So, we talk. Discuss. Exchange.
OK...there's not a whole lot of actual exchange; mostly just me trying to wrap my brain around everything she tells me. But I pitch in on occasion; fan the flame of friendship-embers coming to a crackly kindling [no, that's bad...] that lightly warm the room between us [much better].
I have a thousand questions, of course, but try not to badger her or dig into anything too personal. After an hour or so I feel like I've gotten into the groove of allowing her answers to dictate the direction of our talk. I ask if she can control the crossover; she says she's learned to, although it can be difficult if Gauze is fighting her. I ask if she can see or hear everything he does; she says she blocks it out, that it's too disorientating to make sense of so she doesn't try and, instead, allows him his privacy, as he does for her. I ask how equal their coupling is, and she says never to call it that...but that they can feel each other's pain, and he learned quickly not to upset her for the sake of his own emotional state.
"So Mr. Eggs and Bacon has feelings of his own?" This comes as a surprise to me since I took him for a sociopathic dungeon master and prickly narcissist.
She blurts out with a laugh from a memory she relives at the question.
"Well, no, he doesn't have many feelings of his own, which is why having to share those of a newborn, toddler, tween, and teenage girl taught him a lot about humility."
It's a funny concept, but— "...It doesn't show..."
So I'm still a little bitter at being referred to as "Rodent," sue me.
"Well you've obviously never met another demon."
Good point.
"Touché."
She's scooted back into her corner of the couch again, knees under her and elbow on the armrest, head in her hand, thinking. "I learned to sympathize with him when I was old enough to know what that word meant. He had it rough, having to be tethered to a human girl for the past twenty years – in Hell, I mean." Her fingers play with her hair. "He's royalty, you know – but sharing the feelings of an angry or lonely infant basically made him the butt of every demon joke in the Pit. His father had to remove him from the eyes of the Elitists and send him to the catacombs to lord over the damned in seclusion." —I try not to look like I'm enjoying this part— "We've learned to separate our 'feels' now, but it took half my life to even begin to understand why I had to. Basically the poor guy's been in Hell, while in another Hell of my making, cursed to be at the whims of a confused and angry little girl."
"Now even I'm starting to feel for the guy..."
She smiles, a little embarrassed at the thought, then squints, choosing her words. "He's basically like this scaly, irritated big brother who's had to show enormous patience just to get any sort of cooperation from me. He couldn't threaten me because when he did I'd get scared and cry, so, so would he. And he couldn't kill me without risking...something – neither of us really knows what would happen if he tried..."
"Wow..." My mind spins – and not just from having my third glass of Shaman's blood. "This...bond...is a bit of a pickle for the guy." I catch a subtle glare in her eye that reminds me I'm supposed to be on her side. "...And for you." (Saved by the astute awareness of recognizing who wears the pants...) Then she yawns and stretches, her midriff crisscrossed by the mesh shirt she wears under her cropped hoodie.
It surprises me for a moment that she has this delicate "pretty" side to her. You'd think being bound to a demon would make one insufferably Goth... But then I remember that, unlike how you'd expect a situation like that to go down, she was basically babied by him for fear of driving himself to tears. She'd essentially grew up as a princess, having this demon prince of hers more-or-less as a nanny, catering to her every princessly tantrum.
"You know," she exhales along with her stretch and leaves herself more sprawled out across the couch, "this would go a lot smoother if you had something other than water to offer..."
The unpreparedness of my cupboards for feminine company is not unknown to me...
"Oh shit!" Then I remember, jump up, bash my shin on the table (and am numb enough to not feel a thing but instinctively go through the motions as if I had anyway, at least noticeably enough for her to blurt out a laugh at my expense), and hobble around the couch's corner to tear gooberly toward the kitchen. "I totally forgot..." Making it to the lower cupboards, from over the counter I hear her call out—
"If it's tequila, I'll pass."
In the bottom corner cabinet next to the sink, all the way in the back, collecting dust for who knows how long, sits several bottles of aged red wine that seem to sing to me when I reach for them. I grab the nearest, lucky soprano and hoist it high in triumph.
"Wine!" I announce before standing up with pride, finally feeling like I have something to contribute.
"Is it red? It looks red..."
"Pinot Noir," I read from the label.
"Of course it's red... Would it kill a vamp to buy white?"
"Nineteen-eighty-three."
"Predating us both."
She seems intrigued. So I reach for a 70's-mom-glass and head back her way before realizing—
"Shit...no corkscrew..."
"Thennnnn how'd you open yours?"
"It had a metal wire thing."
"Right..." Her hands reach out, fingers antsy for a feel. "Give it."
I smirk saucily. "Now who's the thirsty one?"
"Yeah, yeah..."
Rolling with the "sauce in my stride," I offer her the bottle and then pull it away before her eager-beaver fingers can get their clutches around it.
"Dude...you're screwing with a mage. I will conjure the sun and turn you into a crispy...I don't know – something."
I smile and place it back within reach. "You wanted to say 'critter,' didn't you."
She swipes it from my grip as I round the couch.
"Actually I was thinking 'corpse' but thought that might be a little – I don't know – racy? Derogative?"
I actually laugh at that as I sit down – it's a girly sort of laugh that I've always found to be embarrassing. Not a giggle, exactly, but no one would describe it as anything other than mortifying. But I'm loose enough at this point to not give it more than a fleeting thought.
"As sensitive as I may appear, my lady mage, I can actually take a joke. A funny or clever one, at least. And 'crispy corpse' would have qualified."
She's already unwrapped the top before I've sat down. Collecting a house key from her bag, she starts in on the cork, pushing the jagged chunk of metal into it and then twisting and pulling in one motion. The damn thing pops almost effortlessly and I try not to look so impressed.
"A key?" I scoff for good measure. "Pshh... Some mage you are..."
"Magic is complicated, dude. There isn't a spell for every little life-hack you come across." She gives the vintage a sniff, tilts her head with a marginally pleased frown, acknowledging the favorable bouquet, and pours herself a glass.
Watching the silky, burgundy liquid spill from the neck of the bottle arouses me. I picture it being a slightly thicker and darker shade, and her finger collecting the spill from the mouth of the bottle and tasting the warm plasma on her tongue... Sucking someone else's blood from her soft, full lips while staring into those two dissenting eyes would be like—
"Yo, you OK, dude?"
Shit... I'm salivating again. There may even be some drool involved.
I wipe my mouth for the sake of being thorough and she smirks before taking a sip. Usually I would apologize for staring but being as satiated and uninhibited as I am, I don't feel the need.
"How is it?"
She takes another whiff and then a swill, licking the residual wetness from her lips. "Surprisingly light. Smells like roses, actually. A favorite of yours? ...Or, the old you, I mean?"
"Actually, it's not mine. It came with the place. I totally forgot it was down there."
"Must be my lucky night."
I refrain from saying something corny like, "That makes two of us," and try not to fantasize about spilling blood over the contours of her face and licking it off.
"Could you have really conjured the sun? I mean, that's not actually a thing, right?"
"Of course not."
She pushes out a sardonic chuckle and shakes her head, but it was the tiniest hesitation before she answered that caught my eye. But conjuring the sun is ridiculous, right? Can't be done. Nuh-uh. No way. Definitely not.
Shit... Can it?
"So, how is it that my skillful vampirism can be of service to you, Detective—" Oh, crap... "Shit. That probably wasn't your real name, was it..."
"You're a sharp one."
She does that McJudgey thing with her eyes again, deciding if I can be trusted with even more of her truth. Then—
"Berget."
I try not to look too perplexed at such an unpleasant combination of ugly syllables playing at her title. "Oh." Then I swallow the bad taste of it before finding it in me to attempt a cordial response. "It's..."
"If you say 'pretty,' I'm dumping my Pinot on you."
"...Irish."
"Very."
"I'm so sorry..."
She tries not to laugh, but it catches up with her and she does her crinkled nose thing, tilting her head back in embarrassment.
"I usually go by Bridgette," she sighs, "but since you hate your name too I thought what the hell: misery loves company, right?"
"To Conrad and Berget." I raise my hippie glass with a swallow of blood left in it and she – playfully reluctant – clinks with me in honor of our shared embarrassment.
"Berget and Conrad," she reminds me, and we sup together in exaggerated agreement.
The last drink in the glass goes down like swallowing a warm little ball of bliss, tantalizing sensory synapses in my brain that send ripples of tingling through my torso, arms and fingers. I can't help but close my eyes to heighten the experience and let out a soft moan. I feel like I plugged my brain into a Happy Circuit that's feeding it confidence and contentment, and I question whether the blood of any mage would have a similar effect.
When I open my eyes, my company is glowing. Ironically, it's an angelic sort of radiance, soft but powerful; inspiring. I've never hallucinated from drinking blood before... But for fear of being thought of as a "light weight" I decide not to mention it.
"So... Does this mean I can call you Bergie for short?" I smile from ear to ear, proud of myself for the playful crack, and she almost chokes on her second swill. Once she gets the swallow down and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her hoodie (that her palms seem to hardly ever see the outside of, tucked in the end of the arms with fingers peeking out like legs from a hermit crab's shell), she reminds me:
"That 'Crispy Corpse' thing is still on the table, dude. I may not be able to conjure the sun, but I have a lighter and I know how to use it— Whoa there, tiger..."
She drills a stare directly into my smile and I realize right away, before I even feel them, that she's staring at my fangs. I hadn't even noticed they'd made an appearance; I never even felt them slide from gums.
My tongue searches for the tips to be sure they're there and finds them as sharp as baby sharks' teeth.
"Oh, sorry... I didn't—"
"No, it's OK. ...You don't scare me, Conrad..." She smiles and I wince, but only out of habit. My given name doesn't seem so obtuse coming from her lips. "...I just...wasn't expecting them to be there..." Leaning in slightly, she squints in examination. "...Or to be so big..."
Christ, it turns me on to hear that from a woman (who isn't working the corner for petty cash...)
"Must be the company," I tease, and she pulls back with a "nice try, sly guy" look before it turns into a little chuckle, but more from the sight of my giant grin, I'd assume, than from my cheesy line. Then, again, examining their tips, it occurs to me they even feel bigger than normal... "No, really..." Smile toning down to make room for curiosity, I close my mouth and lick their entire form. "I..." ...wow... "...I've never felt them this big..."
She lets out another chuckle and reaches for the bottle. "Maybe it's the blood. You do look a little sauced."
"Yeah..." Maybe, but... "...must be..." ...I honestly think it's her. I think maybe I've never felt comfortable enough around someone to where my fangs have been able to fully unsheathe; or even comfortable enough around myself... I've definitely drank more than three glasses of aged blood before, and of a more potent vintage. This Shaman is entirely different. My thinking doesn't feel inebriated at all; just my inhibitions. It's really the cleanest buzz I've ever felt. "Want me to put them away?"
She shrugs. "Like I said: You don't scare me, Conrad. And it is your couch we're sitting on; make yourself at home."
"Gee, thanks." I laugh a little and settle in. (I guess she heard my earlier inner monologue after all.) "OK, so, what is it I'll be looking for when I do my Vampire Daytime Slumber, thing? Any specifics?"
More relaxed now, she puts her back against the armrest and feet flat on the couch facing me, fishnetted knees high with her arms resting on them. It's casual but provocative as hell, with her inner thighs open for my mind's eye to drink from... It's a good thing I'm so relaxed, otherwise I wouldn't be able to think straight enough to form a complete sentence. Her knees sway slightly, opening and closing in thought, and it occurs to me my vampire pheromones might actually be having a subconscious effect on her, causing her to open herself up to me. It's either that or my masculinity is so invisible she doesn't even realize her thighs are directly beckoning this hornball vampire guy whose fangs are swelling in her company...
"The details on the event are nowhere near accurate, but I really don't think it's something you'd miss."
She takes another sip, arranging the facts in her mind while I take in her aura. The soft, white glow seems to be strongest around her blue eye: radiating from it to encompass her whole body; while her darker, charcoal gray lens is almost like a void in the flow – a cold spot in the warmth of her presence.
"From what my uncle tells me," she continues, "the hearsay is that this mage was said to have delivered a child into the world from the womb of a demon and, later that night, severed the child's soul from the grips of the Spirit World." Her eyes drifted downward in thought. "They said the baby was born with one black eye...and after the mage was done with her, the black eye was gone."
"And the baby survived?"
She shrugged delicately. "So they say."
I should know better than to open my mouth, to be the Shitter Upon the Hopes of the Distressed, but—
"Do you think it makes a difference that he did it the same night the baby was born and—"
"—and I've lived with my demon for a lifetime?" She took another taste from her glass, but one that took two solid gulps to get down, drowning her surfacing nervousness at the thought. "No clue." Looking at the vintage, tilting it toward her to peer into the drink, she noted, "This is actually pretty good..." And, with that, created a diversion for her nerves with another two swills that emptied the glass.
Navigating dream-memories isn't something I've learned to do well – I haven't plunged enough shitty toilets to be able to afford the regular practice – so any details concerning when it happened can help.
"Do you know around what time of his life he pulled this off?"
One shoulder went up slightly in a half a shrug. "The story calls him a young shaman... But that's as much as I know. My uncle said becoming a shaman in a tribe is usually a rite passed down after an elder dies, but who knows how long that elder lived, and if this shaman was his son, nephew, grandson... He could've been anywhere from his early twenties to early fifties and still be considered a 'young shaman.' "
Damn... "Ok."
Looks like I'm gonna have to get better at the whole "dream-memory navigation" thing in a hurry.
"Well...I only have half the bottle left... And the more I drink, the more memories I'll have the option of picking through..." This next bit is the hard part: "But do I drink it all and risk only getting one shot at this? Or take my time and work on my navigation while risking not going deep enough to get what we need?"
She considers the quarry for a moment, almost facetiously, as if she already knows the answer, and her aura does this thing: The cold void around her demon eye swells and siphons a percentage of her angelic glow, spiraling the white radiance into the emptiness of her dark. It's slightly intimidating; I think I may have flinched. But her attentions were elsewhere, and when she sets them back on me:
"Are you asking if I'm the kinda girl who puts all her money on one horse to win?"
Great. I just dipped from Friend Zone to Farm Animal.
"I guess so, yeah."
"I'm a mage. Of course I play the long odds." Her stare is this mischievous smirk, and her Void takes another drink of her Light, swirling it into its cold. "...I cheat."
Her confidence is inspiring, and usually mine would be spiraling in the opposite direction, shrinking away with self-doubt... I'd hate to blow our one shot at helping her out of this demonic dichotomy she's stuck in. But I feel good about this. This blood... It's empowering. And with the help of a practiced Beater of the Long Odds, I think we can make this work.
"I'll drink to that." I smile and so does she, looking down at my empty glass.
"Then you're gonna need a refill."
She jumps up from the couch and grabs my cup, her fingers brushing over mine, her aura deepening in shadow.
"Oh, uh... I can get it." Her hand on my shoulder stops my ass from lifting off the cushion and her eyes seem to lay an extra hundred pounds on my bones. I can't tell if she's doing it through magic or if maybe the effects of the vintage are catching up with me.
"No need. I'm already up."
She smiles and I feel a little like a mouse stuck in the corner with this feisty kitten just waiting for me to make her day by trying to escape. Then the smell of her so close to me – her netted stomach inches from my eyes as she slips by – realigns my focus and suddenly I'm back on board, regardless of the creepy, she-demon vibe engulfing this angel in fishnets and black jean shorts.
I watch her walk by, and where ordinarily I'd be too "considerate" (read as *cowardly) to follow her ass with my eyes as she puts such lovely distance between us, right about now I figure, considering what I'm getting myself into for her, that I've earned the view – and an entrancing a bewitching view it is. She's petite, but her cute little squatty figure packs a punch where it counts, and her shorts cover up just enough to have me inwardly begging for the tiniest peek at what's—
"Eyes off the goods, dude."
Shit! I've been made!
Now, now... Take a breath. It's fine. You've earned this, remember? This is your home; your unlife on the line, being that this has turned out to be literally making a deal with a demon... No need to get squirrelly over your obvious interest in her curves. You're a guy. She's a girl. It's just nature, dude. You haven't done anything wrong... Be a man. Own it. You got this thing.
I hear the beeps of the microwave timer being set before she looks back and says, "Jesus, dude, I was just kidding. You look like I just caught you jerking off."
Fuck! I'm spiraling!
"They're your eyes; look where you want, as long as you're not a dick about it."
"That's, uh... That's actually pretty enlightened of you."
She shrugs with her ass against the counter. From this angle, with me on the couch, I can only make out her breasts and up. I look at them, of course, but with the cropped hoodie on there's not much to see. I find her eyes and, oddly enough, I can't see her aura from this distance. Maybe its glow is diminished from the overhead kitchen light, or maybe it wasn't my eyes that saw it in the first place, but some other set of senses I never knew I had (and probably didn't before tasting the Shaman).
"I'm a little more 'down to Earth' than most girls my age. Ironic, I know."
When thirty seconds passes, she removes the glass, stirs the blood, and pops it back in for fifteen. She was paying more attention than I'd realized. Either that or...
"So have you 'drank' with many vampires?"
"I've known a few, yeah."
She removes the glass, stirs, and walks back my way. Despite her invite to do as I may with my eyes, I refrain from staring at her hips and keep my focus on the blood in her hands. I find that's where most of my interest sits anyway, but not because of the Thirst. Her serving me blood, bring it to me, stirred to an even warmth, tickles a kink in me I've only fantasized about. A pretty human girl comfortable serving her vampire master her own blood from a glass...
Mmm. If only...
I reach for it, eager to fulfill the fantasy, but she waits until she's around the couch and in front of me before handing it over.
Classy, or a power move to keep me waiting?
Hmmmm... Complex, these female creatures: cunning and formidable.
When she sits down I notice her aura is back to its soft, angelic glow. She fills her glass two thirds up and then sits back against the armrest, her legs pretzeled on the couch, Indian style.
"Any cause for turning these Few you've drank with into 'crispy corpses?' " Smelling the blood, sampling its aroma, I swirl it around in the glass like it's a fine wine and I know what I'm doing.
"No need. They weren't much of a threat. The 'young' ones are all talk and easily persuaded to show a little respect when you flash a fake badge, and the old ones are surprisingly well-behaved. Nothing I couldn't handle."
"So I'm the only one you felt the need to turn into a French fry?"
"French fry?" She laughs at that. "Yeah, well, I save the real threats for those who've earned them. Never taunt me with wine after midnight."
"I'll have to remember that."
"Or don't and see what happens."
"Would you turn into a Gremlin?"
"Oh my god..."
"What?"
"That movie is sooo old!"
"So you've seen it, then." I'm actually pretty surprised, one eyebrow raised. Other than on the internet, I've rarely come across girls my age who like eighties movies – or even know they ever existed.
"Yeah, I've seen it. Actually I loved it as a kid. My uncle seriously had a functional VHS player and a few boxes of old, cheesy horror movies – and a few romcoms he'd never admit to being his."
"Did you have a favorite?"
"What, romcom?"
"Either or."
"I doubt you've ever seen it..."
I try not to sound too honest when I admit, "You'd be surprised."
"If you make fun of me—"
"French fry, I know."
She eyes me suspiciously before deciding to make with the inside scoop. "...Splash."
Doesn't ring a bell. "Ok, you got me. I don't think I've seen that one."
"It's a" —under her breath she coughs— "mermaid movie..."
"A mermaid?" I shrug. "Mermaids are cool. I like fantasy." Then it occurs to me— "Wait... Do you think mermaids are real? I mean, with everything that's been coming out lately..."
"I couldn't tell ya, dude. But if they are, and they're anything like Darryl Hannah in Splash, I totally wanna meet one."
"Why, was she really badass or what?"
"No – this was the eighties, dude. She was all bubbly and sweet. But beautiful and adorable. Basically everything I haven't been able to be in my life because I'm a freak."
"I know the feeling..."
"Seriously?" Her "evil" eyebrow arches in exaggerated doubt.
"OK, no, not anything like you, I guess, but... You know – it's the classic tale of the quiet, overweight kid whose dad died when he was young before he ever learned to come out of his shell and be a 'man's man.' " I puff up my chest and ball a fist to illustrate.
"So the jocks shot spitballs at you and stole your lunch money," she hazards a guess.
But, "Actually, no. I went to a private school and most everyone was pretty cool. I just..." How to put this without sounding like the loser I know I was...? "...I never felt comfortable around happy people."
She raises both her brows this time: Good and Evil united on common ground. "And people call me Emo..."
I force out a "Heh," in good humor. She's not wrong. Then she takes another stab at piecing together the mysterious puzzle that is me.
"I get the feeling that vampirism was your choice. ...I mean, I know it's illegal to turn a minor or someone without consent, but so is murder and that doesn't stop them – not entirely, anyway."
"Yeah: my choice." I chuckle at the thought. "Definitely my choice. She really didn't want to do it – and not out of some sense of responsibility. She just had no interest in turning me."
"Harsh."
"Eh... I'm used to it. No one's ever really wanted me to be a part of their circle. I thought becoming a pret would open up doors for me; change the speed of my life."
"Not so much?"
"Well...you're here, aren't you? I mean, I know you'll be gone as soon as we figure out if I can help you or whatever, but... Holy shit – look at you." Eyes shifting, she seems nervous at being placed under a spotlight. "You're beautiful, cool, different, and a fucking mage... And you wouldn't be here if I hadn't bugged the shit out of some snobby vamp chick and got her to turn me." I smile, holding eye contact for longer than I would have ever had the balls to before. "Things are looking up."
She smiles too...but there's this staleness to it – like she's been through this part of the friendship before when the guy first becomes infatuated with the mysterious girl and thinks he's willing to stick it out through thick and thin to get to know her better but then the demon-shit hits the vampire-fan and friendship and infatuation turn to oh-hell-no-get-this-chick-away-from-me, and she's left alone once again without so much as an "it's not you, it's me."
But here we sit. And I'd be lying if I said her being this chaotic beauty has nothing to do with me being willing to jump into such an intense predicament, but I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't do it anyway.
Honestly? I'm bored. And saying "I'm bored, so I'm gonna help this girl with her demon issues" is probably a little like saying, "Hey, this party sucks. Let's go play with the woodchipper instead," but...when the chipper is your only toy... What, are you not even gonna flip it on and throw in some large fruit? Not even to make this beautiful, immutably sad new-girl-in-town smile for a change? What's the worst that can happen? You slip and stumble and get your arm mauled off at the shoulder?
(Fuck, that sounds painful...)
The point is: At this point (I should point out...) I'm a little numb to the fear of the unknown. Vampirism hasn't exactly "taken off" for me like I'd hoped. So regardless of the magnitude of the risk, (or of the desirableness of those inner thighs behind sensuous fishnets,) it's the journey ahead I'm most looking forward to. And if it in anyway helps me to break out of my hermit shell and accidentally make a friend outside of those who're 'on the clock,' then there's nothing I'd rather be doing right now than sitting here with her, drinking blood until dawn and sharing quirks and interests and pet peeves and awkward stories about how crap we both are with the Social Graces.
It turns out that as good as she is at running a con, she's as equally bad at honest intimacy as I am. We both seem to have the same pieces missing inside. Only, she fills hers with bravado while I fill mine with fantasy. She puts on the Tough Guy cutoffs, and I slip into a lofty snooze that allows me to live inside of someone else's shoes. She robs banks; I read books. She dream-walks through hell; I speed-walk home so to not miss the new episode of Legion. We're not so different, she and me. In fact, we're so much alike (no, really) that, with the right (or a weighted) sort of interpretation, an argument can be made that, under the perfect circumstances – such being an apocalypse or the like, where most other surviving males are diseased and/or dying – we could really work as couple – providing that I wouldn't need to get drunk on shaman blood to sit comfortably near her without stuttering, fidgeting, drooling, or otherwise proving myself to be terminally unworthy, of course.
Minutiae. (Obviously.)
So, we talk. Discuss. Exchange.
And it turns out I have a lot to offer in the process. Unfortunately I can't say the same for the bottle. My $500 supply runs dry a little after 3 AM, and she's more tossed after five glasses than I am after eight. Her aura stays mostly magnanimous with only flickers of dark here and there, swirling angelic light into its thirsty hole [hungry hole? Shit...both are terrible... *less Hooker, more Mystic]. My eyes get looser as the night goes on and find time to travel up and down her figure whenever she stretches, reaches, readjusts, or gets up to pee. I know she knows... At times I feel like she might even be doing it on purpose; reaching a little further and taking a little longer in changing positions with her hips cocked or legs open. She even falls off the couch once for good measure – ass high with her knees still on the cushion and hands on the ground, laughing, taking that extra few seconds to move her knees to the floor, backside angled to spray me like a cat in heat. I offer my help and she accepts, unconcerned with taking my hands and allowing me to pull her close enough that I can feel the beating of her heart in my own chest...
"Think maybe iss time for bed," she utters clumsily – inches from me – and pats me on the chest. With her boots off, the top of her head hardly reaches my nose.
She catches me a little off guard with the proposal. I'm not entirely sure if she means us both or not... But it stands to reason...
"You...you mean you want to sleep here?"
"Duh," she blubbers. "You plannin' on kicking me out on th'street?"
"No, I, uh... But you mean...in my bed?"
"No, my bed. I brought it with me, dumbass."
"You...?"
She crackles out a laugh at my confusion before realizing my confusion isn't concerning whose bed, but who all will be in it.
"Ohhh no... Not so fas', slick. You got the couch t'night."
"Yeah...yeah, I know... You need me to—?"
"I got it. I'm not that drink...drunk... Shit..." Her tired eyes look at her glass. "Maybe some water...*hiccup*...wouldbe good..."
And here I was all worried that I'd be the light-weight...
"Don't gimme that look..." Her eyes narrow at mine.
"What look?"
"That lil shit-eater smmrk *hiccup*..."
I try not to laugh. I don't think she realizes she's still holding my hand as she starts off toward the kitchen. When she let's go, I ask, "You want me to get it for you?"
"No," she mocks. "An' I know what y'r thinkin'..."
"I'm not—"
"I don't drink much, OK? It's..." Filling her glass with tap water, she doesn't even bother to rinse it first before chugging a few gulps off the top.
"There's, uh...water in the—"
"It's not s— *hiccup*—not safe."
"The water?" OK...now I'm lost.
"What?" She moves some hair aside. "Nooo... Drinking, dumbass. I usually can't *hiccup*...can't drink much, but..." She fills her glass again and heads back my way. "I need to pee."
Uhhh... "Did you forget where it is?"
"Stop," she whines. "I'm not— I'm not stupid, Comrad." She blows past me, headed back for the couch, and I'm hoping she's not planning on relieving herself on my carpet. " 'N don't think I don' know what you want, either..." Haphazardly swooping her bag from the table, she zips it up and nearly runs me over headed back past the kitchen and down the hall.
"Pee-free carpets?" I tease with a shrug.
"Pee what?" She turns back, confused, hiccups, bumps into the wall, then— "Yes, I hafta pee. Then I'm sleeping. And not with you, smart guy."
Although she flipped some switch and went from giddy to grouchy, I can't help but smile. It's cute how bossy she got when the wine and late hours caught up with her. I just hope she's not this grumpy in the morning...
I sit back down, indulging in the memories of the night, waiting for her to finally make her way into my room, but instead find her clopping back my way. Without a word she climbs onto the couch and snuggles up next to me like a little girl finding her safe place in her father's arms. Her knees pull up to her chest and her head rests on mine. I, of course, try to think of something cool to say, something sweet but masculine...then decide "the right words" are by far my strong suit, and she likely wouldn't remember them anyway being halfway to Snoozville already in less than twenty seconds.
So I just sit there, taking in the smell of her, the feel of her. I've drank enough blood tonight to last me through the week, but the site of the inside of her wrist when it slips from under her head and onto my lap somehow still seems so enticing. I hadn't noticed before, with her hands mostly tucked inside her hoodie's sleeves, but there's a line of text tatted over a scar there. I don't recognize the language, if it's a language at all – squiggles, lines, dots and triangles that cover the space of about three words, a half-inch tall – but the scar is an obvious one. I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise; living like she has could never have been easy. But the fact that she's covered it up is a fairly good sign that she's no longer in that place; that she's conquered those dark feelings and has accepted herself and who she's become.
I could be wrong, of course. The words could read: "next time cut deeper." But I don't think so. I think it's a seal of some kind; some magical scripture that's trapped her depression and self-loathing under charmed ink made from leprechaun oil or black unicorn tears.
And I know I probably shouldn't...but I find my hand reaching for hers, cupping it so to look more closely at her wrist, brushing my thumb across the scar and symbols. My mind's eye sees the ink smear at my touch...and then her blood seep from the old wound...
I know it's not real – but in my current state it's honestly hard to tell, and the thought – or vision – is incredibly vivid. Her blood courses down her arm and drips onto my pants – I can feel the weight of the drops when they touch down—
Then, in a flash, her hand is around my throat with strength and speed well beyond hers or mine.
The suddenness of her attack sparks terror inside me even though I don't need to breathe to live. I try pushing her name out of my throat but the grip is too strong. And no, I don't need to breathe to live...but I do need my head attached... And the force of her grip pushing from under my neck feels nearly strong enough to pop my top right off.
I try saying I'm sorry; I try saying, "Wait, it's me! It's me!" as if that should make her spare my handsy life. But nothing but disfigured noises escape my lips; gargling grunts with no form. Then her head lifts so quickly I never even see it move, and she's staring at me...but not with her eyes...
"Your hands do not belong there, rodent."
His voice stabs at every nerve in my body – it's like doing the Worm on a bed of hot nails. Her angelic aura turns to insufferable shadow and the room's electricity blinks out – everything burns bright in vampire-red.
I can hear his hoof ka-clunk from out of the corner behind me and the crackling of his hand-rolled smoke catching fire. He exhales a cloud that casts a haze over the coffee table as he ka-clunks another hoof forward.
Her eyes – white; lifeless – hold my stare like they've captured it in a cage and shackled it to an iron stake. I want to look behind me, even just shift my gaze toward what I can feel closing in...but I'm stuck staring at an empty shell controlled by a prick of a puppeteer.
Then his smoldering breath blows smoke past my ear, his horns just within my periphery...
"It's my turn to discuss now."
Art: Bloody lips by Matysia on deviant art