp arm falls off the side. She looks at what she has done with an overwhelming feeling of disgust. Though she feels nothing for her lifeless victim, she is devastated that Vincent has seen her. She must find him—quickly—before his fears force him to reveal what he has seen to others.
With unnatural speed she wraps the body and stores him in the cedar chest. There is no time to bathe and prepare the corpse. Selena cleans herself and changes clothes, turns off the lamp in the window and locks the doors. Where would he go? Was he still in the city? She knew she would have to call upon all her powers to locate him. Stop him. Explain.
She searches from on high, soaring above the spires of the towering buildings and alleys, appearing in local clubs and bars only to vanish in the blink of an eye. She takes on many forms during her quest, shape-shifting to blend unnoticed by those around her. Finally her heightened senses pick up his scent.
Shaken, Vincent pulls into the parking lot of Kennedy Airport, quickly takes his bags from the trunk and hurries to the airport entrance. His only thought is to get away. Bone-chilling terror runs rampant through his veins. His hands tremble as he searches for his identification, but his heart stills when he looks up to find Selena in front of him.
“We need to talk, Vincent,” she says quietly. Her voice is a gentle command.
“Stay. Away. From. Me,” he bites out, backing away from her.
Her eyes lock onto his. “You don’t mean that. You’re just upset. I can explain. Let me explain, please, Vincent.” She reaches out and touches his arm, sealing their connection. She feels his resistance weaken. Selena knows she only has a few minutes before the hypnotic trance is broken. She must convince him of her love, convince him of the life they can have together. “Come, let’s find someplace quiet.”
Against his instincts, he follows her and suddenly finds himself in her house. His head is so full of spinning thoughts and his emotions in such a state of shock, even this fantastic event cannot shake him.
“I know you are afraid of what you saw, what you unfortunately walked in on today in the salon,” she says while pouring them each a glass of wine. She hands him a glass and he greedily empties it in one long swallow. “But I need you to listen carefully to what I am going to reveal to you. This is the real truth. I swear it.”
She sits next to him on the couch and begins the tale of her life back to her childhood in Baton Rouge, telling him things she has never told another living soul. She unflinchingly details her youthful rebellion and its lifelong consequences, frankly admitting her years of searching and the terrible bloodlust. Hours later, with tears of trepidation running down her cheeks, she looks into his eyes.
“We were destined to meet, you and I. Lucien told me that if I ever found the one, I would finally have peace. I don’t want to go through eternity being the beast that you saw tonight. I don’t want to roam the world endlessly—alone and lonely. You can save me, Vincent. Only you.” She feels the control slipping. His gaze is beginning to clear. She’s lost and her heart breaks into bitter pieces.
“How? Tell me how,” he asks, his tone thready and hesitant.
Selena’s breath catches in her throat. Hope lifts her heart and voice. “By truly becoming one with me, by loving me totally the way that I love you. We can share forever together, Vincent. I will never have to prey on humans again. My destiny is in your hands.”
“I…” he stammers before taking a deep breath. “I came to you tonight because I had something I wanted to give you.” He reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a tiny velvet box. He opens it and a beautiful diamond ring sits splendidly in its center. “I love you, Selena. As much as I was sickened by what I saw, there is a part of me that has to believe it wasn’t really you, but something or someone else that took you over. It couldn’t be the woman I fell in love with. If I don’t believe that, I’ll go mad. I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I believe that nothing is so terrible that we can’t conquer it together. Even…” He swallows hard and looks into her eyes. “Even what you are.”
“Do you truly understand what is being asked of you? This mortal life you now lead will be no more. We will travel the earth together. There will be those who may discover our secret and attempt to hunt us down. You would always live in fear. But we would be together.”
“Yes, I understand,” he says, slipping the top of her dress from her shoulder to caress her there. “Show me my new life.
”
Selena looks deep into his eyes and strokes his cheek. How long had she searched for him, this time, this moment? Lucien was right. Finally her quest has ended and she wouldn’t spend forever alone. She leans closer and tenderly kisses his lips, his eyes, as her fingers trail across his neck. She must be careful, taking only enough of his blood to turn him—not kill him. She will teach him all that she knows, perhaps even the ancient art of the touch. She smiles as she bares sharp fangs.
“Don’t be afraid,” she whispers an instant before biting into his succulent flesh. In that instant she knows without a doubt that her nights of hunting have finally come to an end.
A sublime rush flows through Vincent, a feeling of total euphoria, an incredible high. Light and darkness merge and his head spins. His body momentarily spasms and the most incredible climax he has ever experienced takes over his body.
Tenderly, Selena lays him down. “In time you will learn to give me that same pleasure,” she says as he drifts off into the sleep of the living dead.
Rumor, folklore or just plain gossip—no one knows for certain. But there are stories about a certain golden couple who seem to never age. They are always together, enjoying the best things in life in the most beautiful places of the globe. Some say they resemble people that they know and met decades ago, others say they’re just what they seem—a young couple in love and unashamed to show it.
The only ones who know the truth are Selena, Vincent and Lucien—and they’ll never tell.
The Family Business
Kevin S. Brockenbrough
This is a story about monsters. And blood. Monsters. And being black. Monsters. And fighting back.
Let me introduce y’all to Shelly Brown.
She’s the sista over there with the bruises on her face and the large sunglasses covering two black eyes. She’s been in this hospital so much, most of the nurses know her by name. She’s only in her late thirties but she’s spent the last seven years of her life living with a monster.
Yesterday, Ricky Brown, her only son, made the mistake of trying to kill the monster. Ricky’s just two weeks shy of turning sixteen, but he decided four years ago that he was tired of seeing his mom get beat up. And getting his own ass beat “just because.”
For the last six months, he’s been saving up his lunch money. To buy a gun. Unfortunately, the monster had one, too. Ricky’s gun jammed. The monster’s didn’t.
So now Shelly sits in her son’s hospital room. Praying to a God she’s not quite sure is listening. To save the life of a son who took a bullet in his chest from a man only a paternity test would call a father.
God, I know I got no right to ask you this, but please don’t take my baby. Please, Lord. Please.
She’s praying so hard, she doesn’t even hear the monster she calls husband walk in. Probably ’cause her tears were aimed at heaven and the brother walking in came from somewhere much hotter.
Meet Lou Brown, Shelly’s husband. An ex–Golden Gloves boxer clad in a red leather suit, the all-too-accurate wife-beater shirt and single gold hoop earring.
The detectives working Narcotics call Lou one of Philly’s most successful drug pushers. Other dealers call him a psycho. Shelly calls him a monster. Each one’s right.
Lou leans in and gently kisses Ricky on the forehead: “How’s he doing?” Lou asks. “Yo! Rick? Ricky-Rick?”
Ricky’s connected to IV tubes of blood plasma and pain-killers. He’s also connected by blood to a monster. The fact that the boy’s lying there unconscious doesn’t stop Lou from flashing the gifts he’s brought. He holds up a new box of basketball shoes and an NBA throwback jersey as if Ricky’s swollen eyes could open wide enough to see them.
“Check it out: this gear is hot, right?” Lou says, like a loving parent on Christmas morning. Not like the psycho who pistol-whipped his son first, then shot the kid just to scare off anyone else crazy enough to test Lou’s heart.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a leave ’em right here, so it’s the first thing you see when…” Lou coos.
“You almost killed him,” Shelly says. Rattlesnake quick, Lou grabs Shelly by the collar, lifting her out of the chair at Ricky’s bedside so that they’re face-to-face. She’d scream if she could get enough air down her throat.
“I almost what?” Lou whispers in her ear. “He was playing ball and got caught in a crossfire. Probably some gangbangers. Right? Right? Say it!”
Lou loosens his grip just enough for her to breathe. “He’s your son!” she gasps.
“The motherfucker pulled a gun on me!” Lou snarls. “What was I supposed to do? Stand there and let him shoot me?”
And this is the part that makes you wonder if the Man Upstairs has jokes. ’Cause at that precise moment, Ricky regains consciousness.
“Mom?” Ricky breathes, turning his head blindly. Eyes swollen shut, remember? Still both parents scramble to be the first one he “sees.”
“I’m here, baby,” Shelly whispers, wrenching herself from Lou’s grip. “Momma’s here.”
“I’m sorry…” Ricky exhales.
“It’s okay. You just rest,” Shelly says, instinctively placing her body between Ricky and Lou.
“No…I’m sorry I didn’t kill him,” exhaling the words, but not the hate. “I’ll get him next time.” And just as Lou’s jaw drops, Ricky slips back into unconsciousness.
“Did you hear that shit?” Lou roars, moving in close enough for Shelly to smell the alcohol still on his breath. “You turned my own son against me. That’s fucked up. Come here.”
Shelly tries to run, but Lou grabs her by her long hair and slams her face-first into the wall. She thinks she feels something break, but she’s taken so many lumps over the years there’s no way to tell if it’s something old or something new.
Lou would probably still be kicking her to this day if he hadn’t felt the barrel of a gun put at the back of his head. Holding the gun is J. T. “Quick” James, a black patrolman whose shaved head, muscular frame and aviator sunglasses evoke images of a mix of Dirty Harry and Mr. T. The nickname is short for “quick tempered.”
“Yo, Sis? You okay?” Quick asks.
“She slipped,” Lou lies. “You know she all clumsy and shit. I was just getting ready to—”
The sharp thud of a nightstick cuts off the rest of whatever bullshit he was about to say. After getting smacked upside the head a good six or seven times, Lou curls up like a ball, hoping to outlast Quick’s anger.
See, Quick doesn’t own a pet. But he does own a nightstick. And he walks it daily. Ever see Bruce Lee use a pair of nunchucks? That’s the way Quick is with a nightstick. Fluid. Savage. Jacking people up. And looking pretty doing it.
“Why all you tough guys like hitting women, huh? Huh?” Quick asks. “How ’bout I give you some? Huh? You like that? Here, have some more.”
Each word out of Quick’s mouth comes with at least two blows from that nightstick.
“Let him up,” comes a low growl from the doorway. Softly closing the door behind him is the one man in this world Quick is afraid of: Smokey James. This is Quick and Shelly’s father, a sixty-year-old barber with the hard body of a twenty-four-year-old bricklayer. He has on a somber black suit and a white shirt as if coming fresh from church—or a funeral. He’s sent plenty of folks to both.
Quick delivers one last savage blow and steps away from Lou as Smokey helps his daughter to her feet and into a chair. Lou struggles to his feet and staggers toward the door. He knows that while Quick likes to carry a nightstick, Smokey travels with a straight razor so sharp it could cut glass.
“Lou?” Smokey says, never looking at the man, but still close enough in the small hospital room to feel Lou inching away.
“What?” Lou answers, one foot already out the door.
“You know, seven years ago your wife begged me not to get in her business. But the next time you touch either her or Ricky, me and my boys gonna pay you a visit. And trust me, you don’t want that. You hearing me, boy?”
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“I hear you,” Lou says respectfully, “But this don’t involve you. What’s going on here is between me and her. That’s all I gots to say. We might disagree sometimes, but she knows I love her. Ain’t that right, baby? Shelly? Shelly?”
But the pain whooshes out of her like a punctured tire until all that’s left of her rage is a whisper: “Go away! Just…go.”
“Bitch! Who you think you talking to?” Lou says. He takes half a step toward Shelly, but Quick jumps in front of her, waving that damn nightstick again.
“My arm look tired to you, nigga?” he growls.
Lou spits blood into a wastebasket, glares at Shelly but leaves quietly.
Smokey picks Shelly’s sunglasses off the floor and hands them to her. She pops them back on without saying a word.
Here it comes, she thinks.
“What happened this time?” Smokey asks, as he walks over to the door Lou just slithered out of and locks it. Smokey ain’t never been eager to have folks all up in his business. “I’m listening,” he says.
“Well, let’s see,” Quick begins. “I’d say we got two black eyes, possibly a broken nose, and the way she’s breathing all hard, maybe even a broken rib…”
“Well, maybe if you’d lock his ass up—” Shelly snaps.
“Oh, no! Don’t put that shit on me,” her brother fires back. “And whatever happened to that restraining order you was gonna get?”
“A little piece of paper ain’t gonna stop that fool,” Shelly sneers.
“So, what do you want to do?” Smokey asks, a hard look in his eyes. Silence. Quick looks away, Shelly looks down at the hospital floor that some lazy janitor needs to clean.
“Isn’t it a full moon this week?” whispers Shelly at last.
There, she said it. And don’t act like you haven’t been waiting to hear it.