Cara Mia - Book One of the Immortyl Revolution (27 page)

“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… ”

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 back 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.

“Come on, you’re taking a shower,” I said, as I hefted his arm over my shoulder.

I put him under the shower to let the water sober him up. He grimaced and groaned. Ethan had sometimes taken inebriated victims but they never affected him quite this much. I was careful never to indulge too much myself. Silent, Kurt leaned back against the wall of the stall as I washed the rest of the blood away. Now and then a little shiver of pleasure convulsed his body.

Afterward, I wrapped him in a robe I’d stolen from a hotel, and led him out to sit on the chair while I disposed of the bloody sheets. While I remade the futon, Kurt sat behind me, staring at his hands even though they were free of blood. It was far from sunrise but the best thing he could do was to sleep it off.

“Lie down.” I took him by the hand like a child.

He loosened the robe, letting it slip down his body to the floor, sinking to the futon in my arms with a bemused smile. “
Fuck?
”

“Go to sleep. You’re in no condition.”

“Always ready.”
He moaned, grasping the sides of his head in pain. “
Scheisse!”

I soothed him, laying myself alongside him. “It’s all right— sleep.”

While he slept it off, I took the bag down to the incinerator and dropped it in. After that was done, I went back to clean the bathroom. As I came back into the room I noticed Kurt’s passport and wallet lying open on the coffee table. I picked them up and flipped through them. The passport was Norwegian, counterfeit. It named him as one Erik Nordstrom, giving his age as twenty-one years, birthplace as Oslo. I picked up the wallet, a few credit cards and about fifty dollars cash were inside and his Norwegian driver’s license, also faked. That wasn’t what I was looking for. A faded, creased photograph was tucked behind the driver’s license, a slender dark-haired man, a pretty blonde woman, a dark haired little girl and Kurt, about thirteen years old, his parents and his sister, a world ago, as he’d said.

He cried out in his sleep. I hugged him tight. “Kurt, are you all right?”

He muttered a name under his breath, “
Fritz…”
and fell quiet again. His eyes moved rapidly below the lids, in a deep dream state, his mind unguarded. I pulled the sheet back from his throat and ran my fingers down his carotid artery. It was too tempting not to take advantage of this, and peek inside at his secrets, not out of malice but concern. I bent my head down and touched my lips to his ear. “Kurt,” I whispered. “I want to share with you.”

He mumbled, but didn’t wake. I licked the artery to find the pulse. I knew it wasn’t right, but I did it any way. I nicked him in the throat, and sucked on the small wound.
Sweetness.
Light washed into me for a moment. I climaxed, clinging to him, but suddenly cold mist swirled in around us. As it cleared, I saw a younger version of Kurt huddled on the ground, wet and covered in mud. Through the shadows emerged a tall figure, wearing a uniform with a long coat and cap emblazoned with a skull. The SS officer lit a cigarette and for a moment cold, gray eyes illuminated in the blaze. He dragged on the cigarette, regarding Kurt’s wretched state, walking around him in a circle. From his coat pocket he drew a photograph. I didn’t need to see it to know what it was. He held it out to Kurt with one hand and beckoned with the other. Kurt’s apparition rose as if in a trance and disappeared in the man’s embrace.