Adagio (Book One of the Muse series)

5. The Tenuous Voyeur

"Tell me about her."

"Why?"

"Many times it's possible to demystify a situation by discussing it. It puts the subject in a more realistic light."

"You do realize you're not to share your methods with your patient, don't you?"

Roan was now pacing back and forth across the room in obvious discomfort at the topic under analysis. "And now that you've told me your strategy, I'm less than inclined to humor you."

He stood for a long moment in front of a still life on the wall, a bowl of apricots on a wooden table in the sun. Finally, he turned around, pinched at the fold of skin above the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and sighed long. "But very well, let's do carry on."

"We'll start simply, then. Tell me about her physical characteristics."

Roan resumed his seat opposite the doctor, elbows on knees, perfectly manicured fingers templed at his mouth. "Her feet are small, dainty. She wears heeled shoes quite often, and they create a beautiful swell of muscle at her calf. Her legs are lovely and well-toned. I think she would be a strong runner. I've not seen her bottom, but I believe it to be exquisite. She's 'petite', as I think is the word du jour, and her bones are quite small. But again, very strong, I think."

He rubbed his chin, his gaze wandering off into the distance.

"Carry on."

"Her waist is small. Her breasts are slightly larger than my palm, and I imagine they are delicious." As he spoke, his fangs began to descend, coloring his speech as he continued his description. "Her neck is the color of white silk, and in it I can see every pulse of her heart from across a room. The flow of her blood through the vessels there is a rose against her flesh—a thin, delicate rose petal."

"And you desire her?"

Roan glanced up at the doctor with narrowed eyes that told of how unnecessary that question was to even utter, then returned his focus to the floor and continued.

"Her hair is of three colors—red, gold and brown. She does not iron it or use chemicals, and so it smells sweet . . . of apple, strangely. When she is working, she wears it tied together in a chignon at the nape of her neck. When she is not working, she wears it in a—oh what is that ludicrous new term—horse tail?"

"—Pony. Ponytail."

"Yes, yes—pony tail. She wears it free and flowing around her only once in a great while. Her skin is healthy if a bit dry—perhaps from a lack of water. And her mouth . . . " Roan paused, moistened his own lips, and swallowed, " . . . is round, her lips supple, curved and with a lovely small swell. I can imagine her genitals are the same—smooth, cushioned, as soft as one could possibly imagine."

The doctor cleared his throat and shifted his weight in his chair. The patient looked at his companion and smiled broadly, an amused grin showing his long, sharp, fully descended fangs.

"Does my description embarrass you, Doctor Upping? Or are you aroused?"

"Neither, I assure you. Please continue."

"Do not lie to me. I can hear the blood rushing to your prick."

"It's a natural physiological response, Roan. I won't be embarrassed by it, but are you? How does a man's arousal make you feel?"

"Meaning?"

"Just that. Are you embarrassed by a man's physical excitement, or does male sexuality intrigue you?"

Roan merely shook his head, completely unfazed by the intimate line of questioning. "In the years since I began walking in the shadows I have taken many men, by necessity. Although that is a more intimate experience than sex in many ways, I still have never had intercourse with a man. Women are my craving. Many of my kind desire both sexes. I happen to prefer women," he replied, and, drawing his unwavering lavender gaze from the doctor's lap to his eyes, he added, "both to feed from and to fuck."

"Roan, enough." Dr. Upping was now calm and unflustered, but also clearly through with his patient's attempts at sidestepping the core topic of conversation. "Let's go back to her. What else? Tell me everything that enters your mind."

Roan sighed again, letting the calm wave of oxygen wisp through his body, and looked down at the index card in his hand, though his focus was far away from the words printed there.

"Her eyes are most confounding—they are green, then brown, then hazel. Almost as if they are reflecting the changes in the sky above them. I cannot take my own eyes from them, whether or not she is focused on me. Her emotions float across them as plainly as the clouds move across that same sky, and it is almost as though I can read her inner thoughts, feel her feelings. This haunts me most of all."
Both men were quiet for a moment, in tacit appreciation of the emotion now coloring the atmosphere around them.

After a long pause, the doctor broke the silence, speaking in a comforting, almost deferential tone. "When she is focused on you, when you speak with her, how do you think she regards you?"

"I have not spoken with her."

"Pardon me?"

"I have not spoken with her. We have never met."