Crave (5 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Crave
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Chapter 6
T
he three of us entered Max's office, escorted by Fred, who sounded almost apologetic when he opened the door. “I hope you don't mind, Deirdre,” he said, giving me a sidelong glance, “Victor thought it was time for a change in here. After you left town, he called me back to manage the place again. And my first job was to clear everything out of here, then redecorate the room. What do you think?”
Larry moved in quickly and settled in on one of the sofas; Mitch gave him a sharp hateful glare, then went to the bar and began to open a bottle of wine. I stood in the doorway, looking around me, a smile beginning to etch itself upon my face. Suddenly, Max's office wasn't Max's office anymore. It had been totally redone since the last time I'd seen it, over two months ago.
All traces of what had been here before were erased. Gone was the dark, brooding atmosphere that had been so prevalent; now everything was airy, light, and feminine, almost too feminine. The windows were covered with heavy beige tapestry curtains, patterns of gold, mauve, and pale green woven throughout, the carpet was a pale, plush ivory. The sofas were covered in a print damask to match the curtains; the chairs and desk were Queen Anne styling. Even the bar had been replaced, with a delicate-looking wicker one and the stools had been covered with fabric that matched the sofas. I was delighted, not so much by the decor, but by the fact that finally something had changed. The very thought that this office, a place that had remained static for close to ten years, was now a different place, no longer haunted by ghosts of the past, lightened my spirits.
When I started to laugh, Fred stated defensively, “Well, if you don't like it, we can have it changed, you know.”
“I am not laughing about that, Fred. It's lovely, really.” Knowing that I could not explain my sudden levity, I searched for an excuse. “I, well, I was just trying to visualize you with the decorator, choosing fabric swatches.”
I was surprised to see him blush. “You thought that I did this, myself. No, actually Vivienne made all the arrangements.”
“Oh,” Mitch said, his voice filled with amusement, his eyes catching mine, “Vivienne.”
Larry caught the look exchanged between Mitch and me, and gave a little snort. Mitch glared at him and the room suddenly seemed filled with tension.
No fool, Fred edged away to the door. “If there's nothing else, I'll leave the three of you alone. You want I should lock the door?”
“Yeah, do that.” Mitch came around the bar with a glass of wine for me and Larry, then, as the door closed and the latch clicked shut, went back for his drink, a scotch on the rocks. I wondered if Larry would recognize this as a sign of Mitch's bad temper, but with the icy blue stare directed at him, I realized that for Larry the clue was probably not necessary.
“So,” Mitch sat down on one of the side chairs, and I sat down on the sofa facing Larry, “Deirdre says you have a story to tell us, something that might just keep me from killing you right here, right now. It'd better be good.”
Larry gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye, then looked over at me. I could almost tell what he was thinking: Mitch might be the judge, the one to pass sentence, but I was the jury. So he presented his case to me, completely ignoring Mitch. “You were right, you know.”
“I? What was I right about, Larry?”
He gave a sigh. “That this life is not a gift, but a curse. That no one in their right mind would seek out this life.” He shifted a bit uneasily on the sofa. “But then again, I was not completely sane at that time. I am now, you have to believe that, Deirdre.”
I said nothing, but nodded. He certainly spoke with clarity, and his voice seemed calm, untroubled. But the glint of his eyes worried me. I could feel Mitch's body tense, heard ice clink as he took a drink, saw his stare fasten on Larry over the rim of his glass. “Go on, Larry,” I urged softly.
“Looking back on it all, I think the worst part was waking up in the morgue.” He drained his wine and looked down at the glass in confusion, as if wondering what it was doing in his hand. Then he shuddered and paused for a bit. When he finally continued, his voice was low and shaky. “Or maybe that was just the start of the nightmare . . . I probably don't need to tell you, Deirdre,” and he began rolling the wineglass back and forth in his hands, “about the utter confusion of the senses I experienced when I woke up. The entire world I thought I'd known had changed: the sights, the smells, even the textures were all different—they were sharp and hurt me, physically. It was like I was a baby, who'd fought his way from the womb and burst screaming into his new environment. But not a baby, because I was born fully aware and functional. I knew instantly where I was and what I'd become. There was the coolness of the slab beneath my cold skin, the coarse weave of the sheet thrown over my body, the odors of death and disinfectant all around.”
I grew increasingly fascinated with his account, his voice was emotionless, almost a drone now, and he was still rolling the bowl of the wineglass over and over between his palms.
“When I sat up, the sheet fell from my face. The bodies around me stunk of decay, and the lights stung my eyes. I glanced down at my chest and saw only a fading scar from where Mitch's bullet had exited. There was no sign of my skin having been cut open, so I assumed they had not gotten around to my autopsy yet.” Larry stopped for a minute, looked away from his hands and into my eyes. “Would that have killed me, do you think?”
I answered him truthfully, “I have no idea.”
Mitch's response was a short grunt, then he got up from the chair and refilled his glass at the bar. He lifted the bottle of wine and raised an eyebrow to me, but I shook my head. I did not want anything to break Larry's concentration.
I shouldn't have worried, he was too submersed in his past to let himself be distracted. The words flowed from him as if breaking down a dam. And perhaps they were; I remembered the utter loneliness of my earlier days. It would have been a joy and a release to have others of my kind to talk to.
“Well,” Larry gave a small, mirthless grin, “I sure as hell didn't stay around long enough to find out. I found an extra set of lab whites in one of the open lockers, dressed myself and just walked out.” His grin turned into a choked, almost furtive laugh. “I wondered how they'd explain the missing body. But, hell, from the looks of the place, they had so many of them and I figured that one less probably wouldn't be noticed for a long time. And they certainly wouldn't expect the corpse to be walking around.”
Mitch settled back into his chair. “It was chalked up to paperwork error,” he said curtly, “happens all the time.”
“Oh, that's good then. No APB out on me.”
“Well,” Mitch gave him a grim look, “not per se.”
Larry shrugged. “It hardly matters anyway. Now where was I?”
“Leaving the morgue.”
Larry gave Mitch one last glance, then concentrated his efforts on me once again. “When I got out onto the street, into the night, it was like something exploded in my head, turning me completely inside out. The way the air smelled, the way the people smelled of blood and flesh and perfume . . .” He put his head back for a minute, resting it on the couch and sighed deeply, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Oh, now that part's probably worth everything else. You know, the way the city seems to touch your skin, the way the night seeps into you, filling you, completing you.”
When Larry lifted his head, he looked first at me and then at Mitch; the air grew electric between the three of us. We were, for the first time since our lives intersected, in perfect concordance. “But I guess,” he said with a shaky, passionate laugh, “I don't need to explain that to you, do I? You both know it as well as I do.” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, the wineglass still carefully grasped between his palms. “I walked the streets that first night, not caring where or even what I was. Just enjoying the feeling of being alive again, you know, being aware. I was so wrapped up in my senses I forgot about sunrise; so involved with the strength and immortality of my new body I almost blew it.” His mouth twisted into a smile, mocking his newborn naiveté.
“Too bad you didn't.” Mitch's harsh whisper carried clearly through the room.
But Larry either didn't hear Mitch's statement or chose to ignore it. “Fortunately I was near a subway stop when the sun came up. I ran down the steps and hid out the day there, far enough into the tunnel so that I would be safe. I curled into a ball with my back to the entrance and slept. When I awoke at sunset, the whole process began again: the sensory barrage, the fascination with the strength of my body, the scent of the night, but this time there was something else, a closer, more intimate sensation. I realized suddenly that a pair of arms were wrapped around me, that a warm, human body was pressed into my back. I pried the arms from me and rolled over.
“It was an old woman, a street dweller by the looks of her. She was dirty, smelly, her clothes were ragged and filthy; by her head was a large bag, stuffed with more rags, odds and ends that she must have valued. As I looked closer I realized that she was not so much old as used up, her face was dirt-streaked, but unwrinkled and her hair had only a little bit of gray mixed into the greasy brown. Her mouth was hanging open, she was snoring softly, and her breath stunk of alcohol. I figured she must have stumbled into the tunnel some time during the day, seen me and passed out beside me, taking comfort from the only sort of human contact she could have. Or,” his eyes acquired a manic gleam, and he shrugged, grinning, “maybe she had the hots for my body. Who knows? Anyway, I reached over and shook her. She mumbled in her sleep, put an arm up around my neck and pulled my mouth down to hers.
“And then,” Larry's voice began to shake, and I shuddered, “then, the hunger struck me. At first I thought it was a sexual thing, you know, her mouth was working on me, kissing me and I got hard, real hard. I started to undress her, strip her down through the many layers of dirty rags. By the time she was completely naked, she was half-awake, her eyes were open and she gave me a sort of sleepy smile. Her skin was almost clean where it'd been covered, and most of the bad odors had been removed, tossed away with her clothes. And I wanted her, or something, so very bad I couldn't control myself. Didn't care about anything but fulfilling the desire that was overcoming me with each moment.”
Larry got up from the couch so quickly that I jumped, startled. I heard Mitch's soft intake of breath and watched Larry cross the room, pull aside the drapes and look out into the city night. He remained facing the window as he continued to tell his story. “So I screwed her, right there in the subway tunnel. Over and over again, I pounded into her. She enjoyed it at first, I think, she made all the right noises, but when I wouldn't stop—I couldn't stop, there was no satisfaction, no climax, just an uncontrollable hunger, an uncontrollable lust—she tried to push me away from her. She was whimpering softly and crying, and
she
tried to push
me
away from her.” The pitch of Larry's voice rose, the tone was indignant, arrogant. “I think I laughed then, knowing that she was mine, however I wanted to use her. ‘Can't take it, can you, bitch?' I said to her as I pulled her tightly to me again, still driving into her. And then,” Larry stopped for a long second and a low-pitched growling noise emerged from his throat. A noise so inhuman, yet so in tune with how I felt, the hair on my arms began to rise.
“And then, my mouth found her neck.”
He had still been holding the empty wineglass in his hands throughout the story. Now he brought his palms together, crushing the crystal, the tinkling of the shards was loud and compelling. More compelling was his deep intake of breath and the odor of blood that filled the room. I could remember the scent and even the taste of Larry's blood, but it seemed different now, tinged with an unfamiliar flavor. And I knew I was scenting, tasting the blood of the nameless woman in the subway, as easily as if the mouth on her neck was my own.
“And when her blood poured into my mouth, it was like every vein in my body exploded. I could feel the blood flowing through me, could tell that it was strengthening my body, my muscles, my bones. It was like a drug. No, it
is
a drug; I'd never been so high in my entire life. Never felt so alive or so vital. And the whole time that I sucked on her, I could taste her fear and her pain, feel her feeble attempts to pull away from me, from my mouth and my dick still thrust deep within her. And that only enhanced my enjoyment of the blood. The element of danger, the black chilled air of the tunnel, even her unwilling surrender spurred me on to continue to drink and drink and drink.”
Larry pulled in a long breath. “I drained her completely, still screwing her, drawing out her life. She was dead even before I had finished. And after I was through with her, I tossed her body onto the tracks. When they found her, she'd be just another homeless lush, passed out drunk and run over by a train. Any traces of me would be wiped out with the crushing of her body under the train.”
There was a long, unbroken silence.
Somewhere outside this office the band played and people danced and laughed and drank; somewhere outside these doors people led normal lives, unaffected by dark hungers and thirsts and the desire for death. I realized then that the newly decorated office was a mockery and a sham. It made no difference. It was still Max's office, would always be. And the three creatures who occupied the room were just a continuation of his dark legacy.

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