Blood Sacraments (9 page)

Korina usually lived in the main villa but I wanted my space. Making her walk across the island from her ancient family home to tend me felt rude, but I needed to be alone. I think the caring woman understood my problem. Or at least my selfish soul hoped she understood.

Damn. Late-afternoon humidity crept over stony Agapios in sopping reams. The ancient olive trees spreading over the island did not wilt, unlike the wild poppies coloring the sun-washed landscape. Their drooping petals felt as conquered as their owner. The annoyance forced uncomfortable warmth against my flesh but my muscles felt too limp to move my languid body from my poolside lounge chair back into my villa’s cooler confines. Wait, I occupied no mere lounge chair—no way, this chair was my throne, yeah, my reclining throne, where for the past month this wasted king of what little he surveyed sprawled and watched the sunny days march along without him.

My typical day began by greeting life in the early afternoon, when the harsh island sun grew demanding enough to conquer the burgundy drapes. A few fresh figs, dates, or ruby pomegranate seeds offered me energy. Fragrant chilled mint tea prodded my awareness. Granted, I could hold court anywhere on my private island, but this umbrella-shaded spot suited my fickle whims. My wine awaited me on the gleaming teak table, the pool’s sky-hued water mocked my continued inactivity, and the black cliffs, they a mere twenty-odd meters away from my throne, constantly murmured their seductive death promise to me. Jagged, volcanic-hued teeth awaited my final plunge.

Captivating. So captivating.

My wandering mind calculated death and the exact speed ratio for plunging off my inviting cliff launch. I’d never follow through with the final act. Let’s face it, what was the point? Knowing my luck I’d drop from the edge, bounce off a sharp outcrop, and hit the small beach area expensively maintained face first. Did my tremendous exertion kill me? No. I knew my spine splintered in exactly all the wrong places. After my effort I knew something mechanical forced my body and mind to endure an even more dismally shattered life.

My mind saw the video. I never enjoyed seeing my face shatter. Nasty.

Fuck it, what was the bloody point? Better to sprawl and rot like an abandoned grape left on the vine. A rejected, unsuitable-for-wine grape. Instead of shattering I’d simply decline into slime. The lazy act suited me.

My high-strung Bjorn definitely comprehended the important death point. My dramatic Dane understood how to die, yes sir, he understood the concept to the final limit. Urgh, I hated the memory, yet if I pulled back the protective mental veil, I saw my physically glorious yet mentally damaged man standing before me, naked, mmm, he owning a perfect thick dick that always supplied me superior interior pleasure. Yeah, push harder, remember alllll the sick details.

What a thrill.

Talk about a tragic day, ha, after partying all night I staggered home comforted in dawn’s misty wrap. My feet carried me up stairs. I stood in vague heroin-induced amusement watching the unfolding scenario. A play I never purchased a ticket to unfolded in my bedroom. The first and only act featured Bjorn hoarsely accusing me of being a fucking unfaithful whore and a self-centered prick. Grand venom. Although blasted out of my mind, I remembered him accusing me of engineering everything rotten in recent British history, except Diana’s death, then he, employing baroque passion, slit his throat with a glass shard fetched from my broken Art Deco mirror. My amusement quickly turned black.

All right, fine, of course I was a fucking unfaithful whore but dear Bjorn was a fucking drama queen, plus his endless blood ruined my priceless sixteenth-century Turkish carpet. My inconsiderate lover transformed our, excuse me, my, my, my expensive bedroom floor into a gruesome abattoir.

What a selfish, unthinking bastard. How dare Bjorn act so noble and accusing toward me? Prick. Nasty, accusing prick. How dare he leave me?

How dare he check out in such marvelous passion!

My heart captured a bizarre beat. Definitely abnormal. So what. At least it still beat.

The breeze tickled my sweating flesh. I swore lost souls rode the sea-tainted draft. Pathetic brooding tossed a wet net over my soul. My aching body shifted against my padded throne. Mmm, I missed my wild actor, yeah, imagine, I missed Bjorn enough to try joining him. Unfortunately my deliberate heroin overdose created an unexpected heart attack minutes before I reached my London town house. Splat, down I dropped into the dense Saturday crowd swarming in front of Harrods, my helpless body mere steps away from my waiting limo. At least no one stomped on my face, but the timing defined sucky luck. I mean come on, I shot up in a Harrods bathroom intent on dying during the drive home to Regent’s Park. How sad, planning my own death swerved beyond my skill. What good was I? Withdrawal and a blasted heart, yes, what an ugly combination.

Damn it, why did seagulls sound so bloody annoying? My lips managed a pathetic hiss. I lifted my left arm and lazily flapped my numb hand against the uncaring sky. Wow, Steady Stewie, the dynamic gesture told them who was the real boss here. I showed the flying shit machines who ruled da island. Big whooping deal. In congratulation for my heroic effort I sipped more wine.

Once sweet death courted me, I couldn’t erase thinking about my tempestuous Bjorn. We represented damaged love at its finest, ha, two emotional vampires ripping and tearing at each other, but still, deep in my shallow, worthless soul, I loved my wild stage actor. My very own Hamlet. What a stunner, I cheated on my handsome Dane, but Bjorn knew I was a true blue slut. Remember, I cheated on Andy to seduce my Bjorn. Did I swear everlasting fidelity to Bjorn? Not quite. Hmm, did a clichéd till death do us part line prevent the nasty, thick blood gushing from my lover’s sturdy neck? Too late for such regrets. Before that wretched afternoon I never felt so much blood taint my flesh. I literally enjoyed one helluva blood bath. Just call me Bloody Boy Barlow.

Ah. Fuck. Ouch. The sharp twinge infecting my chest demanded serious medical attention, so logically I ignored the swelling pain and consumed more delicious wine. Okay, fine, firing my nurse and throwing out my arsenal of colorful pills defined impulsive, stupid, and willful, yes, my wonderful triumvirate, but not bright. After all, modern meds offered me an easy exit. Trouble was my twisted mind thought overdosing on prescription meds sounded too easy. Such nonsense equaled kiddie play! Come on, ripping your throat open with a jagged mirror bit, yeah, now that act told the world you possessed stellar cojones. You owned clichéd big brass balls. You were da bleeding to death man. The ruin my carpet man. The destroy my life man.

Not fair, not fair, not fair. There, I said it three times, third time’s the charm. I conquered the pain swelling inside my chest, right?

No.

Ahh. Another sharp pain drifted through my chest. Damn, suddenly the distant sea sounded too loud. I gasped for breath. Shit, I just fucking didn’t care about my damaged heart; instead I urged the faulty organ into a ruinous last act. No worries about that happy event since my concerned Uncle Samuel, the faithful family watchdog, would send a new nurse by, hmm, I predicted no later than later tonight. Overprotective Samuel would helicopter a nurse in from the mainland pronto since, after I fired David yesterday, I spitefully ignored my uncle’s furious calls. Yeah, fine, the old man meant well, but I didn’t want a nurse nagging me on how I conducted myself. I didn’t want advanced meds coated with silly warning labels advising not to operate heavy machinery or drink while ingesting said drug.

Yeah, imagining me rolling around the island in a bulldozer, blasted out of my fucking skull offered a giggle fit. Classic. Wine dribbled streams down my chest.

No, now I wanted to die. I wanted to flee life’s ugly pain and stress.

No one understood the simple concept. Come on, please, life frustrated me. After all, experiencing life required a set of complicated rules no one ever bothered explaining to this poor little rich boy. My parents never possessed the time for me since drinking themselves to death ranked far above caring for their weird, introverted son. Well, their plane crash when I was ten hastened their demise and ended any chance for parental revelation. My tolerant relatives passed me around but no one knew what to do with the freaky bad seed. When my hormones hit, I tried experiencing what I imagined life to be via frequent sexcapades. Ingesting interesting concoctions or dancing strung-out and naked around Picadilly Circus soothed my soul. Imagine, the authorities frowned on my life-affirming stunts. Wicked spoilsports.

Mmm, this particular bottle of wine tasted more seductive than usual. Ouch, when I set the glass down on the table, my completely numb fingers spasmed hard against the smooth glass. Nothing to feel alarmed about, right?

No, I didn’t want to enter rehab again. I didn’t want to talk to endless, bland-faced morons with lofty initials messily trailing after their stilted names. Those assholes knew nothing about life, ha, all they understood was control and self-denial. Well fuck it deep into the dirt, I wouldn’t be denied.

The burning pain in my chest advanced and determinedly launched. Fresh pain blossomed into my right arm. Of course I never felt my previous attack; someone felt too wrecked to understand what happened in his gasping-for-life body.

Shit. More wine always helped, right? I reached for my glass. My helpless fingers twitched against the cool surface and sent salvation flooding across the wooden table. I glared at the liquid sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. I gasped in abrupt, excruciating agony. Fuck, what happened in my chest, why did it hurt so damned fucking bad, anddd…ahhhh…wait, shouldn’t I feel happy at this event, I wanted this event to happen so much but it hurt like denied love, it ahh, noo, it huurth, ahh, burned, burned, burrrnnnned…

Searing glints speared into my eyes, blinded me, wiped away the unsympathetic world, the sky, the sun…I…I…

*

What the hell?

I quickly blinked into the final magenta-kissed sunset and wondered what happened to me. Wow. How odd, I felt completely fine. No pain, no depression, no nothing negative, well, okay, whatever, bothered my mind or body. Why did I feel healthy?

Instead of moving I sat and monitored my body. My mind told me I felt better than I had in, admit it, years. Somehow I sensed before now I never felt this contented. What happened to me? My confused stare traveled over my long torso, yeah, my body looked the same: lean, smooth and pampered. I loved how my sleek flesh hid the festering soul rot merrily eating away at me. This wealthy boy did not accept a collapsed junkie body.

The sun dipped down until dark golden light filled the world, the glow surging burnished and bold against low purple clouds until it vanished. Dazzling. The sight humbled me. Wine, yes, I poured out a mouthful and sipped. It tasted sublime.

What? Did I hear singing? The somehow confident sound soared up from the cliff edge and drifted into my hearing. I sat up in my throne and angrily shook my head. All right, I didn’t fancy someone trespassing on my private island. I rose from my chair and almost staggered; whee, I hadn’t moved so fast in ages. My bare feet guided me to the cliff’s edge, then I peered down. Suddenly trespassing didn’t sound so bad, no, not when the trespasser looked like a lusty prototype for a Greek god.

I stared in total admiration. Although the light waned, my eyes focused without hesitation.

A tall, black-haired man, his lean hips lovingly encased in a tight, cherry red swimsuit, strolled along the surf’s muttering edge. He cheerfully released a rollicking song into the sultry air. The brash tune sounded like something echoing from Greek pirate ship. Who was he? Well hell, no one halted me from asking, right? I waved my right arm and called down. “Haaalllo!”

My muscular songbird halted and peered up at me. He anxiously waved back.

My next words sounded perfectly logical. “Care to come up for a visit?”

White teeth, so bright against his tanned flesh, appeared in a dazzling grin, then the man waved again and walked toward the steep flight of narrow stone steps leading toward me. I walked to where the stairs met the cliff’s eroded top and almost fell on my Speedo-clad ass. How did the man ascend the stairs so quickly? My singer’s haste didn’t upset me since now my searching eyes confirmed what I thought, whoa, the man was an utter prize. If I viewed this enticing physical specimen in a London club, I would have walked right up, dropped to my knees, and declared my undying lust for him. My singer defined cliché: tall, dark and handsome in the masculine flesh. Firm, proud pecs jutted toward me below broad shoulders caressed by tousled hair. His piercing dark eyes, fuck, passionate eyes that saw everything and understood the world, tenderly gazed at me.

A man who understood life stood before me. His intensely knowing eyes told me the truth. This man had experienced something equal to my own sorrow but he somehow had defeated the damage. I instantly wanted to know how.

My inner slut also wanted his cock rammed deep inside me. No question about the act. I wanted this man. I needed this man.

We stared at each other until the man inclined his heroic head toward me and offered me a riveting smile. “You must be the new owner.”

“Yeah, that I am. Stewart Barlow.” As I held out my hand in greeting, I left off my 17
^th
Earl of Portentous Puff and Stuff identity. The high-and-mighty bit always sounded so bloody egotistical. Yeah, fat lot of good the creaky old family title did me, right?

My hand slid into a firm, callused grip and let it be squeezed in greeting. “Athan Nikephoros at your service.” His divinely rich gaze traveled past my shoulder and examined the villa tucked against the ancient olive grove. “So I finally see the old place. It truly is beautiful.”