Sips of Blood Part 19

"No, Doctor." Besides, she expected someone else to pay.

Chapter 32.

Sade wistfully watched Cecelia collect a bouquet of flowers.

"You would make a wonderful Justine," he muttered, not expecting to be heard.

But the girl had sharp ears, like most servants.

"Shakespeare's Romeo and Justine," she excitedly said.

"Romeo and Juliette, ma chere."

Her cheeks flushed, and she almost dropped the bouquet.

"How embarra.s.sing! I read Romeo and Juliette in school; I'm really familiar with that. I don't know why I made such a mistake." She thought for a moment. "Maybe it's because I've never heard of Justine."

"Ma chere, I believe that I, too misspoke. I know of no Justine either. I must have been thinking of one of Bronte's characters."

"Jane Eyre?"

"That is it, ma chere."

"I'd rather be Juliette. Willing to die for the one she loves. Willing to give completely of herself." Coyly she looked over her shoulder at Sade.

Sade envisioned her soft high rump over the Eton bench.

"We should read some of the French cla.s.sics together, ma pet.i.te enfant."

"I would love to," said Cecelia, turning to face Sade. "Only Mother would be angry if she found us reading instead of my doing the ch.o.r.es. Unless..."

"Oui?"

"I have dance cla.s.s three nights a week. Usually my girlfriend drives us there and back. If you would happen to show up at school before cla.s.s began, perhaps I could skip at least one cla.s.s."

"And what would you tell your friend?"

"Make something up. You're an uncle. h.e.l.l, I wouldn't have to make up a story. My friend would never rat on me."

"What does your friend know of me?"

"Nothing right now."

"Good." Sade stood and stretched. He had built up quite a muscle in his left arm after favoring Garrett with his attention. "This day is magnifique and you are une belle femme." Sade had an itch but didn't know how to scratch it. Young girls had always been trouble. Such sweet, tender trouble, he thought looking at Cecelia. The poor child looked disappointed. You couldn't be any more disappointed than I. Sade never could resist temptation. "Your mother has a very busy schedule during the day. I mean between her work ici and taking care of her family."

Cecelia, not a simple girl, smiled.

"Yes, often I find myself at home alone."

"It gives you great freedom, ma chere."

"Except that I don't have my own car yet. I depend on friends to take me places."

"To what sort of places do you like to go?"

If she said the malls, Sade decided he would give her up.

"Beaches. There's a beautiful lake not far from here. Whippet Lake. Have you been there?"

"Mais non."

"Then you must go. I'd be willing to direct you."

"I am so poor at following directions."

"I mean I'd go with you. To make sure you got there."

"What if it should rain?" Sade hated sitting out in the sun for long periods of time. The sun sucked too much of his energy.

"No problem. There's an old cabin right on the lake. Been deserted for several years. We could always duck in there."

"The cabin must be a favorite, comment dit-on ca... hang-out for you and your friends."

"Most of my friends hang around the mall. I've used the cabin by myself sometimes when I want to be alone, or my girlfriend and I have secret picnics there. We have a little hibachi set up."

"Roughing it, ma chere."

Cecelia laughed, and when she did her b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggled under the white cotton T-shirt. Her teeth were very white and straight, thanks most probably to a good orthodontist.

"So what do you think, Mr. Sade? Want to go sometime?"

"We could roast some of those Americain weenies."

"I prefer those fat hot Italian sausages."

"There are some good-sized French sausages, ma chere."

"But are they as hot as the Italian ones?"

"They can burn the tip of your..." Sade reached out his left hand and held his index finger in front of Cecelia's lips. She responded by sticking out her tongue. "Langue," he finished his sentence. The tip of his finger barely touched her tongue for a brief moment, and then he pulled his hand back.

"How about tomorrow?"

"You are eager to learn the French ways. That is tres bien. I like teaching eager students. Do you know where Belinda Road crosses the railroad tracks?"

"Sure."

"You think you could meet me there, ma chere?"

"I'll bicycle. Three o'clock?"

"Oui. Three o'clock."

"Will you bring something of your own?"

"Pardon?"

"Something you've written."

Her eyes shined with eagerness, and Sade thought of many writings he'd like to bring, but decided to be cautious.

"I'll have to look through my work and see if there is something that would interest a jeune fille like you."

"I'm sure I can learn something from anything you've written."

I am sure many people have, he thought.

"May I put this bouquet in your bedroom, Mr. Sade? Oh, I know your bedroom is off-limits. What I mean is I could put these flowers in a vase and leave it at the foot of your door."

Ah! Such a pupil, thought Sade.

"But, mon enfant, then you would have to pick a new bouquet for the dining table."

"I don't mind. Really!"

"Then merci, mademoiselle."

"Will these do? I could pick another bunch, if you'd like."

"You have been holding this bouquet for so long that they must have picked up some of your own fragrance, and tonight that would be une tres bonne memoire."

But hopefully not as lovely as la memoire of tomorrow.

Chapter 33.

Liliana had climbed Wil's childhood tree. The limbs were st.u.r.dy and healthy, and the view of the sunset eased her rampaging soul. A squirrel sat on a distant limb, obviously trying to decide whether he wanted to share his tree with a stranger. A branch of leaves gently brushed her cheek with each breeze, and the scent of nature lulled her into a semi-doze.

She had been eight years old when last she climbed a tree, and for that she had been reprimanded by her nanny. Unlady-like, she had been told. "I don't want my trees destroyed by a wayward child," bellowed her father. Her mother merely stifled a chuckle, while her brothers displayed some weird sense of bravado at having snitched on her.

Her nanny and her family were long gone. Unable to say good-bye to them, she still imagined them alive and waiting. Waiting by her grave for the minister to end his sermon. Her family believed in her death, and why not? To all appearances, for several days she was dead, until her uncle brought her coffin to his villa in Italy. There he fed her fresh blood from a toddler, a scrawny child of a poor family who thought they were selling the little boy into servitude to a wealthy family. Instead they had ensured his early death.

Many times she liked to think her family would all come together again. But her brothers had died in wars. Her mother died most probably from grief, having lost all her children. Father had simply withered away into a crippled old man without family and without his mind.

Leaves in the next tree shivered loudly when the squirrel also decided to abandon her. He scurried deep into the leaves, leaving behind his old home in favor of the safety of an undisputed tree. Liliana smiled and silently wished the little guy well and hoped he'd have a more peaceful life than she had known.

The gray shadows of night were bringing their bland coloring to the earth. The bright green of the gra.s.s dimmed. The colorful wreaths and bouquets of flowers dulled. The tombstones and mausoleums took on the eerie complexion of a haunted night.

Movement. Close near the fence. It was late for someone to be in the cemetery. Most mortals avoided the reminder of death at this hour.

Movement again. It seemed to be edging from the old part of the cemetery to the new. A scurry like a wary animal, except its size and shape seemed more like a human's.

There it was again. Rags dripped from a moving object. A human-sized object. Another smaller shape joined the first. Lingering shapes hesitated to join their scouts.

Liliana shimmied herself down to the ground and ran for the cemetery's gate. Ajar, the gate invited her curiosity inside. Not wanting to make a sound, she squeezed between the open gates. The gravel beneath her shoes crunched. She halted. No other sound and no other movement. But she was sure she had seen shapes moving about, and she was determined to find them.

Slowly she walked up the trail to the old section of the cemetery. Flashes of movement kept their distance from her. They were too quick to be caught. She began searching behind tombstones and trees, hoping to surprise a shade. She found nothing until...

A yellowed sc.r.a.p of muslin clung to the bark of an oak tree. Her hand shook as she reached out for it. She wanted to know about the mutants, but she didn't want to believe it was true. When she touched the material her fingers stung, but she refused to pull away. Gradually the sting faded and the material fell into the palm of her hand. Bits of flesh clung to one side of the muslin, and the other side appeared blood-stained.

Liliana brought the muslin to her nose. The odor of decay, of blood, of earth and age pervaded the threads. Upon tasting the material, she realized it did not come from anything living. Instead, soil freshly covered the entire patch, almost drowning out the flavors of flesh and blood.

Hunger spiked in her body. Blood hunger. Not thinking, she sucked the cloth until the metallic taste of blood ran across her tongue. Human blood. Blood of the dead.

She spat out the muslin and turned in the direction she thought the shapes had traveled in. They were crossing over into the new part of the cemetery, into the active section.

Guessing their course, Liliana cut through several swaths to again reach the main path. No one walked the path. Several yards away, beyond an ornate mausoleum, she thought she saw movement again. She travelled in that direction until a foul odor caused her to stop.

Fear throbbed inside her, a fear of seeing the mutants, of beholding the wretches that had been mere speculation and gossip among the immortals. Fear of seeing her own desires played out on this deathly stage. Her embalming work allowed her to brush near the dead without having to accept the culture to which she had been doomed.

Mentally setting aside the smells, she continued on to the far mausoleum. Beyond the mausoleum the land was generously landscaped with weeping willows. Most were healthy, but one tilted too much to one side. As she approached, she noted that some of the tree's roots were above ground. The tree seemingly readied to make a mad dash out of the cemetery. What had it seen? she wondered. Too much pain and hurt. Too many tears. Or unnatural scenes of grotesquerie.

Not far away she could hear the sound of animals digging. Following the sound, she came to a hilly mound. At the top of the mound she dropped to her knees. Before her were human forms digging, hands performing the work of claws. They worked quickly. And they worked as a pack on the freshly dug grave.

When they reached the coffin, each repeatedly slammed weighty stones against the lid until one of the pack howled. All the others stopped. The leader leaned over, and Liliana heard the sound of wood being ripped apart. Long dangling ribbons of drool hung from the spectators' mouths.

Finally a body rose out of the grave, but not on its own. No, the leader pa.s.sed the corpse to his brethren. The corpse seemed fresh, not more than a day old. Never embalmed, thought Liliana. Immediately interred. Still full of the blood that these creatures sought. A plump body of a woman, a middle-aged woman wrapped in a white shroud. The pack ripped the protective shroud from the corpse and went to work trying to extract as much of the body's blood as they could.

Liliana rose to her feet and slowly glided down to the scene of the feast. The leader spotted her and howled. Each in turn howled and made vicious hand movements in her direction, but never moved away from their meal. Gradually they returned to their sucking and munching, and only occasionally would a pair of wary and mindless eyes look at her. They all had the eyes of frightened animals. All were ugly, fangs grown disproportionately long, lips partially chewed. The faces were discolored and blotched with singes from the sun. Hair was matted with the decaying flesh of their prey, nails uneven and bent, fingers like stalks of wilted wheat. Most wore shredded rags, some hovered over the corpse naked.

"Can you understand me?" Liliana called out, praying no one would answer. She moved closer, but the frenzy had become such that they no longer took any notice of her. "My name is Liliana," she said, surprising herself with the calmness of her voice.

She had to stop. Her stomach roiled. Their breath seemed hideously foul and oppressive in the summer's night heat.