Hunger (50 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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I cannot even bring his face to mind; thoughts of him bring only visions of death and depravities: bloodless corpses, helpless lives lying in ruin in our wake. So I had decided to undertake this arduous journey. I will never purge myself of his evil; I had proved too apt a pupil for that, and his sway over me is too absolute to hope for my reform. There will be no repentance; no amendment of life in this new country. But at the least I will escape his constant approbation of my sins and excesses. And with that I believe can live content.
Footsteps approach my coffin and I lie still, not daring to move or breathe for fear of discovery. The scent of the living men who carry and load me onto a carriage almost drives me mad. I can break out of my confinement with one simple movement of my arm; their blood can be on my lips in seconds, but I restrain myself, not knowing if it is day or night. It would be a shame, I think to myself with a mocking laugh, to travel all this way only to disappear into a heap of ashes on the dock. Tonight, when I arrive at the house I have procured, will be soon enough.
Eventually, the coffin is deposited, none too gently, in a damp-smelling room, and I assume that all has been accomplished in accordance with my explicit instructions. Still, I wait for a while, listening to the sounds of the hoofs and carriage wheels moving away on the cobblestone streets. When all is quiet, I cautiously push up one side of the thick wooden lid and breathe a sigh of relief when I realize that it is night and I am alone, safe, and free at last.
The hunger will not let me stop and savor my freedom, but drives me out into the night in search of living prey. I wander the streets, taking careful note of the turns and twists I make so that I may retrace my steps to safe harbor before dawn.
A church bell chimes twice as I hurry past, urged on by the gnawing ache in my stomach and the unfaltering instinct that a victim is near. Quite near, I realize, as I round the corner and see the shadowy figure of a woman leaning up against a doorframe. She is, of course, a prostitute; in this day and age no respectable woman would be out alone in the night. I am well used to this type, having used them in countless brothels for sex. But my urges now are more elemental, more basic and much darker; there will be no sexual play this night. I glide over to her, giving a courtly bow; she smiles and beckons me inside the door.
The room is dingy and sparsely furnished; the bed is only a mattress set on the floor. Turning her back to me, she begins to unfasten the hooks of her bodice. Ordinarily, I would wait until she undressed, until I had possession of her body before taking possession of her blood. Ordinarily, I would not even require her life. But tonight there is no denying of what must happen if I am to survive.
I come up behind her, putting one arm around her waist, and clasping my other hand over her mouth, bend her head to one side, making her neck more accessible to my kiss. At first she does not resist, but when my teeth sink deeply into her pliant flesh, and I take my first long draw on her precious blood, she struggles, attempting to pull away. Her lips move beneath my hand, crying, perhaps in pain, calling for mercy. I have none to give.
Her blood flows into me, filling me with elation, filling the great emptiness within. I feel her heartbeat slow, then stop completely. But only when the body is drained completely do I loosen my mouth's hold on her. She hangs limp and lifeless from my arm still encircling her waist, and I drop her onto the bare mattress. I reach down to close her staring eyes gently. The words of the prayer for the dead rise to my lips as they always do when I kill, but I will not allow them to be uttered by the very mouth that took her life. Instead, I reach into my pocket, drop a gold piece next to the bed, and go back into the night.
I explore the streets of this new city until just before dawn, eventually finding my way back to my home and my coffin. As I pull the lid over me, I feel the sharp stab of pain that signals the rising of the sun, and I sleep.
Chapter 21
I
t took a long time to wake from the dream. I lay in bed, eyes wide open, studying the ceiling, drifting through the state that lay between sleep and waking. This dream had frightened me more than all the rest; it had been the first time that I had felt the glorious elation of draining a victim to death. The fact that it was not I, but Max, who had killed that woman made no difference. When I dreamed, I was Max; his emotions, his passions, were mine. I had never before realized what a precarious balance I maintained. That I could recognize myself in him, and that I could react so willingly, so naturally, to his murderous instincts, was terrifying.
I looked back on my life with disgust. I shared Max's guilt, shared it completely. That woman was dead because of me. It made no difference that the event had happened before my transformation. The seeds of a killer had been sown within me, and even if they did not grow to their fruition, I knew that their roots were forever imbedded in my soul. There could be no final salvation for one such as I.
Eventually I shook off the effect of the dream and pulled myself up into a complete state of awareness of who and where I was, and discovered that the sun had already set and that I was alone. Getting out of bed, I saw that Ron had left the will and the papers for me to sign, along with his home and work phone numbers, and a note.
Deirdre,
it read, I
stayed all day as you asked, but had to leave around six. Tried to wake you, but you were completely out. Thanks for last night, let's do it again sometime soon. Love, Ron.
The word “soon” was underlined three times and I chuckled to myself, then sobered.
Poor Ron, I thought, he's just one more example of how twisted my life has become. I used him terribly, first for his blood, then his legal expertise, and finally for his companionship, when what he wanted from me was completely different and something I could never give him. I shook my head, picked up the phone, and called room service for a pot of coffee.
When I was on my second cup, the phone rang. I let it ring for a while; the only person who knew where I was was Ron, and if we talked, I would eventually end up spending another night with him. How long could I continue to hide out, avoiding the other complications of my life, taking advantage of a man who deserved better of me? After ten rings I answered, determined to tell him that we should never see each other again. I did not have to, because it was not Ron on the phone, but Mitch.
I could not even say hello. “How did you find me?”
His voice was quiet and sad. “If I'd been thinking straight, I would have tried this place last night. Unfortunately, I drank for four solid hours after you left, and my mind was anything but clear.”
“Yes, me too. Did it work for you?”
“Other than making me feel as horrible physically as I did mentally, no. I'm sorry.”
I paused, not able to speak.
“Deirdre, did you hear me? I said I was sorry, and I am. I should never have said those things to you. I'd take them all back if I could.”
“And why should you be sorry for telling the truth? Everything you said was true, Mitch. What you and I have together is something that should never have happened. It can never work, and I'm glad that you've finally come to that realization. It makes my leaving much easier.”
“You're leaving again?” I could hear the panic in his voice, felt my own panic rise. The thoughts of being separated from him forever tore me apart, but I knew that staying with him would be almost as bad.
“I—I—I don't know what to do,” I said honestly, desperately. “I can't think straight around you; I never could. I don't know if I have the power of will to leave. But it would be much better for the both of us if I do.”
“Like hell it would.” He gave a tight little laugh, and I found myself smiling.
I sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Mitch?” My question was light and teasing.
“I can think of several things at the moment, and I'm sure more will occur to me when you get home.” He matched my bantering tone, then grew serious. “You will come back, won't you? You can't leave me, I won't let you. If you want me to beg you, I will; I'll get down on my knees and crawl to you. I love you, dammit, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.”
“I'll come back. But we need to do some serious talking about my life and you need to do some serious thinking about how well it will fit you.”
“Anything you want, Deirdre. Just come home soon.”
“As soon as I can, my love. I'm glad that your mind finally cleared well enough for you to find me. I think that I must have come here so that you could.”
He laughed. “Actually, I'm ashamed to say that I didn't think of it. Your attorney called and told me where you were.”
“Ron called you?” That surprised me. “Why on earth would Ron tell you where I was?”
“Why wouldn't he? When he called last night, looking for you, I asked him to let me know if he located you. Or at least I think I did; everything is pretty fuzzy.”
“You did; he told me.”
“And he said that you were still hopelessly in love with me, that what you needed was a good kick to make you wake up and realize it.”
“Well, I'm glad that Ron thinks it's all so simple.”
There was a long pause, and I thought for a moment that he had hung up. “In the end, Deirdre,” Mitch said finally, “I think he's right.”
I gather up my borrowed coat and uniform. The gold locket that I had taken from Max's room at the Ballroom fell out onto the floor, and I picked it up and tucked it into my jeans pocket. Then I went downstairs and left the hotel.
As I walked on the streets, I had the feeling that I was being followed, a curious feeling in the middle of my back that someone's eyes were on me, watching my every move. I knew that it was not Max; there was none of his intimate touch in my mind. But it was familiar nevertheless, and I glanced over my shoulder for a glimpse of my stalker. There was a flurry of movement behind me, and I spun around, but he was gone. “Great,” I said out loud, “just what I need, another haunting. Maybe everyone I've ever known can show up all at the same time and we can have a party.” I laughed at my paranoid thought but quickened my steps.
When I arrived at Mitch's apartment, I was surprised to find the door unlocked. “Mitch,” I called, hanging up my coat in the closet, “where are you?”
“In the kitchen.”
His voice was calm and peaceful, as if no separation had taken place.
He was sitting at the table with his back to the door and I walked over, put my arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss. Resting my head on his shoulder, I watched as he finished cleaning his gun. “The door was unlocked.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I wasn't sure if you took your keys with you.” He turned around on the chair and put his arms around my waist. “Welcome home.” He rested his head against my left breast, then pulled away abruptly. “Your heart is racing, Deirdre, is everything okay?”
“No, Mitch,” I said with a sigh. “Not really.”
“You weren't mugged again, were you?”
“No, nothing like that. But you must know that my coming back to you solves only one problem.” I reached over and stroked his hair. “The problem of how I could ever live without you.” I kissed him on the forehead and pulled away. “Everything else in my life is completely out of control. I don't know what to do. I don't even know how to tell you about it all.”
“Well,” he said, “I've a solution to one of your problems anyway.” He put his gun into my hand. “This will stop you from getting victimized again.”
I stared down at the revolver in my grasp, then placed it back on the table with a small laugh. “That, my love, is the very least of my problems. And I wouldn't know how to shoot it even if I had to.”
“I'd teach you; we'll go down to the shooting range. I'd worry a lot less about you wandering around the city at night by yourself if I knew you had some protection.”
“Mitch, I don't need a gun for protection.”
“I know.” He shrugged and his eyes lit with amusement. “But at the very least, you don't need to explain this kind of protection to anyone. It's a lot cleaner and simpler.”
“But not as much fun,” I muttered guiltily, turning away from him to look out the window, ashamed of the delight I had experienced dealing with the mugger.
“What?”
“Never mind, Mitch. It doesn't matter. If it makes you feel better, I'll carry the gun.”
“Thank you.” He walked behind me and put his arm around my neck, pulling my head back to nuzzle my hair.
“Mitch,” I said quietly, “we need to talk.”
“I know,” he said, a tinge of sadness creeping into his voice. “What really bothers me about all this is that for some reason you're afraid to tell me about it.” He spun me around, gripping my shoulders and shaking me lightly. “Regardless of what I said last night, I do love you, and I want you to know that there's nothing about you I can't learn to accept as long as you stay.”
I met his eyes directly and coolly. “Tell me that later, after you know everything, and I will believe you.”
My stare must have unnerved him; he dropped his hands and stepped back from me. I went to the refrigerator and removed the last half-bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and handed him one. “We'll be more comfortable in the other room. This may take a while.”
I let him sit down first; he chose the couch, and I sat in the chair opposite him. He gave me a questioning look, took a sip of his wine, and waited.
My voice was soft when I began, tense and choked. “The first thing you must realize, before I tell you anything, is that after receiving your letter, I never expected to see you again, never expected to have to justify my life to you.”
“That damned letter,” Mitch interrupted. “I've been angry about it ever since you told me.”
“The letter doesn't matter, Mitch. I know now that you didn't write it, and that's the important fact. Although, I wonder who . . .”
“Chris.”
“Excuse me?”
“Chris wrote the goddamned thing. He said he was trying to protect me from your influence. I nearly killed him when he told me about it that last night in the hospital. He'd no right to interfere like that.”
I laughed in relief, not realizing until that moment how worried I had been about who the originator of that letter might be. “Don't be too hard on him, my love. It can't be an easy thing to discover that your father's lover is someone like me. And although he has had a few problems, Chris has actually been surprisingly civilized about our relationship.”
“So you're not mad about it?”
I shrugged. “Not really. And even if I were, he's your son and not mine. He did come for me when he thought I could help you, and he was right. I think that more than balances out those two years.”
“And if you hadn't received the letter? Wouldn't things have been different for you?”
Mitch's question took me by surprise. With the letter I had completely accepted the fact that he did not want me anymore and my actions had been dictated by that assumption. And yet, had I not received it, I would have assumed his answer to be the same. “No, Mitch,” I said sadly, “no letter would have been just as bad as the one I received. Perhaps even worse, because I would have felt that you did not even care enough to tell me your decision.” I looked into his eyes and gave him a half-smile. “Now, can we forget about the letter and who wrote it? The only important thing to remember is that I accepted it as a fact.”
“And that's another thing, Deirdre, how can you believe I would do that to you?” He brushed his fingers through his hair and his eyes glinted angrily. “Goddammit, I love you. Even now I don't understand why you thought you had to leave. And I'm still pretty mad about the whole thing. I was ready to share your life completely, and you ran out on me. I'm ready to share it now, Deirdre. All you have to do is say yes.”
“Mitch,” I interrupted him gently but firmly, “that is not what we need to talk about. We have time for all that later, but you must hear me out first. What I have to say might change your mind.”
He said nothing, but I recognized his stubborn expression from the time he insisted that no such creatures as myself existed. Mitch needed hard proof to believe what he did not want to believe. I sighed and took a sip of my wine.
“Shortly after I arrived in England”—my voice trembled slightly—“I began to hear Max's voice, quiet yet insistent, from the back of my mind. Oh, it was only an annoyance at first, like the buzzing of a fly or static on the radio. But it seemed to grow stronger with each feeding, urging me to go further than I ever had before, to take more blood, more often. Almost as if he were living inside me, feeding off my body, and imposing his hungers and desires on me. As if I were possessed by Max's spirit.”

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