Authors: Karen E. Taylor
Hunger (2 page)
“No, I suppose not,” I admitted to him. Sometimes, I felt that Max knew my needs better than I did. “So, what do you have lined up for tonight?”
“A tasty little number that I think you will enjoy immensely. I'll bring him over and introduce him now.” With a graceful ease, he rose from the table, hugged me briefly and left. I watched him work his way through the crowd, speaking to several people on the way. Max was a lot like me; he too had many acquaintances but very few friends.
I drank my wine while I waited for his return. The wait seemed long, but in reality was only a few minutes. He soon arrived, bearing two glasses of wine, followed by my partner for the evening.
“Deirdre Griffin, meet Bill Andrews.” Max never showed any jealousy of the men he introduced to me. They were carefully screened by him, he knew all about their careers, their habits, their personal lives. I knew that he had spent hours behind the bar questioning this man, delicately prying into his life. He was most likely married, or engaged, but looking for one night of excitement. Max and I both knew that no commitments would be formed; the way he set everything up ensured it. And I wanted it that way.
I smiled up at Bill. “It's nice to meet you,” I purred, playing my part to the hilt. “Max has told me so much about you.”
“And he told me about you, but he should have warned me how beautiful you were. I might just fall in love.” The words were insincere, I knew; I had heard them all before, too many times. Suddenly I was overwhelmingly tired, sick of the entire situation, the seedy little drama acted out weekly here in the Ballroom of Romance.
“Deirdre?” Max was glaring down at me, an expression of warning on his face. “Are you feeling okay?”
I looked at the two of them standing there expectantly and suppressed my unexpected emotional reaction. “I'm fine, thank you, Max.” I smiled at Bill and gestured to the chair recently vacated by Max. “Please, sit down.”
As Bill did so, Max politely excused himself with a twisted smile. “Well, I've got a business to run. Enjoy yourselves.”
Now that we were alone, I had no other option but to proceed as I normally would. I looked over at Bill and smiled again, hoping that my sudden disgust hadn't been too obvious. This was my life now and I could never turn back. It is too late, I admonished myself, for an attack of conscience. Too late to worry about how this evening would affect his life, his family. Too late for anything but this.
He returned my smile and I realized what a good choice Max had made for this evening; he certainly knew my taste in men. Youthful and attractive, but not devastatingly so, Bill Andrews was pleasant, unassuming and waiting for me to make the first move. I usually preferred being the predator, but tonight, for some reason beyond my understanding, I had no taste for the hunt. Maybe Max was right; I was losing my touch. I reached for another cigarette and as he lit it for me, I saw his wedding band gleam in the flame. In that instant, my heart hardened and I abandoned my rueful thoughts. He was just another bastard looking for some action. And, I thought vehemently as I gave him an appraising stare, he would get some.
He cleared his throat and pulled at his tie; my silence had unnerved him. Seeking to repair the damage, I smiled my most inviting smile and gestured towards the dance floor. “Let's have another glass of wine before we join the crowd. I hate to dance sober, don't you?” He agreed with a laugh that relaxed us both. We began to engage in the typical small talk that leads to seduction, my flattering attention to the talk of his career, his compliments on my appearance and body. By the time we finished our wine, we had moved closer together, our knees making contact under the table. His hand brushed my thigh and remained there; I could feel the heat of his touch through the leather. “Time to dance,” I said provocatively, took his hand and led him to the dance floor.
Making an effort to seem slightly drunk as we began to dance, I leaned against him and he held me tightly and possessively. I made no effort to pull back from him. This was what I wanted now; it was no longer just acceptance of the inevitable. I had become intoxicated, not with the wine, but with the flesh of this man. I put my head on his shoulder so that I could better savor his aroma, the cologne he wore, the muskiness of perspiration, the acrid smell of wine on his breath. I could feel his heart pounding next to my breast, the rhythm matching my own heart and the music. As he became more aroused he whispered in my ear, “Sweet, oh, sweet.” He kept repeating it like a prayer to a goddess. His hands were caressing my back and I was trembling with the urgency of my own need.
“Come with me,” I said, and he followed obediently.
The corridor outside the bar had a few secluded rooms known only to those intimately familiar with the place. I led Bill to one of these places; a lounge, seldom used, with a sturdy lock on the door and a comfortable oversized couch. The music from the band could be heard softly in the background and the bar was equipped with the burgundy I liked. I poured two glasses while he removed his jacket and loosened his tie. Sitting next to him on the sofa, I handed him his wine. He drained it in one gulp, then seemed embarrassed, so I followed suit. This was always the most awkward time, reestablishing the ardor that had developed on the dance floor. Bill was no different than the others; he seemed nervous, unsure of how to proceed.
“You know,” he said, hesitating and staring at the floor, “I've never really gone in for this type of thing before. I mean, I know it's a line, but I've been a faithful husband for over five years . . .” His voice trailed away.
No, I will not lose him now, I raged inside and I cupped his face in my hands. “Bill, look at me,” I ordered, and he snapped his head up, surprised at the tone of my voice. “We will not do anything here tonight that will affect your future life. I don't want your tomorrows, I just want you tonight.” Our eyes made contact, and when I saw that his guilt and confusion were beginning to fade, I made my move.
“Relax,” I smiled seductively, “just relax a little. I can give you an evening you'll never forget. You won't regret it, I promise.” Passion began to flare again, in his eyes and in his body.
“Kiss me,” I whispered, not wanting to lose the moment. He turned to me abruptly, almost violently, as if he needed the momentum to carry him past his doubts. His mouth was hot on mine, evidence of a desire almost as deep as my own. He kissed my eyelids, my ears and my neck, all the while sliding my blouse over my shoulders. I helped him out of his shirt and tie and soon we lay, naked from the waist up on the couch. He made a move to take off his trousers, but I stopped him.
“Let's take it slow,” I suggested.
Lazily I caressed his shoulders and back, feeling the tensing of his muscles; his skin burned beneath my cool hands. His hands busied themselves with the unfastening of my leather jeans. I permitted this and welcomed first his hand and then his kisses in the soft curve of my stomach. He began to move back up my body, concentrating on one breast and then the other, until he again returned to my mouth.
After the kiss, I buried my face in his neck. Now, I thought as I heard the blood pulse in his veins, Oh, please, now.
I nipped him at first, savoring the moment, my low moans echoed by his. Then when my teeth grew longer and sharper, I could hold back no longer. I bit him brutally, tapping the artery and was rewarded by the flow of his blood: hot, salty and bitter. He shuddered violently and fought to push me away, but his resistance was futile. Finally his struggles ceased and his body grew limp as I continued to draw on him, gently now, almost tenderly. I drank a long time, slowly, relishing the feel of my own body being replenished, then I withdrew.
Arising from the couch, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. No longer pale and haggard, my skin glowed with life and my eyes shone, victorious and demonic. A few drops of blood were trickling down my chin; I wiped them away with the back of my hand and turned from my reflection in disgust.
Chapter 2
I
knew that I had taken more blood from Bill Andrews than usual. He lay unconscious and pale. Dear God, I thought in horror, I've taken too much. He'll die. I frantically felt for his pulse, and was relieved when I found it, faint but steady. He would be weak for a few days and bear a small bruise, but he would live.
knew that I had taken more blood from Bill Andrews than usual. He lay unconscious and pale. Dear God, I thought in horror, I've taken too much. He'll die. I frantically felt for his pulse, and was relieved when I found it, faint but steady. He would be weak for a few days and bear a small bruise, but he would live.
I lifted him from the couch and put his shirt back on. He was not a small man, but I am much stronger than an ordinary person, especially after feeding. I dressed myself, walked to the bar for a glass of wine and lit a cigarette.
I watched him as I smoked, waiting for a sign of his awakening. Eventually his eyelids fluttered and he looked at me, puzzled and still slightly dazed. I discovered some time ago, that people in his state were highly suggestible and, whenever possible, I used this to my advantage. I again cupped his face in my hands and made eye contact. “You don't know me,” I said softly and insistently. “You had too much to drink, found this room and passed out.” He nodded vacantly and I knew the suggestion would work. “You will sleep for a while, then be awake and alert when you hear a knock at the door.” His eyes slowly closed and he began to snore.
I went to the door and opened it. The noise from the bar was subdued and checking my watch I discovered that it was past closing hour. I could hear the faint clash of glasses and knew that the staff was hurriedly clearing tables so they could get home early. Bill should make his exit soon, I decided and knocked upon the door.
“Mr. Andrews?” I queried.
“Yes, that's me.” He sat up and looked around. Seeing me, he smiled weakly and with no recognition in his eyes. “Sorry, I must have passed out here,” he said sheepishly.
“No problem,” I countered. “Max asked me to find youâwe're closing now. There will be cabs waiting outside if you want one.”
“Thank you, I will.” He collected his tie and jacket, checked for his wallet and with a final vague smile, walked slowly down the hallway to the exit. I heard Larry say goodnight to him then waited until I heard the cab drive away. I collected my coat and left through a side door.
I did not need to take a cab. The cold was exhilarating and I was so full of stolen life that I wanted to walk and run and dance in the darkened streets. The night was my element. I, of all people in the city, could walk in its beauty without fear.
Â
The next afternoon I ventured into the streets again, this time with more risk. The exposure of my flesh for just a few seconds to the sun would result in a severe burn and extreme sickness. It had happened a few times and was not an experience I cared to repeat. Still, the day was overcast and I had been rejuvenated through the feeding of last evening, and so, armed with sunglasses, gloves and a large hat to shield my face, I was relatively safe. Perversely, I enjoyed taking the risk, merely for the human feel of walking in the daylight.
As I walked I noticed that the store windows had been decorated for Christmas and I felt a wave of sadness at the season's too sudden approach. The trappings of today seemed so garish compared to those of my youth: the softly glowing candles, the handmade decorations and the warm red fire, all against a backdrop of pure white snow. There was always snow, and ebony night skies, so beautiful and icy that they could make you laugh for joy. Now all was neon and glittering, even nativity scenes seemed gaudy, embellished with flashing lights. Christmas was, for me, a dismal time made bitter by memories, parents long dead, friends aged or aging, and others, more dear, irretrievably lost. A tear slowly snaked its way down my cheek and I brushed it away impatiently; it would be blood-tinged, I knew, and would stand out angrily on my face. With the practice of all too many years, I pushed my emotions aside, replaced them with considerations of here and now.
The walk to the office was short, only five city blocks. I entered the building, showed my I.D. and signed in. Once on the elevator, I removed my gloves, hat and sunglasses; any light that would reach me now would be artificial, and my lenses were more than adequate protection. The elevator jolted to a stop on the 29th floor and opened to the glass doors of our reception area. Griffin Designs had exclusive use of the top two floors.
Gwen was talking to the receptionist as I walked in. She smiled a warm welcome, but the other woman jumped guiltily, murmured a good afternoon and immersed herself in some work behind her massive marble desk. This desk was my favorite piece of furniture, supported as it was with two large onyx statues of griffins, but it was really too decorative for my personal use, so it stood here, to impress our customers. I laughed inwardly at myself; I was no different from the doormen of the world, I just made more money.
Gwen began filling me in on the details of yesterday and today as we walked together to my office. “The pattern makers have been working all day and have some preliminaries for you to see. The fabric suppliers have been contacted and I expect the swatches by courier almost immediately. The models have been called and will be here next Friday for their fittings, and the seamstresses will report on Monday for their twelve hour shifts. I promised the usual bonuses, okay?” She glanced at me for my approval.
“It's nice to see you too, Gwen, only slow down a bit please,” I laughed. “Give me a chance to catch my breath.”
“Sorry, Deirdre, but I just get so involved.” She shrugged. “Coffee?” Knowing my answer, she filled a cup and handed it to me.
“Thanks, Gwen. Let me have ten minutes to settle in, then we can start.” I walked into my office, but left the door slightly ajar. Sitting down at my desk with a happy sigh, I warmed my hands on the mug of steaming coffee. It felt good to be back here again, to be among people for reasons other than those which usually drew me to them. I lifted my briefcase to the top of the desk and began to unload its meager contents; a newspaper, a sheaf of notes, and the phone answering tape I had not found the time or inclination to review. Any important calls would have come in to the office; the calls on the tape were most likely from Gwen. She often used the machine for leaving notes on items she might otherwise forget, knowing that she would ultimately be the one to review them. The other calls would be from Max. I smiled to myself; Gwen had once confessed to me that she thought that he and I had one of the most romantic relationships. She would be horrified to discover the truth of itâthat Max was practically a pimp and my payment was in blood, not money. Unaware of this darker side, however, she seemed to get a vicarious pleasure in hearing his voice on the phone. I pushed the tape over to one side.
The newspaper was tempting, but I didn't succumb. Later, after working out a thousand details: fabric, color, and accessory selection, work schedules and pricing, after the office had emptied of all personnel, I would curl up and read it all, not missing one item or advertisement, saving the crossword puzzle until last. Setting the newspaper down, I turned my attention to the summer line.
Fashion is a risky business; keeping a reputation and clientele in today's variable climate is difficult. I had established Griffin Designs at a time when all others were showing tailored suits and dresses, and took a chance on more feminine clothes. It had paid off; my first show, consisting entirely of evening clothes, gowns with bustle detailing, low necklines and billowing skirts with yards of elegant, old-fashioned fabrics, received rave reviews from most of the fashion critics. I had one particular article, written at that time, framed and hanging on the wall of my office; the headline readâ“Deirdre Griffin Shares Her Secrets of the Night.” I think I kept it there as a reminder of my true nature, lest I get too involved in the little human world I had created for myself. Too soon, it would be ended; I had perhaps another year, maybe two before it was noticed that I hadn't changed, hadn't aged a year since my debut as a “young” designer. Then I would have to create yet another identity, pursue some other career to fill my time. How many more lives, I wondered; how many more years?
Gwen charged in, bearing a fresh pot of coffee and three pages of notes accumulated during my absence from the office. The names of clients who were patiently waiting for my personal attention to their wardrobe problems and fittings, and others who were not so patient and would have to be cajoled and flattered, all were listed and prioritized for my consideration. Gwen had, for all her faults, an organized mind and a great business sense; I trusted many of the more important details of Griffin Designs to her judgement. Some others in the office might complain of her incessant chatter, and her dressing in bargain basement chic; I knew, however, that I could leave the office in her care for a month, and still have a viable business when I returned. I liked her talkâit filled my silence; I admired her for her unconventional approach to fashion. She was the closest I had come to having a girl friend since my school days.
We spent the next four hours struggling over sketches and schedules, setting up appointments for the next week, and arranging the final details for our show in two weeks. Although I had established my business on evening attire, we had branched out over the years into office and casual clothes. The options for materials and accessories seemed limitless, but we finally reached the end of the list. We paused at last and became aware of the eerie quiet surrounding us; we had been so engrossed that we had not noticed the gradual cessation of noise from without. Gwen jumped and glanced at her watch. “Oh, no,” she wailed. “I'm so late and Nick will be worried. Can we finish tomorrow?”
I nodded. “We were almost through for this evening anyway. I'll be in early. Have a good time.”
“Thanks,” she said, running out. “See you then.” I heard the ladies room door squeak once, then twice; she had made a hurried check on hair and makeup before meeting her fiance. She and Nick were only recently engaged and were planning to be married in May. I had talked her into a late evening ceremony, on the pretense that it would be more elegant, so that I could attend. Although I didn't care much for Nick, I envied her that May wedding. The elevator bell rang, and the doors thumped shut as she descended to meet a future I could never have.
I stretched and rose from the desk to make a tour of the office. I switched off all the lights on my way to lock the front door, except for the reading lamp on my desk. I would read the paper and then go to bed. I was tired suddenly; the elated feeling of last night was gone. Ordinarily, I needed to feed only once a week, but after a month's abstinence, I would have to do so four or five times over the next few weeks to regain my full strength. Tomorrow was Saturday and a good night at the BallroomâI would feed again.
Pouring myself the last of the coffee, now lukewarm and grainy, I sat back down. I read the paper from back to front, pausing in the middle to glance at the first few crossword clues, to peruse the fashion pages, then on to the real news of the front section. It held no interest for me this evening, until, while reaching into my desk for a sharpened pencil, a headline caught my eye. “Local Attorney Found Dead.” The picture looked familiar, although for a moment I couldn't place it, then I read on.
“William W. Andrews was discovered lying dead on his apartment house steps early Friday morning . . .”
The pencil snapped, driving slivers of wood and lead deep into my palm. Beads of blood, so preciously bought, dropped onto the paper, almost obscuring the words. I wiped them off gently so that I could continue to read.
“. . . police have declined comment on the case, only saying that it is currently under investigation. Inside sources have indicated that foul play is suspected . . .”
I clenched my fist, ignoring the pain in my hand. “No,” I said, then louder still, “No!” until my voice reverberated in the empty building. It should not have happened; I've had many victims, but, to my knowledge, never been the deliberate cause of their death. I can't believe it, I thought. There must be some mistake! But the picture and the name were his. I looked back at the article; no further details, other than funeral arrangements, were supplied.
I got up and paced the office, pulling the small shards of pencil out of my palm and grinding them into the carpet. My mind replayed the events of last night, searching for any blame I might hold in this death.
I had fed on so many over the years; if pressed I could not even give an accurate count. So much blood stolen through the passing years, so many bodies to sate my appetite. But none of them had suffered any lasting effects from my presence. Some may have had odd dreams or nightmares, some may have been unaccountably repulsed, or even strangely attracted, by a woman of my height and build. Perhaps they suffered headaches or dizziness for days afterwards. But when my victims were left alive, they stayed alive.
Like all the others, Bill Andrews was alive; he got up and walked out of the club unaided. He should not have died, and it did not have to be my fault. He could have been robbed and shot, or had a heart attack; there are so many ways that people can die. He was alive when he left, I insisted again, and there was no way that I could be connected to him or his death. I wanted desperately to talk to someone, and considered calling Max. But gradually the initial shock began to wear away and I decided that it could wait. I was just too tired.
When our offices had been constructed, a small living and sleeping area had been included. The entrance to these rooms was hidden behind draperies hanging in the rear of my office. This area was the only place I ever felt completely secure; no one knew of its existence. I would sleep there tonight.
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