Blood Sacraments (23 page)

“You are surprisingly whimsical sometimes,” remarked Bryce, buttoning up his shirt. As always, he felt slightly sick after submitting to Galen. It was a delayed reaction that hit when he stood up. He made his way carefully to the table and helped himself to wine.

Galen stretched, lifting his arms to the ceiling, arching his back, twisting slightly at the hips with sensual grace. Already color had seeped back into his cheeks, staining the fine skin like crushed strawberries. The green eyes sparkled, a fire that gave no heat. “Get your jacket. It’s time for you to go out.”

“I told you—go yourself. You don’t need me.”

“I know.” Galen was enjoying himself. It was as if the shouting and the intimacy had never taken place. They both knew that Bryce was powerless, now, helpless to stop what would happen next.

“Galen, I’m not going.”

“Aren’t you my ‘provider’? My ‘care-giver’? You said so yourself just a few minutes ago.” He smiled, the green eyes taunting, cold as ice, slicing into his soul.

Bryce sighed. “How many?”

“Three would be nice. See what you can do.” Galen turned away, his mind already moving on to the designs he would sketch for the eighteenth-century movie that was his current project. It amused him to reproduce on stage the clothes he and his friends had worn in the long-vanished days of his youth. It amused him still more when he was praised for the historical accuracy of his designs.

Bryce watched him leave the room, listened to his light step going up the stairs. He glanced at his watch. All the strength and purpose seemed to have drained out of him. From far off in the bay, the low wail of the fog horn echoed his despair. Outside, the cool dampness of the evening kissed his lips with salt. Long ribbons of mist swirled along the driveway, hiding the low bushes and setting the trees adrift in a sea of fog. The sickly yellow glow of the wrought iron gas lamps made little impact on the gloom. Bryce shivered as he got into the car.

When the gates of the estate slid shut behind him, Bryce slipped a CD in the player, hoping the music would soothe him. After a few moments, he switched it off.
I hate him
, he thought, giving the wheel a savage twist to the right. The big car spun out briefly, then straightened. Rain spat at the windshield. Bryce took a deep breath and headed downtown.

He was always surprised by how easy it was to pick up boys. He had never had the desire to do so for himself, and the first time he had come here for Galen had been difficult for him. But merely a mention of Galen’s connection with the movies was enough to gain the interest of the most halfhearted hustler. They were all eager to win his favor. They never could, of course. Except for one. Bryce winced at the memory, the tall, wide-eyed boy with the black hair curling down his back. Zane, a name as false as the angelic smile.

The fog was thicker near the water. The great black car slid through the deserted streets, gliding slowly through the swirling mist. Tonight’s hunt took longer than usual, but at last he found two. They were friends, apparently. Once the fee was settled on, Bryce discouraged conversation. He preferred to keep his distance.

When they got back to the house, he found the studio empty. Bryce led the boys down the hall to the master bedroom and knocked.

Galen flung open the door, a brocade robe draped carelessly over his slender body. He was naked underneath. “You took too long,” he said. His green eyes glowed in the dimness. Over his shoulder, Bryce glimpsed the four-poster bed, a familiar tousled head, a long pale thigh. “I’ve made my own arrangements. Get rid of them.”

Bryce thrust his foot in the space between the door and the jamb. “You promised—you swore to me you wouldn’t go out. We had an agreement!”

Galen laughed. “You are a fool,” he said. “You think you can contain me, my appetites, my needs? I am far beyond your feeble comprehension.” He began to press the door against Bryce’s foot, a steady pressure, without apparent effort on his part. “How do you think I have survived as long as I have?”

Bryce winced as the bones in his foot began to grind. Tears came to his eyes but he refused to acknowledge the pain, to back down before that pent-up malevolence. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said, his voice shaking. “Do what you want. Kill me! Would that make you happy?”

“Happy? You are a bigger fool than I realized!” Galen gave the door a final excruciating squeeze.

In spite of himself, Bryce cried out in pain. “Damn you, Galen!”

“I was damned a long time ago, and you had nothing to do with it!” Galen released the pressure, kicked the mangled foot away. “Run the bath for me.” He slammed the door in Bryce’s face.

Bryce leaned against the wall trying to control his ragged breathing. The boys had disappeared. He could hear their steps pounding down the stairs and across the hall. The front door opened. Closed. He was alone. Except for Galen. And Zane.

He wiped his face with his sleeve. “It’s over,” he whispered. But how can something be over that never really began? It was all a fantasy, spun out of his own heated imagination. He had tried, oh how he had tried to make Galen desire him, need him. How he had tried to open his veins to that hot mouth and be drained to the point of floating between their two worlds. Only by doing this could he join Galen forever, be at his side, his shadow, his lover. But Galen had always refused, forcing himself to back off time and again, keeping Bryce at a distance by inserting the tube over his heart, so they would barely touch as he fed. Over and over Bryce had brought home boys, young men, anyone whose eyes were needy, whose lips would ask no questions, whose bodies would not be missed if Galen became violent, as he did sometimes. Especially if there was no one there to stop him.

Slowly Bryce dragged himself along the hall to the huge old-fashioned bathroom. He would obey once more. But this time, there would be a difference.

He ran water into the bathtub, mounted on its graceful clawed feet. He threw in handfuls of scented beads. It was agony taking the shoe off his mangled foot. Blood oozed from the crushed toes as he peeled back the sock. He had to keep stopping, letting the pain roll over him. At last, he gently lowered himself into the warm water. He wondered idly if Galen had always been a sadist or if this had come on him centuries ago, with the Change.

The warmth was calming. The scented oils wreathed the room in heady perfume. The throbbing of his foot was almost pleasurable now. He reached out for the ivory handled straight razor on the shelf behind him. Without pausing, he drew the thin blade across first one wrist, then the other. He watched, fascinated, as his blood swirled slowly into the water. Then he grasped the tube above his heart and pulled. The unexpected pain jolted him, and for a moment he was afraid. Then the warmth swam over him again and he closed his eyes.

When he heard the door click, he opened them again. Galen was kneeling beside him, a silver goblet in one hand. The green eyes burned so brightly, Bryce blinked in pain.

“Fool,” Galen remarked. He reached down and pulled the plug to let out the reddened water. “Never waste good blood.” He pressed the silver goblet against Bryce’s chest and watched blood ooze over the rim.

Bryce smiled as Galen’s fingers touched his chest, squeezing the artery to pump the blood out faster. Then the smile faded as he became aware of another person in the room. Zane. Naked. He was very pale. Several scars stood out against the whiteness of his neck.

“Come,” murmured Galen, holding out his goblet to the boy. “Drink. A token of my love.”

The last clear image that Bryce’s mind recorded was the picture of Zane’s full lips, blood-red against the silver.

With hands tightly clenched in the pockets of his father’s old leather flight jacket, Tommy McDevitt casually walked past the 1966 red Mustang he had discovered parked and empty at the Starlite Twin Family Drive-In Theater.

Tommy’s green eyes carefully surveyed the distance between the Mustang and the other cars in the parking lot of the aging theater. The pale illumination from the movie screens pushed back enough of the cool darkness for him to see the steamed windows of the cars and trucks ahead of him. Everyone was either too preoccupied with the ancient movie plots being played out on the dual screens or in other pursuits to notice a solitary nineteen-year-old boy.

He exhaled a sharp breath as he touched the Slim Jim for comfort. The Mustang was a restored beauty and would fetch enough money to allow him at least a couple months of freedom from Jacksonville’s streets. He decided to take the car. Carter always gave good prices for the classics.

The Slim Jim slid easily into the window crevice.

“Smooth,” he said, proud of the ease with which the first stage of the theft had gone.

A hand grabbed his upper arm and yanked him roughly away from the car. “You little punk! I’ll teach you to break into my car.”

A harsh blow landed on his cheek and the side of his nose. Tommy cried out in pain as he was thrown to the ground. He tried to scurry away, but a well-placed kick connected with his side, and he fell to the ground in further anguish.

Tommy rolled away from the approaching footsteps. Despite the torrent of pain screaming through his body, he managed to assume a shaky defensive position and faced, with Slim Jim in hand, his attacker.

Tommy managed a few ragged breaths as his one good eye searched for a means of escape. None was forthcoming from any of the parked cars around him. He faked a lunge. His tormentor jumped back and he took off running. He got maybe three feet before a hand clenched the crown of his auburn hair and yanked him down. He fell to his knees and desperately slashed at empty air with the Slim Jim.

A Nike connected with his stomach. He dropped the Slim Jim as he felt his insides turn inside out, and made a vain attempt to scurry away. This time the Nike hit him squarely on the side of his head. The impact caused his teeth to puncture his tongue, and falling, he tasted warm, wet blood trickling down his throat.

“It’s not naptime just yet.” His attacker laughed as he easily scooped up Tommy’s legs in his arms. “The party has yet to begin.”

Tommy feebly tried to grab anything on the ground to prevent himself from being dragged back to the Mustang. He tried screaming for help, but could only gurgle out blood and salvia. Somehow he managed to find enough strength to grab a handful of gravel and sand as he continued to be dragged forward toward the car.

“Stop and turn around, you bastard,” Tommy silently prayed and readied himself for the one slim chance that might avail itself, provided he could see to aim out of his bruised and swollen eyes.

They came to a stop at the Mustang. As the pain caused his eyes to roll back, he caught sight of a patch of extreme darkness as it detached itself from a nearby row of parked cars and gracefully slid around them, effectively cutting them off from the rest of the drive-in. His attacker found his car keys and swore as he fumbled around for one that would allow him to open the door. Someone else was nearby. Tommy could sense a hidden presence lurking somewhere in the seemingly impenetrable dark. A solitary match split open the womb of night.

“Shit!” he whispered. The keys dropped from his hands and fell to the ground with a dull clatter. Tommy saw the match drop from a black leather–gloved hand as it grabbed his attacker by the neck and lifted him skyward. He closed his eyes briefly and relaxed, allowing the gravel and sand to slide out of his hand like the grains of sand in an hourglass. He would have smiled if it didn’t hurt so much.

“Ready for a joyride?” Tommy heard his rescuer ask. He stiffened again as the mustang’s door opened. And a feeble thought crossed his mind: “How?”

Tommy opened his eyes just in time to see his attacker being thrown into the backseat. A tall man shrouded with the night’s darkness followed and the car door slammed shut. He watched as the car rocked back and forth in the violent frenzy of two lovers desperate for release and unaware a voyeur was watching.

Tommy’s attacker rose up from the backseat only once. A gloved hand covered his mouth, but his eyes pleaded for mercy. From the light of the movie screen, Tommy could see the man’s shirt was torn, and his chest, bloody. He was pulled down again, arms thrashing wildly, and that was the last he ever saw of him.

Tommy tried to gently ease himself up and on his feet, but failed. He fell back to the ground and bit hard on his lip to prevent himself from crying out in pain. Whoever had proven to be his savior, he didn’t want to attract any attention before hiding in the nearby bushes and seeing the overall package of his savior. Tommy had begun to inch his way toward possible refuge when he heard the car door open again.

He froze. Tommy’s lower lip trembled as he turned to face whoever was getting out of the Mustang. The man’s fingernails seemed to retreat back into his gloves. Despite the pain, Tommy blinked to clear his cloudy eyes. The gloved hands appeared normal now. The unappraisable darkness of his shadow Tommy had at first welcomed, but now was terrified of, approached him with a dizzying speed. Before he could utter a sound of protest, his rescuer swooped down and gently lifted him from the ground like a mother would raise a newborn from a crib.

“Huusshhh. I’m just going to take you to my office, where I can get you cleaned up,” he softly said, with a falsetto of reassurance. He paused long enough to savor the waves of growing helpless terror that emanated from Tommy’s body. “We’ll talk about repayment after I’ve gotten you back on your feet.”