Vamprotica 2006 Part 13

Such as access to information about Donors. The vampires were expected to play by the rules, and the exchange of blood for pleasure ostensibly anonymous. The Host was not supposed to distinguish the Donor beyond the taste of their blood. It might as well come from a jar, according to the philosophy of the strictures placed on the stripped ritual by Duncan's "logic."

Which was ludicrous, of course. The rules were useless against the bond that inevitably took root between predator and prey. The vampire, in procuring some small part of the human's life, acquired all that came with it -memories, personality, emotions, knowledge-and tucked it away in some vast ma.s.s vampire consciousness, a well from which his kind could draw and feed back into the great circle of the hunt once more.

Vampires knew their humans. Anonymous? Impersonal? The ent.i.ties that comprised Personal Encounters (he always spat at the name in his mind, an old fashioned curse) liked to believe it. But his fringe benefits-the only benefits he derived from being Duncan's thrall-included not having to pretend too hard not to know his "Donors."

He received their names, copies of full portfolios with all their information and interview materials. Sometimes he had a few days to get to know them, others a month or more. A particularly interesting Donor could become a brief occupation, as he indulged the worst obsessive stereotypes of his kind. He followed them. Skulked in shadows and took little sips of their lives like a c.o.c.ktail before the main feast of the Encounter. One question spun in his mind as he watched each new client: Why?

What had brought them to the point where they were willing to undergo such a deeply personal invasion into their health, background, and lifestyle in order to purposefully make themselves vulnerable to a dangerous creature? Was there so little joy in modern human life that true feeling must always be spiced with the unknown or bodily peril in order to be fulfilling?

Not that such pursuits, or the people dedicated to them, were new. There had always been those mortals who sought the vampire's kiss-the forbidden thrill, the walk with death, the ecstatic high of the bite. Of course, in this modern era, adrenaline junkies were legion and relentless in their pursuit of ways to thwart their inescapable end. Drugs, extreme sports, war games, high-risk s.e.x, storm chasing...

But these Donors...most of them seemed like perfectly ordinary men and women with average homes and nice families, secure white-collar jobs and two cars in the driveway. Flat screen plasma TV's. Weekends with the kids. Summers at Disneyworld. High speed Internet. Private fitness trainers who made house calls or gym memberships to keep dying bodies fit.

So why did they enter into the darkness? What were they really attempting to experience besides a complimentary bottle of juice and written instructions on how to avoid anemia and keep the wound from getting infected?

He always wondered, but never asked. The invasions of their privacy in which he indulged remained his secret. He allowed them their comforts, their illusions. They were only mortal, after all.

When he obtained Winifred Mulligan's portfolio, he knew the time for restraint was coming to an end at last. Her photograph alone was enough to snap something delicate and tenuous inside him. She was a cla.s.sic fairytale beauty, with delicate, almost ethereal features and long, wavy hair the color of golden summer wheat. Her eyes were enormous, a blue so close to silver they seemed unreal in their frame of lush blonde lashes. Her mouth was a full, rich, light berry pink, the corners turned up as though a smile was its natural expression. In the photograph, she peered upward somewhat, as if Duncan had to ask her to look at the camera rather than shyly at the floor. And charming Winifred appeared to be blushing, as if caught doing something naughty.

For all the varied levels of shame and embarra.s.sment he had seen in his clients, or that they have claimed in their confessions to him, he was quite certain he had never seen one blush.

He was instantly enchanted, and his usual habit of stalking future clients simply to pa.s.s the time suddenly became something more-a clawing need that set a strange new edge to his hunger. He needed to know more about this woman.

His reaction to her wasn't based on some romantic notion, as if she was the reincarnation of some long lost love or such foolishness others of his kind reveled in to relieve their boredom. It was something more fundamental. Raw. Something deeper and more complicated than l.u.s.t or love at first sight. Something less fanciful than the notion of a soul mate, and yet...

The sensation of being drawn inexorably toward her was so strong it was almost frightening. For a moment, he was tempted to resist invading her life even from the shadows. To call and cancel the appointment or have Duncan rescind the offer of membership altogether-he couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching her.

On top of the growing hunger that drove him there, the storm that was the arrival of Winifred Mulligan into his existence was more than he could handle. He agreed to take a last minute client simply to reclaim some small modic.u.m of control.

A fix to take the edge off, though he knew full well it wouldn't be enough now.

He followed the d.a.m.ned Commandments to the letter for this Encounter. He didn't want to really see the client or know her name. He didn't bother modulating his hunter's senses, so when she entered, she barely registered as anything but a heart rhythm and the hot-sweet scent of excitement spicing her racing blood. He could smell marijuana and possibly tequila under the arousal. He should have ended the session right then, sent her away like he so desperately wanted to, but those particular rules were meant to protect him, and he was not interested in protection. He needed to feed.

He took her wrist-big-boned, thickly muscled, an outdoorswoman's arm. He bit into her like a ripe plum and she moaned deeply, sagging back against the couch as she poured into him. He tuned out the rush of her emotion, the images from her life, even the taste of her ecstasy, which he usually enjoyed. He imbibed the nourishment only, distracted himself from the voices in his head telling him this was wrong-wrong blood, wrong woman-by focusing on the drugs and alcohol in the Donor's system. He felt their effects for a moment, then filtered them out one by one and dissipated them before they could penetrate his tissues fully and alter his consciousness.

It was as clinical an exchange as anything Duncan could ever have imagined in her most s.a.d.i.s.tic dreams. The Donor thanked him a dozen times, lounging with her complementary bottle of juice afterward, never making eye contact like a good lap dog. He accepted her illicit, exorbitant tip and left without saying a single word to her.

He went directly from the club to Winifred Mulligan's apartment in the middle cla.s.s heart of the city-a sad little box tucked in tight among dozens of identical sad little boxes. But it was clear she had worked diligently to make her life's cubicle more cheerful and individual than the bland cookie cutter apartments of the neighbors, like a flower trying to bloom in the crack of a sidewalk. An explosion of plants burgeoned on her tiny cement patio. Wind chimes hung above an ornate French door that was obviously not original to the abode. He peered inside and his flawless night vision showed him that she decorated in bright, happy colors. Every surface was covered with books, the wall s.p.a.ce with paintings and photographs. The furniture and carpeting were economical, worn, but soft, obviously comfortable, and well loved. He smelled the lingering scents of her life-recently baked cookies, some floral bubble bath or soap, baby powder, potpourri.

A stranger's blood ran through his veins, but simply looking into Winifred's home was what nourished him.

He left without looking into her bedroom. He tried to tell himself that it was out of respect for her-to let her enjoy her final days unenc.u.mbered by him, because he was increasingly certain that once they touched, nothing would be the same for either of them ever again.

He fancied that thought, but it was nothing so n.o.ble. He was, very simply, afraid. Afraid of what her effect on him in person would be when only a photograph and a glance at the barest outward trappings of her life made him feel as though he'd been bulldozed. The thought undid him and all his careful control.

Why this woman? Why was she already so deeply in him when they'd never so much as occupied the same s.p.a.ce? He had never been a fool for romance, even when he was alive and playing the gallant southern gent. He courted proper ladies, even fell in love a few times, had a few sordid affairs with fallen women, but never became really entangled with one. Even Duncan, who altered his existence forever, was an outsider, a slave, not an intimate.

He decided to put Winifred out of his head until the Encounter. He would wait and see what happened when they were together at last. He would look at her, gauge her reaction to him, and know.

Soft, pale flesh scented with sunshine, and woman, and life. Eyes wide and flashing blue laughter. Lips like berry wine, salty sweet and breath mints. Would they be his to taste, to touch?

He didn't dare to hope, for hope was the only thing that could truly destroy his kind.

THE FUTURE APPROACHING.

She decided to plait her hair for the Encounter. Easy access to her neck, and she liked the sensation of the long, heavy braid dangling down her back like a rope. She could be Rapunzel, or maybe Lara Croft. She was, after all, about to become an adventurer for the first time.

Her outfit was simple and comfortable: a long dress in soft, midnight blue cotton, long sleeves and a scooped neck. A turtle neck sweater to cover up after, just in case there were marks. How did she never ask if there would be marks? Chills were a common side effect of the bite. She had read all the literature a dozen times-maybe a hundred. The pages lay torn and scattered on her night stand, some of the ink had even smudged. She knew the Commandments by heart and no longer questioned their wisdom or the meaning behind them. What was meant to be, would be. Que sera, sera and all that.

There should have been some fanfare upon her arrival, she thought as the cab stopped in front of the modern stone and gla.s.s building that housed Positive Encounters. There was something momentous about the evening, the culmination of so many weeks of effort and imagination. An erotic dream come true. Hadn't she always had a thing for s.e.xy vampire heroes-drooled over Lestat, panted over Gary Oldman's or Gerard Butler's Draculas, cried and sighed over Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Even so, who ever would have imagined that shy little Winnie would actually walk into a vampire's den and let him have his wicked way with her?

She looked up above the reception desk as she approached and saw an enlarged version of the Commandments hanging above the desk in an elaborate frame. Rules and regulations meant to rein in unruly hungers. Make naughty fantasies tame.

Okay, not so wicked, maybe. But still illicit, and that was pretty much the same thing. She still felt free, coming there.

The receptionist smiled as Winnie introduced herself. "I have a 7:00 uh..." she paused, searching for the right word. "Encounter."

The smile on the receptionist grew until it was almost eerie. "Oh, sure. Have a seat in the lounge, and Ms. Duncan will be right with you."

She turned, and the mysterious Ms. Duncan was already standing behind her, impa.s.sive and cool, unruffled by her guest's jumping half out of her new silk stockings.

"I'm glad you could make it," the membership coordinator purred in that preternaturally smooth voice. "Your Host is ready for you."

Ms. Duncan didn't cast a reflection in the receptionist's gla.s.s part.i.tion.

Winnie's heart stuttered, throbbed-this was it. This was real, and the stunning Ms. Duncan actually was a vampire. She wiped suddenly damp palms on her skirt and wondered where all her earlier bravado and certainty went. Hadn't she been feeling supremely sure of herself in the cab just a few minutes ago?

They walked down a long burgundy carpeted hallway, Ms. Duncan in the lead with Winnie a few steps behind. The elder woman murmured, "I'm sure I don't need to remind you of the Commandments." Why couldn't the woman ever just talk? Why did she have to be so weird and sensual and otherworldly? Were all vampires like that? Would her Host be?

"No, of course not," Winnie rea.s.sured her, because she was, in spite of everything that led to this moment and what it was leading up to, a good girl. No eye contact. No chit-chat. No s.e.x. No drugs. No names. Follow directions. No tipping. She got it. All the fine hairs on her body stood on end with nerves and antic.i.p.ation.

Ms. Duncan led her onward down the mostly nondescript hallway with its warm, homey lighting, the walls lined with ornately carved wooden doors with baroque bra.s.s k.n.o.bs and numbered plates. They paused before #7. Ms. Duncan shot an unreadable look over one slender shoulder, and then knocked. The door clicked open on cue, and Ms. Duncan stepped aside with a sweeping gesture toward the room beyond. Winnie noticed for the first time that the membership coordinator was wearing the same deep, blazing crimson that seemed to be the thematic color of the rest of the place. It made her skin look like very light caramel under her almost silver-pale vampire pallor. She was like some mythical guide to the underworld, and Winnie was suddenly more afraid than ever.

"You can go in, Ms. Mulligan. Enjoy your Encounter," she said, and slinked away. Winnie smelled roses and sandalwood wafting from the room, beckoning with an undertone of something warm, musky and male she couldn't quite identify. s.e.xy. Enticing.

"Come in."

Deep voice, thick and rumbling, the kind of sound that hit her low in her belly and froze her, deer-in-headlights, exactly where she stood in the hallway. She couldn't move. She willed her body, screamed at it internally, scrambled desperately for her long-lost nonchalance, tried to pretend that she was her best friend Shiloh (a.k.a. She-Who-Will-Try-Anything-Once) like she always did when she was nervous or frightened, but nothing worked. He paralyzed her with two simple words-how were Ms. Duncan's precious Commandments ever going to protect her? Maybe this is a huge mistake after all.

"h.e.l.lo?" The new word was touched with all-too-human confusion, and Winnie heard footfalls on the carpet coming toward her. She wondered nonsensically if he was wearing shoes. How dangerous could a barefoot vampire be?

He appeared in the doorway, and the first thing she did was make mind-bending, brain-melting, will-crushing, utterly direct and completely prolonged contact with her Host's impossibly dark green eyes. Not hazel green, or even rare emerald, but a forest green so dark they were almost black. He was beautiful, of course. To her surprise, he looked as pole-axed as she felt when they came face to face-those stunning eyes wide and mouth dropped open for a moment before he could collect himself and closed it.

"h.e.l.lo," he repeated, with more surprise and a touch of pleasure this time, and reached out a large, strong-looking hand.

She was lost. The Commandments forgotten. "No eye contact" should be number one, she thought as she let the vampire lead her into Encounter Room Number 7.

Briggs watched her sharp blue eyes scour the Encounter Room, and realized that he never really bothered to notice the decor before. Warm, dark colors, heavy with Duncan's favored deep crimson, antique rugs and tapestries on walls papered in gold, a few calm night scenes in watercolor hung here and there for accent. It was not a room that lent itself naturally to any normal activity-too formal to be a sitting room, too stuffy for a bedroom, not enough furniture to be anything but functional for this particular occasion. There was only the large, overstuffed, extra deep sofa and the coffee table with a small refrigerator beneath stocked with juices, cookies and fresh fruits for the Donor's refreshment. The door had an exit sign lit above it in ominous emergency red, a fire extinguisher hanging on one side, a phone and first aid kit on the other. Nothing was left to chance when it came to safety and potential lawsuits. Duncan was many things-a fool not among them.

He should never have looked into Winifred Mulligan's eyes. He never should have allowed this Encounter to happen at all. He should have gone to ground when he realized what she could be to him. Run far and run fast from the metamorphosis he felt looming over this beautiful horizon.

But he was too weak, and now it was too late. Here she was: his doom. His salvation. He knew she was coming, but he was still utterly unprepared for her arrival.

She wore all that glorious golden hair in a tight braid down her back, its end calling attention to the soft, lush tuck of her waist and swell of her rear beneath the high quality cotton of her simple dress. Her body was small and curvaceous, with an earthy sort of grace-had he read that she did yoga? She was so alive that the warmth of her skin burned him when he took her hand out in the hallway. He rubbed the still sensitized flesh in sensual remembrance.

She blushed deeply, as though she could hear his thoughts. He pushed the beast down into its cage, repressed his own sudden urge to be shy, and gestured toward the sofa. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

She smiled and sat down, carefully crossing her ankles and folding her small, fair hands into her lap. He had been whoring in Duncan's pit of horrors for more years than he cared to count. He'd performed this dance dozens of times, but this was the first he could recall that he was at a loss what to do next. The "Encounter Protocol," which always seemed so wrong and unnatural, though he could fall back on it when he didn't feel socially able, seemed doubly incorrect when applied to this utterly earthly creature. Like enjoying a rare and delicate flower by crushing it under his boot heel.

He fell back on long-forgotten human niceties instead. He was more than a little rusty. "Would you like something to drink? We have a full complement of fresh juices from the bar."

She shook her head, glanced up at him from under her lashes for a moment, then quickly away. Her flush deepened, and the scent of nervous fear, arousal and warm woman wafted into the air from her skin like exotic incense.

"No, thank you," she politely refused, and he breathed her in-all of her, the sound and the smell and the way the room came to life with her presence. "What's your name?"

The question took him by surprise as so few things could do anymore. He opened his eyes to find hers looking directly into them once again. The gaze punched him straight in the gut, sparked a strange, irrational anger, reminding him of the way she made him lose control. A burning compatriot of the fear that almost drove him from her before they even met.

"You don't seem to take the Commandments of this establishment very seriously. Weren't you sufficiently warned?" he snapped, and regretted the harsh words the moment they were gone from his lips. The small smile that hovered around her pink mouth vanished like a sweet vapor on a gust of fetid wind. The acrid tint of fear in her scent increased exponentially, and with it came the dull, moldy smell of embarra.s.sment.

"No, I do," she insisted very quietly, her eyes sliding back to their proper place, looking at her hands trapped in her lap like bound birds. It was as though she was shrinking before his eyes, and Briggs couldn't stand the thought of her vanishing before he really got to be with her. "I'm sorry," she added.

His fear of her slipping away overcame his hesitation and strange anger, and he moved to sit beside her on the couch. Close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, but careful not to touch.

"I'm the one who should be sorry," he admitted. "You're the customer, after all, and the customer is always right, right?"

She shrugged as if unsure of the answer, but the tension eased some, and he knew the situation would be as all right as it could possibly be. She was as edgy as he was, as uncertain of what was happening and doubly shy. He wondered if she was as overcome by the maelstrom of other sensations and questions as he. If she thought this was something far more important than a single, sterile Encounter dictated by the rules of a cold, distant corporate ent.i.ty and a s.a.d.i.s.tic vampire who loathed his existence. If she felt the press of profound change hovering just between them.

"Frankly, I don't care about the Commandments," he told her. "They're the organization's, not mine. You're safe with me no matter what you do, I promise. And...I need to know you."

He blurted out the last before he even consciously thought it. Her gaze ticked up and locked to his, obliterating Commandment #6 once and for all. Her unreal blue eyes were so much more intense than in her photograph; so much more alive for the carefully banked fire he could see within them that a camera could never capture.

"Really?" she asked, suddenly breathless, excited, as if what he just said was exactly what she hoped to hear. Her shyness evaporated. "I want to know you too! I mean this whole thing seemed so cold from the start. How are we supposed to share something so personal with all these rules holding us back from each other? If you're so dangerous and out of control, why let humans near you in the first place, rules or no rules?"

Her enthusiasm was like a warm light bathing the dim room. An unexpected ray of sun upon his dark world-and all the other possible romantic cliches ever uttered. The fact that she seemed to understand the shame and humiliation of his predicament, the way this situation robbed him and all his kind of dignity and power, and her kind of its honored place as prey, drew him even closer to her than he thought possible.

He dared to reach out and take her hand once more. The simple contact sent a shockwave ripping through his long neglected system, shattering the numbness that had overtaken him in recent months. She leaned closer, almost imperceptibly, a subtle bit of body language none but a predator would ever perceive and squeezed his cold fingers in her warm ones.

Even though he appreciated her understanding, as much as touching her in such an ordinary way was quickly obliterating his good sense in a cloud of bliss and want, he still felt the need to protect her. To give her one last chance to escape before something happened that they would not be able to take back. He reluctantly relinquished her hand.

"But I am dangerous, Winifred. I can be deadly. Though I don't agree with all of the rules, they were created for your protection. I'm not human, and if I lose control, the things we do together could kill you."

A little frown marred her angel's face as she pondered that. Then she repeated, "What's your name?"

He blinked, taken aback. He had completely forgotten she asked that question a moment before.

"My name is Briggs. Briggs Aubrey." It felt so good to say it, like a confession. As though giving her the power of his name somehow made him-made this moment-real at last.

She smiled and offered her own delicate hand as if they were any two people meeting on the street. It was bare of nail polish or any decoration but a thin band of Celtic knot work encircling the first finger. An ancient prayer to Brigid for inner peace, if he was not mistaken.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Briggs. I'm Winifred Mulligan. My friends call me Winnie."

They shook, and that little spark lit once more. This time, it flared outward from where they touched, spreading heat through his body as the handshake lingered a moment too long to be strictly polite. The tingle quickly became a fire in his veins, growing and spreading, decades of loneliness, longing and frustration fueling the flames. The uncertainty of the past few weeks of knowing and yet not knowing her, equal parts poison and aphrodisiac. Her eyes, her smile, her small, round body a siren song to his craving. He felt his will slipping away and could barely find the strength to care.

"Winnie," he whispered, eyes riveted to her lips.

Her voice went soft as well. "See? We're any two people who just met, and now..."

He moved closer, just another inch. He could smell the orange juice she drank earlier, sweet on her warm, living breath. "And now..."

She closed that last distance between them and brushed her lips to his. The tiny bolt of electricity the touch of their hands created was but a pinp.r.i.c.k compared to the lightning strike of the kiss. He reeled, fell into her, took her into his arms as he explored the warm haven of her mouth with his seeking tongue and lips and teeth.

She tasted of wild peppermint and citrus, and he devoured her with tender reverence. His tongue thrust gently, firmly, stroking hers, and she gave a sighing little moan in response as she went pliant in his arms, her tiny fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, until he was breathing her breath into his dead lungs.

Had kissing ever been so erotic, so completely enthralling, so deeply moving to him before? He couldn't recall it being so-it was just part of foreplay, simply a stop on the path to mating or feeding; never this art in its own right, this ritual of deep communication, of knowing so intimately without words. The fire became a conflagration driven by the kindling of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressing into his chest, the scent of her arousal-a deeply feminine musk setting perfect contrast to the floral perfume she wore. He let a hand slide down to cup one firm, fleshy breast, to squeeze and test its perfect weight, a thumb pad to tease the responsive nipple into instant rigidity.

She moaned his name, and he was lost yet again. Her hands wandered down from his hair, exploring him, caressing shoulders, back and waist until she claimed the hem of his sweater and tugged it up over his head without so much as a by your leave.

Not that she would ever need one.

"Winnie, are you sure?" he murmured into her mouth.

She laid both hands flat on his chest, caressing his pectoral muscles in slow, sweeping circles. Her cheeks were flushed with heated pa.s.sion's blood, and she gazed at him with ravenous eyes.

"Yes," she breathed. "Oh, yes."

He was nothing less than amazing. Better than any of her darkest, most erotic dreams. The minute she heard him say, "I need to know you," she knew this was Destiny with a Capital D. No. Before that. From the moment she overheard those women talking about Positive Encounters in the bathroom at the library where she worked, she had been rushing headlong into this perfect, burning moment. Each step along the way had been a lesson, a preparation, a trial and a benediction to earn her this.

His mouth, so strong and sure, yet so gentle. The same with his big, broad-fingered hands. As he kissed her, Winnie could not resist the temptation of the wonderful body she knew he hid beneath the non-threatening burgundy sweater and grey wool slacks he wore. He matched the decor. Just like another accessory in the room, and the thought made her angry for him. She knew he was so much more than what Positive Encounters wanted to reduce him to in her eyes and the eyes of her fellow humans.

He was Desire. Need incarnate. She pulled off his sweater like some crazed, wanton animal. She half expected him to object to her attack, but instead he asked if she was sure.

Was she sure? Was she sure that she had paid a month's rent to be here or that the red light on her dashboard meant the oil needed changing? Of course. She told him so with what little breath he hadn't already stolen from her lungs with his kisses or his touch.

He was perfect. She had never lay hands on such a wondrous specimen of maleness before-lean, cut muscles covered in skin softer than she ever felt on a man. She skimmed his pectorals, over the broad cut of his ribcage and onto the adamantine six pack of his abdomen with a feather touch. He sucked in a breath, let it out on a low groan that vibrated through him into her as her fingers came to rest at last on his fly.

Some part of her mind that remained shy little Whiney Winnie whimpered and cringed at her behavior, screamed that this wasn't right. That she was a stupid s.l.u.t, and she was about to get punished for the sin of breaking the rules. But she ignored it...knew that this was right. The rules didn't matter -she had been waiting her whole life for this man, this moment. She unbuckled his belt and made quick work of his fly before plunging her hand in for the ultimate prize.

He cried out as she wrapped her fist around his substantial c.o.c.k and gave one long, firm stroke from root to tip.

"Stop, Winnie!" he gasped, halting her sensual a.s.sault with his own hand. "This will be over far too soon if you keep doing that."

Her grin was feral--she didn't care. For a second, she was tempted to push his hand away, to finish what she started, to make him come in her hand, feel him, hot and wet on her skin, tangible proof that he wanted her as much as she did him.

But she had been patient this long, and she knew that there was so much more that could happen between them. She wanted it all. She could wait.