In the shadow of the porch I’m gathering a bat form when I notice the yapping. It’s around three a.m., and some bad-mannered swine down the hill has left his dog out to bark all night and keep the neighbors up. Spreading my wings, I rise about Matt’s mulberry tree and glide over the neighborhood toward the noise. It’s the poodle Matt mentioned irritably in the café. Before the wretched yapper knows what’s happening, I’ve snatched him up in my claws and sailed over the edge of the cliff fronting Fort Hill. The creature squeaks and whines, much to my pleasure. I contemplate the freeway below, but Fifi might hit the windshield of some hapless trucker. I have a fondness for truckers, their roadside stops and sleeping cabins. No, instead I squeeze the effete brute’s head till it pops like a cherry tomato. Ah, the honied silence. The fluffy corpse drops several hundred feet to make a tiny splash in the black waters of the Elk River. Matt will sleep well tonight.
“These here are what a buddy of mine calls Shitberry Trees. Ginkgos. They were around when the dinosaurs lived here. The berries really stench up this street come November.”
We’re strolling down by the Kanawha River. It’s hot and muggy, only a few nights before Lammas, and Matt’s sweating through his black tanktop, his usual maddening musk. I’ve managed to convince him that last week, after leaving him to sleep, I simply hitched a ride into downtown to return to my car. He claims to be a little juberous—that’s Summers County dialect for “dubious”—but, distracted by a line of ginkgos, now he’s going on about his enthusiasm for botany, reminiscing about his student days in forestry at West Virginia University and describing his job at a nearby state park. Tonight, though, the nervous babble has been replaced by slower, more measured speech, as if he knows there’s something between us he can trust, as if, after our bare-chested nap together, he can now relax, having had some proof that his feelings are returned.
“Damn, I’m ripe,” Matt gingerly admits.
“I like it.” I smile, nuzzling his armpit.
“Y’know, Derek, you don’t sweat. Don’t you ever sweat?”
“Only when I’m frightened. And when I’m fucking, but you’ll find that out as soon as you’re ready.”
“Gittin’ there.” Matt grins, dropping his eyes sheepishly.
It’s like Keats’ Grecian urn, I think. Frozen forever on the edge of consummation. The tension is delicious, and I intend to draw it out as long as Matt needs to wait. Meawhile, there’s Joe the Hot Cop, plus that smooth-assed farmer, a cousin of Kurt’s, I’ve found near Helvetia, and that truck stop along I-81 I make it to occasionally. No need to starve while I’m waiting.
There’s no one about, so we hold hands as we walk along the river. If some intolerant type or Leviticus Locust were to loudly disapprove, I might stave in some ribs, twist a few necks the way farmers dispatch chickens, but that would reveal more to Matt than would be wise.
All evening I’ve cleverly fended off Matt’s questions about my past. “Where’d you grow up? How old are you? Got any siblings?” This is the danger of intimacy with a mortal. How can I tell him what I really am? Friedrich the Viennese anthropologist found out and had another monograph in mind. I had to stop that. Now I try to imagine Matt’s reactions to the truth, and all I can see is his handsome face distorting with disbelief and then horror, his silhouette disappearing in the distance.
I have tried to remain detached. I have failed. I should have fed on him that first night, then forgotten him.
Matt turns to me suddenly, grabs my face in his hands, and kisses me. Hard. His tongue slips between my lips for just a second, too fast to savor, before he pulls away, as if he’s surprised himself, and points down the riverbank.
“Now y’see that wildflower? It’s called joe-pye weed. When you see this’un, and ironweed, well, y’know summer’s comin’ to a close.”
I squeeze his hand, then drop it as a nighttime jogger pants by.
“Derek, I don’t get why we can’t meet up this weekend. I got some vacation time comin’. I thought Saturday we could drive up to Hawk’s Nest State Park, up over Gauley Mountain, maybe see the old mill at Babcock. They got some great cheeses and pepperoni rolls down at Capitol Market. We could have a picnic.” Now Matt’s the one with reason to be impatient.
Mid-August. The Kanawha Valley has gotten even muggier. Matt’s instigated a romantic little adventure tonight. Dressed in nothing but olive-drab shorts and short work boots—Come Fuck Me Boots, I call them, the kind worn in just about every Leather video—we’re sitting in the gardens of Terra Salis, a greenhouse business in Malden, only a few miles from Charleston. The nursery is closed, the employees gone home, but one of the workers, an old buddy of Matt’s, has lent him a key. We’ve sneaked in after hours just to sit together in the deep and private darkness of this sycamore grove.
Behind us, an occasional car hums along Route 60. Above us, the canopy of leaves rustles in the breeze. A fountain’s splashing somewhere. Crickets are fiddling autumn’s slow approach. Across the Kanawha, a train rumbles by.
A trucker’s death last night is what’s saving Matt’s life tonight. They’ve probably already found him naked in the sleeper compartment of his rig, covered with bruise-bites, bound from shoulders to ankles with bungee cords, a wide piece of duct tape across his mouth. Another murder along I-81. His name was Darius, of all things. Couldn’t have been more than 25. I fucked him as he died.
Trying to restrain myself around Matt is making me more and more vicious. Maybe another trip to New York or London is in order, places where I may murder more freely.
For now, however, we’re enjoying some bare-chested necking on this bench set between concrete urns of ferns. I’m playing with Matt’s nipples, squeezing his pecs. He’s unzipped my shorts and is rubbing the bulge in my briefs. Our conversation is fragmentary, sentences squeezed in between bouts of tongue-wrestling and beard-nuzzling. Occasionally I burrow a finger into his armpit or into his underwear, then lick off the sweat and the scent. If Matt notices my prominent canines as his tongue researches my mouth, he isn’t saying. They keep inching slowly out, I keep willing them to retract. I don’t want this beautiful man to know what kind of monster he’s fallen in love with.
Considering how much bolder our caresses have become over the last couple of meetings, my guess is Matt’s about ready to shuck all his lingering fears; he’s about ready to give himself to me completely. As if I were a healer, not a destroyer. Ready to place in my arms his naked, powerful, fragile body, as solemnly as a priest lays on the altar the viaticum. Delicate white wafer. Color of moonlight, the skin of groin or buttocks, skin untouched by the aging sun. Watch the priest lift that wafer, snap it into fragments. This is your body, broken for me.
I’ve been using some version of the same tired excuse for centuries. “Can’t meet you tomorrow. Work to do, research. How about tomorrow night?” Lately, it’s been my publishing company, though truth is I’ve hired folk so efficient and independent I only have to give them input every few weeks.
I’m beginning to seem elusive to him with all my excuses. This will whet his appetite for a good while. We all love the chase, we’re all intrigued by a mystery. But the elusive becomes the tiresome soon enough.
“Or how about Canaan Valley and Blackwater Falls? We could rent a cabin for the weekend, if they’re not all filled up. Or we could camp out. I got a decent-sized tent.” The more excited he gets with his plans for the future, the grimmer I feel. “Or, hey, Derek!” he exclaims, really going now. “Let’s stay at that super gay guest house at Lost River! Man, it’s great. Lots of sexy D.C. boys. Big pool, big breakfasts. And”—he pauses for just a second—“big beds.”
I’m in such a slough of sadness at this point I miss the significance of this string of vacation suggestions. Raising one eyebrow, I stare at him. “You mean . . .”
He kisses my bare shoulder, the face of the Horned God. He grips my hand with his, and his is trembling. “Yep. I’m ready. I want to spend the night with you. I want you to tie me to o
ne of those big beds at Lost River and hurt me good. I wanna feel you inside me, Derek. Or, hell, I wanna tie you down and feel myself inside you. Whatever you want.”
Herne in Heaven. I can already see him, grunting and bucking, spread-eagled on the bed, while I ride his ass, while I tug aside his thick brown hair and bury my fangs in his carotid, gulping his life the way he gulps Scotch. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him as surely as darkness follows day.
I jerk away, run my tongue over my fang teeth. I suppress a growl. What have I done? How could I let it get this far?
“Derek? What’s wrong? Don’t you want what I want? I thought . . .”
Matt grabs my shoulders and slowly turns me around to face him. Now we’re both terrified. Now it’s my turn to drop my eyes. I twist away again, drop my elbows onto my knees, wipe my brow and my mustache. Matt reaches over and again grabs my moist hand.
“Man, you’re cold. Hell, you’re sweating!”
“Matt,” I lie lamely, “I think I’m a little sick.” I’ve got to get away from him.
“Well, shit, I guess so. You’re clammy. Let’s get you back up to my place and I’ll put you to bed.”
“No, Matt, I can’t spend the night. I’ve got to get home to Mount Storm.”
“Hell no! That’s gotta be a four-hour drive! You look like you’re gonna faint. You got to stay with me tonight. No hanky-panky. I just wanna take care of you.”
Caught in my own lie. Fool. Damned fool. Come daybreak he’d rise to find a smouldering skeleton in his bed.
“I have a, uh, conference call tomorrow morning. Got to get back for that.” I push back the bloodlust and compose myself. “I feel better, really. Let’s head back to town now. I’m parked near the library. Drop me off at the corner of Quarrier and Capitol, okay?”
For the first time, I deliberately manipulate his mind, so as to disperse his doubts, so as to force him to believe me. Mildly dazed, he nods, pulls out his keys, and leads the way to his truck.
This is the Tap Room, Charleston’s Leather and Bear bar. My London houseboy Steven would call it, after AbFab, “an underground shame hole,” but that’s par for the course in West Virginia, where just about all the gay venues are stuck away in shabby neighborhoods and seedy buildings. But the music’s good, the clientele’s friendly, the bartenders are efficient and flirtatious. For a few seconds I almost feel as if I belong, just another big bearded guy sucking down beer and cruising other big bearded guys. Except, of course, I’m an undead killer, bearing the mark of Cain which Lord Byron found so fascinating. Slayer of his brother, denied peace for eternity.
That’s two truckers I’ve killed this month. Bob has come into my study and dropped the newspapers on my desk. He’s begged me to be careful.
I’ve met Matt here tonight so that I could break it off. Again and again I muster my courage, again and again I pick through the bevy of excuses I’ve fabricated to explain why we can’t see one another any longer. But he’s too damned desirable. He’s wearing black jeans and cowboy boots, a black leather vest over his otherwise bare chest. I’ve also dressed for the context: army pants, biker boots, gray muscle shirt. Matt stands by my elbow, laughing with his friends. He’s so proud to be with me, so happy to have a big man at his side rather than being
“That Poor Bastard Who Got Dumped by That Weasel Thom.” Every now and then he reaches down to squeeze my ass, reaches up to tweak my nipples or tug my hoop earring.
His Bear buddies Dwight and Daryl have drifted off, and we’re sitting on a set of dark inner stairs where customers often go to make out, when Matt swigs the last of his beer and pulls something from his back pants pocket. “Got something for you in D.C.,” he announces, winking, holding up a silver-studded black leather band.
“A cock ring?”
“Well, you can wear it on your wrist, for bar display.” He snaps it around my right wrist, then promptly unsnaps it. “Or, yeah, for more private moments . . .” Now he’s unbuttoning the front of my pants. He’s pulling down the zipper, gently pulling my cock and balls out, snapping the band around them.
“Yep, that’s pretty.” He falls to his knees before me, hefts up my hardening cock and brushes his thick goatee over my scrotum.
My thighs begin to quake. How can I leave this man? How can I contribute to the damage his heart has already endured? How can I make love to him without consuming him completely, without sucking up his life the way desert dunes suck up rain?
Matt’s worked his tongue halfway up my shaft when we’re interrupted. A couple of guys passing in the corridor below stop and stare, then begin to urge us on. “Yeeow! Nice meat. Woof! Give us a show, boys!”
Ignoring them, Matt looks up at me, smiling broadly. “Damn, Derek, you taste good! I’m fuckin’ crazy about you. Let’s go to my place.”
I don’t think that would be wise, but we’ve got to get out of here, or I’m going to face-fuck him in this stairwell and then go for one of several arteries, and all with an eager audience. Already, attracted by our onlookers’ loud enthusiasm, other men have wandered over.
“Sorry, guys! Show’s over,” Matt laughs, stuffing my cock back down my pants, zipping me up, and grabbing my hand. “Get thee to a bath-house! Take thyself in hand!” he advises, shouldering them aside. We’re past the bar, out the entrance and up the steps in four seconds.
His truck’s parked just down the street, but instead of fishing out his keys, he’s pushing me up against the building’s yellow-brick wall and kissing me roughly. Tugging up my muscle shirt, he starts in on my nipples with his fingers. “C’mon, Derek, goddamn it, we’ve waited long enough. I’m tired of bein’ teased. I wanna hear you yelp,” Matt hisses, pinching harder. “I’m gonna make these babies sore. One or th’other of us is gonna get screwed tonight, and one or th’other of us is gonna have a hard time walkin’ tomorrow.”
His brutality surprises and delights me. I didn’t think he had it in him. I nod and close my eyes, leaning against the wall and relishing the discomfort. When I begin to groan, Matt claps his right hand over my mouth just the way I love to hand-gag Joe the Hot Cop, and now with his left hand he’s squeezing my buttocks and working his fingers into the cloth-covered cleft of my ass as best he can. Hell, I think, he’d be a lot safer on top. What we need is some padded silver handcuffs. . . .
Matt abruptly pulls me from the wall, swings me around, and pushes me face forward over the hood of a parked Jeep. Pretty damned strong for a guy so short. The boy’s acting like he’s going to rape me right here.
It’s then, as Matt’s slapping my ass with the back of his hand and muttering, “I’m gonna give it to you good, buddy,” that I see the plate glass window across the street.
Absurd futuristic office furniture. Those damned nightmares.
Now, suddenly shaken from the haze of erotic distraction, I hear the sounds Angus and I missed that night amidst the standing stones.
I heave myself off the truck hood and spin around. There are five of them.
All barely out of their teens. One’s fat. One’s square-headed, about six foot five, a sort of fundamentalist Frankenstein’s monster. One’s blond, with chubby cherubic cheeks. One’s bald. One’s got oily red hair and buckteeth. Shuffling holler homophobes, pious troglodytes. The Leviticus Locusts.
But big. And armed. I take stock: broken beer bottle, a pipe, two-by-fours, and a hunting knife. The knife from the dream. The one I saw driven into Matt’s belly.
“You’re that faggot singer!” the fat one shouts, pointing at Matt. “We been lookin’ for you.”
“Goddamn queers. We’re gonna make you pay!” the tall one snarls.
“Sinners! ‘Men with men working that which is unseemly!’ ” yells the bald one. Christian skinhead? At least he has sufficient mind to memorize Bible verses.
They’re advancing quickly, fanning around us, raising their weapons. I push Matt behind me. How do I tear this flock of fools apart without revealing to Matt that I’m more than human?
Dial
ect pushes through in times of crisis. “Git, Matt! Go fetch help!” I beg, but he’s having none of that. He’s as brave as Angus was.
“Shit, no! I ain’t leavin’ you here! C’mon, you motherfuckers! You big dumb Bible-thumping bastards! You all the ones been callin’ me with all those threats? I’m gonna break your fuckin’ teeth!”
Matt’s self-defense coach would be proud. He’s leapt forward and slammed his fist into the fat one’s jaw, then swung around and slammed his boot heel into the knee of the blond kid. Both opponents hit the pavement hard and lie there yelping, clearly unaccustomed to such an ass-kicking queer. I’m guessing their past prey has exclusively been small women and skinny high-school boys.
“Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind!” howls the bald one, swinging a pipe at my head.
A bad choice for him. I recognize the last words I heard in Lochbuie’s standing stones before the knives descended and I blacked out. Those evil words that filled the last seconds of Angus’s life.
I seize the pipe in midair. Wrenching it from him, I grab him by the arm. My mouth opens, fangs extended, and I hiss, full of the panther’s hatred, the tiger’s, the serpent’s, all the fearful things of this earth.
He’s screaming as my fingers dig deeper into his arm. I shove the pipe down his throat, smash in his skull with the back of my fist, then toss him to the ground.
God, that was fun. Sometimes malice gets me harder than blood-drinking. The rich pleasures of being God’s scourge. But now I’m distracted from self-satisfaction by the Frankenstein’s monster, who throws one arm around my throat from behind and lifts me off the asphalt.
I sink my fangs, now almost unmanageably long, into his biceps. He yowls, dropping me. I turn, slam a fist into his solar plexus and he drops to his knees.
Behind me, Matt’s shouting obscenities. No time to play with this one. I will not lose Matt the way I did Angus. Cupping the cretin’s mushmelon head in my hands, I twist his neck with a sweet snap.
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