Art In The Blood

Chapter Ten

A LONG DAY'S rest restored my tired body, if not my peace of mind. When the sun went down and darkness released me for another night, all the same problems were there, only they'd had time to ripen.
Alex Adrian's name was on the front page of the lesser papers again and even the major ones had placed the story above the fold. They carried virtually identical accounts of Sandra's murder. Later editions mentioned that two suspects were in custody, but Barb Steler had scooped them all with her report on how they'd been captured.
"I find it odd that she does not give your name," said Escott. He was stretched full length on his sofa in the parlor, the papers neatly stacked over his legs and a stiff brandy within easy reach on a table. "Or perhaps it's not so terribly odd, after all."
I'd just come up from the basement when he started talking as though continuing an interrupted conversation. His brain was always working and sometimes he expected people to keep up with him. By now I was used to it, but it usually threw others off balance.
"We had a little talk at the hospital when I was giving back her gun," I said.
"She did a credible job of minimizing your role in the incident. No bright lights and fame for you?"
That one didn't even deserve an answer. The radio was tuned to Escott's usual station, giving us an earful of violins playing Mozart. With the volume down low, the higher-pitched notes were almost bearable.
He folded the last paper, adding it to the stack on his knees, then inhaled a few molecules of brandy. "I appreciated her free advertisement of my business, but am rather annoyed at being called a 'private detective.'"
It just meant he'd be getting more requests to do divorce cases. He could handle turning them down.
"Learn anything new today?" I asked, sitting across the table from him.
"I was able to glance at the autopsy report."
That had to have taken some doing. Blair hadn't exactly been in a sweet mood when we'd last seen him.
" Sandra Robley had some bruising on her face and the left side of her skull was smashed in by a very powerful blow. The forensic man was of the opinion that she'd first been struck by a fist and then hit with something much harder while she was down. The police found a heavy bronze sculpture by the sink in the Robleys' kitchen.
They think the killer took it there to wash away the blood and fingerprints. It was next to a damp towel and quite clean."
"Very neat of the bastard."
"Except for her change purse, nothing else seems to have been stolen."
"You think it was a blind?"
"Yes. Probably the best the killer could do at the time. They had no valuables in the place unless you count their paintings. Except for confidence tricksters or forgers, who are rarely so violent, very few criminals are interested in the fine arts as a source of money."
"What do the cops think?"
"They are of a similar opinion, that it was a blind, but murder for the gain of a few dollars is certainly within their experience. Today they've been questioning Sandra's friends and business acquaintances on the theory that the crime was committed for a personal reason rather than gain. A personal motive is often easily found out-proving one in court is the tricky bit."
"What about Evan?"
"He's recovered enough to give the police a coherent statement, but is still in hospital and under mild sedation."
"He's all right, then?"
"As well as he can be, considering his circumstances."
"What'd he say?"
"That he walked his lady friend home, returned to his own house about an hour later, and discovered his sister's body. He remembers calling Alex Adrian, but has no memory of anything afterwards. His doctor says the amnesia is not unexpected, he may recover or he may not."
"Do the police believe him?"
"They confirmed the times of arrival and departure with the lady, which was also corroborated by her roommate. Both vouched for his good character in the most sincere terms and also stated that Evan was in a lighthearted, very humorous mood.
Of course, the man could be a consummate actor or a liar who so believes in his own fantasies that he is able to convince others."
"He doesn't strike me as the type, if there's a type for him to be."
"I'm merely covering all possibilities. As for practicalities, he had the means and opportunity, but no readily apparent motive. I'm not saying the police have entirely ruled him out as a suspect, but thus far they have yet to arrest him."
"That's something at least. How's your new client doing?"
"Mr. Brett came to the office long enough to drop off his contract and to listen to an expurgated version of how we found Adrian. He then signed a check and left for the hospital to see Evan."
"He paid you already?"
"For one day's-or rather night's-work. He's satisfied that Wallace and Koller are responsible for Sandra's death."
"Are you?"
His eyes were firmly fixed on his brandy snifter. "They do seem to be tailor made for the part, and their violent response to Adrian's intrusion was most incriminating.
Since Wallace is not powerful enough to challenge Gordy directly, their motive for murder could be a form of reprisal against Evan Robley."
"Shaky, Charles."
"I know. From what you've told me, they would have been more likely to want to frighten the Robleys and thus intimidate Evan into continuing payment on his canceled debt. Murdering his prime source of income is certainly carrying things too far. Wallace and Koller are denying all knowledge of it."
"They'd have to. Any news on the old geezer from the garage?"
"The police located him later that morning, he's assisting in their inquiries-oh yes, they also found the other fellow, Tourney."
"Yeah?"
"He'd taken Adrian's coupe around to a certain garage to sell to the less-than-honest operators there. They have, or rather had, a highly lucrative stolen-car business. The police alert to pick up Adrian included a description of his vehicle and its license number, and a passing patrol car happened to be in the right place at the right time. Several birds were annihilated with the casting of that particular stone."
"So Adrian's off the hook with the cops?"
"Yes, for the time being."
"You think he did it?"
"I think we lack information." He'd stare a hole in that brandy snifter if he wasn't careful.
" And you figure I should talk to him?"
He nodded once, but remained silent, letting me think. Damn the son of a bitch.
The Mozart stuff ended and was replaced by some kind of modem vocal piece that sounded like stuttering, lovesick cats. I heaved to my feet.
"I'll see you later."
I didn't take a direct route but dropped by Bobbi's hotel to check on her. I'd tried calling from Escott's, but her phone was busy.
Piano music came through the walls, which meant Marza was visiting. I grimaced, but then no one ever said life was fair, and knocked on the door. The music faltered over a few notes and then continued on with determination. She usually kept the mute pedal down for the sake of the other hotel tenants, but shifted her foot from it as Bobbi let me in.
We hugged hello and Bobbi asked her to stop playing so we could talk.
Marza put on a sweet smile, utterly lacking in sincerity. "I'm sorry, was I disturbing anyone?" She pretended to busy herself by lighting one of her noisome little cigars. To protect my own sanity, I grabbed Bobbi and dragged her out into the hall and firmly shut the door behind us.
"Rude, isn't she?" I asked.
"Absolutely," she answered, and then we gave each other a proper kiss.
"Your phone's been busy," I said when she came up for air.
"It started ringing when the papers came out this morning. I'm just famous enough locally to bring every crank out of the woodwork, so I had to take it off the hook. Did you see one of those rags? 'Singer Stumbles Over Slaying.' I just hope they don't cancel my spot this Saturday." She pulled me tight, needing reassurance. "This is awful, thinking about myself with all this going on."
"No, it's not. You couldn't be awful if you tried, unlike some people I know." I nodded significantly at the door and Marza's direction and eventually got a smile.
"I'm sorry about that, she thinks you've dragged me into a situation that will hurt me. Marza's terribly protective."
"She's terribly something. Are you doing all right?"
"Yes, I'm just fine, really. Did you have anything to do with finding Alex?"
I gave her the quick version of events and covered the points all the papers missed. "Anyway, the heat's off him for now."
"What about poor Evan? I've tried calling the hospital, but they just said he was stable, whatever that means."
"Charles says he's all right, he just doesn't remember much from last night."
"Probably just as well. Look, I'm going to kick Marza out so we don't have to hang around the hall."
"Sorry, baby, but I have to go talk with Alex about some things."
"Like whether he-"
"Yeah, that and some other stuff."
"I don't know whether to wish you luck or not. Can you come back by later?"
"As soon as I'm free."
"Good. I'm still going to kick Marza out. She's been with me almost all day and I need a break."
"Attagirl."
At the hospital, the nurse on Evan's floor told me only thirty minutes were left for visiting.
"Is he still under medication?"
"Yes, a mild sedative to relax him."
That was convenient. "Has he had any other visitors?"
"Some of his friends are with him now." Her phone rang before I could ask which ones.
I opened his door quietly and was not too surprised to see Reva Stokes and Leighton Brett. Reva was concentrating on her talk with Evan and didn't notice me, but Brett looked up in time. He was a big man, but still managed to ease out soundlessly, heaving a relieved sigh as he joined me in the hall. He smiled grimly and pumped my hand.
"Good of you to come by like this," he said. "I hope you don't mind waiting, but Reva's just gotten him to talk a little about Sandra, and an interruption now might spoil the mood."
"I understand. How's he doing?"
"Better than he was last night. I forgot to thank you for your help. When he started to go off the deep end-"
"We were just lucky that doctor was still hanging around. Is Evan's memory any better?"
" 'Fraid not. I'm hoping Reva can help him, but if it comes to it I'll be looking around for some kind of psychiatrist. I don't know about you, but that breakdown he had last night scared me to death, and I'm still worried about him."
"How so?"
"He might do something crazy if we don't watch him. He und Sandra were very close. They genuinely liked each other. Now, I like my own sister, but if she got killed-God forbid-I wouldn't do anything desperate to myself out of grief. Anyway, that's how Evan's worrying me."
"Does his doctor know about this?"
"I've talked to him. He's keeping Evan sedated for the most part, but whether that's doing him any good..." Brett finished with a shrug.
"How long will he be here?"
"He gets out tomorrow and then he's coming to our house. I'm not letting him go back to that apartment and stay there alone."
"I'm glad to hear that, but I thought since he's known Alex for so long..."
He snorted, but not unkindly. "Alex is hardly fit to take care of himself, much less Evan."
"He's survived."
"At the cost of his soul, if you ask me. He gave up when his wife died. All we're seeing now is the walking corpse."
Brett had a point there. The first time I met Adrian I thought the same myself.
"He seemed pretty lively last night."
"Oh, he still has some anger in him. That's what sent him off half-cocked and nearly got him killed. I think anger is all that's really keeping him going these days, which is not a good way to live. I'd like to get him to a psychiatrist, but you can't cure a man's mind unless he wants help in the first place."
"I can understand him being angry about Sandra, but-"
"About his wife? It's been there, all mixed up with his grief. The man can twist himself up so much he could meet himself coming around a corner. Alex was working in his studio the night Celia-the night she died."
"And if he hadn't been painting, he might have stopped her?"
Brett nodded. "He's angry with himself and sometimes it's thick enough to cut with a knife. Evan was able to put up with it because he's known him for so long and is so easygoing he can't stay mad at anyone for more than a minute."
"Has Alex been in to see him?"
"I don't know. He was released earlier today and isn't answering his phone."
That sounded familiar. Brett excused himself to look in on Reva and a few minutes later they both emerged.
"I'm glad you've come by," she told me, taking my hand briefly. "He's still very sleepy."
"I won't stay long," I promised, and wished them a good night. When they were well down the hall, I went into Evan's room.
He was motionless on the high metal bed, his lank, ash-colored hair clinging damply to his pasty gray forehead. One lamp burned in a corner, its shade tilted so the light wouldn't bother him. He didn't notice I was in the room until I sat down next to him and lightly touched his hand.
He started slightly and his eyes dragged open. "Wha... ?"
"Hi, remember me?"
Recognition tugged wanly at the comers of his mouth. "Where's that pretty lady of yours?"
"I had to leave her home, I've heard of your reputation."
"You and all the nurses on this floor. Any water around?" found a glass on the bedside table and filled it for him. He sat up for a sip and fell back, exhausted. "They pumped me full of something I don't like. Everything tastes awful, even the water."
"How do you feel?"
"Dunno... wrapped up in cotton, all over. When I'm out of here I'll find something else to do the job."
Brett's fears were still fresh in my mind, but I had the feeling Evan was referring to the kind of emotional painkiller you get from a bottle of booze. "Cops give you a hard time?"
His eyes went vague for a second. "I don't think so, it's all so fuzzy."
"I know."
"This is real, isn't it? She's gone, isn't she?"
I nodded.
His hands formed into helpless fists and went slack again. "Why?"
"I don't know, Evan. I'm very sorry."
Not unexpectedly, tears started out of his eyes and trailed down the sides of his face. He was unaware of them.
I'd seen him start up like this before and neither of us would he the better for a repeat performance. "Evan... listen to me..."
First I calmed him down and then we had a quiet talk. It didn't take long to reach through to his blocked memory and find out he'd told the complete truth to the police. At least I had my own private confirmation that he hadn't killed Sandra and knew nothing about it. The last thing I did before sending him off to sleep was to make sure he had no thoughts about suicide.
I stood and turned to leave-and stopped short. Adrian was standing just inside the door. His mouth was slightly open and he was twisting his wedding band around.
I'd been focused entirely on Evan and had heard nothing.
"Hello," I said, hoping it didn't sound as awkward as I felt.
"I was wondering if you might show up," he stated neutrally. He was casually dressed, his shirtsleeves rolled back to accommodate all the bandaging on his wrists.
"How are you?" I asked.
"Well enough."
"Been there long?"
"Oh, yes."
"I'd like to talk to you."
"I rather thought you might. Shall we find a more comfortable place to do so?" .
Not waiting for a reply, he led the way down the corridor to a spacious room with one wall composed mostly of windows. Chairs and tables dotted the polished floor at frequent intervals, and a row of wheelchairs were stored in a far corner. During the day the place would have been flooded with sunlight, but now it was gloomy and strangely isolated. He didn't bother turning on the high overhead lamps and was content to remain in what for him would be darkness.
"It's like your studio, isn't it?" I asked.
He arrested his move to pull a chair from a table and glanced around. "Yes, it is...
I'd wondered why Hiked this place."
"And you prefer sitting in the dark?"
He got the chair the rest of the way out and sank gratefully into it. His movements were slow and careful, an indication of the stiffness lingering in his shoulders and back. "I don't mind. It softens reality and makes the impossible more acceptable."
"Me, for instance?"
"Yes." He brought out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one onto the table, but didn't fire up his match. Perhaps even that tiny spark would have made things too real for him. "I meant what I said last night, I won't tell anyone about you-or about what I just saw."
"Thanks."
"I have a lot of questions, though," he added.
"I might not answer them."
"You've a right to your privacy." He played with the cigarette, turning it end over end between his index finger and thumb. "Were you born with your abilities or were they acquired?"
"Acquired."
"Are there others like you?"
"I know of only two others."
"What are you?"
I considered that one seriously for a few seconds, then started to laugh. I couldn't help myself. Adrian looked vaguely insulted at first, then broke into one of his sudden smiles. It was brief, on and off again, but he meant it.
"Sorry," I said.
He shrugged it away and finally lit his cigarette, blowing smoke up into the still air. "Yes, I can see I'm ridiculous."
"Not you, the situation. Wanna change the subject?"
"By all means."
I broke away from the door and took one of the other chairs at his table.
"Sandra."
Muscles on both sides of his neck tightened into iron. "No."
"Have to."
"Why? No... never mind, it's all too obvious. As with Evan, you want to know if I murdered her."
"You need to be eliminated from a list of possibles."
"Same thing, nicer phrasing." He looked directly at me, his eyes and voice like ice.
"Ask."
I did and got the answer I expected. While I had his attention I asked my other question. "Did you kill Celia?"
His reply was slow in coming, so slow in fact that he woke out of my influence in his fight to hold it in. His walls were back up again but not as solid as before. When he took a puff from his cigarette I noticed the slight tremor in his hand. "I did not kill my wife," he whispered. "Not directly."
"How, then, indirectly?"
He was quiet for so long I thought I'd have to give him another nudge. "My work,"
he said finally, his tone so faint I might have imagined the words. "Always my damned work."
I waited until he'd smoked another half inch. "Your work?"
"What I have is not artistic talent, it's addiction. It's always been there, all my life. The silence and total solitude are utterly necessary for me to produce. Not many people can understand that, least of all Celia. She did try, and God knows she loved me, but it must have been the bitterest thing of all for her to realize she would always be second to the art."
I knew how bitter it had been for Barb Steler.
"I believe that all people have the need to create, and consciously or not they find outlets for it. They paint or write, they marry and have children. Celia had no such outlets for herself, but the need was there, so eventually she found one."
"What do you mean?"
"Another man. I really don't know how long it went on. She had the most miserable excuses for being out and sometimes she couldn't keep her stories straight.
Even now I'm not sure if I was being selectively blind or just stupid, probably a bit of both. She wanted me to find out, like a child who does something bad for the sake of getting attention."
"Did you?"
"Yes. Sooner or later every sleeper wakes. I think she was glad when it happened.
It was quite an explosion on my pan, but it proved to her I could still be hurt-that I still loved her." Some of his inner agony welled up, constricting his throat, thickening his voice. "Two days later she went out to the garage and started the car."
He drew deeply on the cigarette to distract himself and coughed a little on the smoke. If there was a suppressed sob hidden in that cough, I pretended not to notice.
"I was on the other side of the house in the studio and heard nothing. I'd been avoiding her by working on another damned magazine cover. We'd talked divorce, neither of us really wanted it, but we didn't know how to return to each other. I didn't know how to forgive her. She broke it off the only way she felt she could." He stared out the tall windows, seeing nothing. "That's how I killed her."
"Did Sandra know about this?"
"No. I wanted things to be different for us. She would have always been first-I would have made certain of it. We never had the chance."
"Who was the man?"
"Celia never told me."
"Could it have been Evan?"
He was almost amused. "No, of course not. He talks a lot of charm to a lot of women, but has the sense to stay away from the married ones. Besides, at that time he was happily involved with a little blond model named Carol."
"Have you ever figured out who it was, or guessed?"
He shook his head and stubbed out the cigarette in a tin ashtray. "I used to think of nothing else and now it hardly seems to matter anymore."
"You've no idea?"
"None." He ticked at the ashtray with an idle finger and nearly sent the dregs flying. "I think I'll look in on Evan now."
"He's going home with Reva and Leighton tomorrow."
"I thought they might make the offer, if only to spare him from my cheerful company. They did the same for me when Celia died, but I knew I'd smother beneath all their concern for my well-being. Evan's the type to respond to such care, though.
Perhaps it's what's best for him."
"I hope so."
"Good night." He walked out slowly, hardly making a sound.
"... so if Charles is still up when I go home he'll be getting an earful."
Bobbi half reclined on her couch, her feet curled under her and a small coffee in her hand. I sat opposite her on the edge of a low table, rubbing my right fist into my left palm.
"You think Celia and Sandra are connected?" she asked.
"They were both involved with Alex Adrian."
"He really got to you, huh?"
"Because of losing Maureen, I see myself in him. I know how he feels."
"You want to help, but you can't."
"In a nutshell," I said, sighing. "Your phone back on the hook?"
"Not yet, you need to use it?"
"No, I'm just noticing the quiet a lot for some reason."
"Stop carrying the world on your back and things will get a lot noisier for you."
She raised a smile out of me again. "Want to go to a movie?"
"How 'bout a western with a nice cattle stampede?"
That made me blink, until I figured out what she was getting at. "Been thinking about visiting the Stockyards?"
"All day."
"If you're sure..."
"Not yet, but you said I should watch what you do."
"I know. I think you have less problems handling it than I do."
"We can find out."
"Okay. Go put on something you don't mind getting dirty. That place ain't exactly Michigan Avenue, you know."
Ten minutes later we were cuddled up in the front seat of my car. Bobbi wore some battered Oxfords, a dark sweater, and a matching pair of wide-legged ladies'
trousers. Her bright hair was covered by a black cloche hat she said she hated, but hadn't gotten around to throwing out yet. We didn't talk much, but it was a companionable silence. I drove sedately and parked fairly close in.
The air vibrated with the lowing of hundreds of animals, and their organic stench flooded over us. Normally I wouldn't have parked downwind, but it was convenient.
The car would air out when we left. I glanced at Bobbi to see if she was ready to chicken out. She seemed to read my mind and shook her head with a smile.
"How do we get inside?"
"I usually disappear and float in, like I did the other night through Evan's door.
This time we'll climb a fence."
She opened her handbag and pulled out a tattered pair of black cotton gloves.
"Just as well I came prepared. I don't want to pick up any splinters." She pulled them on and tossed the bag under the car seat. "Ready?"
"You been studying for this?" I had a lot of time to think about it."
Picking a long, dark stretch between streetlights, I led the way in and helped her climb up and over. No one was around in notice our intrusion, but I didn't want to take any chances by hanging around too long. We went to the closest occupied pen and scrambled over its thick timbers.
Bobbi stared at the three cows huddled in the far corner and they stared unenthusiastically back. "Big, aren't they?"
"They stink, too."
"But you put your mouth-"
"Baby, I get so hungry, it just doesn't matter." A lazy stream, a wind from a distant slaughterhouse carried a breath of the bloodsmell over us. Bobbi couldn't pick it up, but I could and it stirred dark things within me.
"Are you hungry now?"
"I'm getting there." I'd fed last night, but a person can be full of food, walk past a restaurant, and still salivate. The same principle applied now. I made myself breathe regularly to catch more of the smell and centered my attention on the nearest animal.
The process of hypnotizing people is fairly simple, but different rules apply to animals because they have less intellect and better defensive instincts. I didn't entirely understand how to make an animal stand still for me, it was on the same level as my ability to disappear: I'd think about it and it happened, like flexing an invisible muscle. Maybe the animals could sense it somehow; it didn't matter much to me as long as it worked.
I closed in on the cow and ran my hand lightly over a big surface vein. It remained still, as though I weren't there. Bobbi tiptoed closer to see things better.
"This is where I usually go in," I told her, keeping my voice low and even. She nodded her understanding.
"What about your teeth?"
My canines had not yet emerged. I wasn't really all that hungry, nor was I sexually aroused to any great degree. "I'm having a problem there."
"Maybe I could help?" Her intuition was working again. That, or she correctly read the look in my eye.
"If you don't mind a little smooching in a cattle pen..."
She didn't.
A few minutes later I had to pull away from her. "I should have brought you along sooner, it's a lot more fun like this."
"Just as long as you don't feel the same way about the cow."
"Good grief, no."
The animal hadn't moved. I crouched next to it, careful to keep my knees out of the muck, and centered in on the vein. Not so very long ago I'd been quite squeamish about the whole business, now I cut straight through without any fuss-and I drank.
Bobbi crowded in to see. I finished and wiped my lips and she patted the cow.
"Nothing shows, at least nothing I can see now," she said.
"They get worse battering on the trip in."
"Maybe you should keep one as a pet."
"Charles hates cattle, too messy for him. So-what do you think?"
She shrugged. "It's not what I expected."
"And what was that?"
"I'm not sure... maybe that you'd sprout horns or something or start foaming at the mouth. Actually, you looked like you were enjoying it."
"Maybe I should start selling tickets."
"Get an agent first. Shall we go?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
We went back to her place and she shucked out of her old clothes while I flushed some soap and hot water over my face. When I came out of the bathroom I immediately noticed the lights were out and that she hadn't bothered to get dressed again.
"Something on your mind?" I asked innocently.
"I'd like to take up where we left off in the cattle pen." She slid her arms around my neck and fastened lightly onto my lips. "That is, unless you think you've already had too much for one night..."
She stifled a shriek as I picked her up and carried her to the bed. We fell into it, laughing, and proceeded to do some delightfully indecent things to each other.
Between the giggles and gasps, we talked of love and, eventually, consummated it.
Bobbi dozed a little and I stared at the dull white bowl of her overhead lamp, drifting in a pleasant haze of good feeling. Our legs and most of my clothes were tangled up in the sheets, but at the moment it seemed like too much trouble to straighten things out. Elsewhere in the hotel two radios played, each at a different station, but faint enough so as not to be annoying. Outside, traffic sounds oozed in through the windows.
"What are you smiling at?" she murmured.
"You were right. The world isn't so quiet since I put it down and started listening."
"I'm a font of wisdom," she agreed, and stretched luxuriously.
"Have you thought about what comes next?"
"You mean about changing me?"
"Uh-huh."
She snuggled in closer. "Well, it's kind of scary, but then so's love."
"How can love be scary?"
"It just is; the most important things always are."
"You scared of me?"
"Never, but you're still important."
"That's good. What do you want to do?"
She propped up on one elbow and looked at me. "I want to spend forever with you, or at least try."
Damn if I didn't start to get a lump in my throat. I pulled her close and couldn't let her go for the longest time.
"Jack... ?"
"Mm?"
"You may not breathe, but I still..."
I opened my arms a little and she emerged, smiling, her lianas rumpled as the sheets. "What do we do?" she asked.
I stroked the whole length of her body as though for the first time, making new discoveries, tasting new tastes. They say when you make love to produce a child it's different, more intense and vital. I felt that now and savored it. This was something to always be remembered and I wanted it to be the best of all possible memories for both of us.
She moved against me and on top of me, her warmth soaking into my own flesh.
With her I had no need of sunlight. I spread my arms to her and her hands generated new heat where they touched me.
Her lips plucked at my face, my chest, my neck...
That felt wonderful. I encouraged her to continue.
Her blunt human teeth wouldn't be able to break the skin easily, but the touch of them was maddening. I caressed her long, smooth back and worked my hand around front, between us, to her flat stomach. She lifted a little and I moved my hand lower.
Her sighs lengthened, matching my own.
The clean scent of her rose perfume filled me, the roar of her heart deafened me, the weight of her body on mine was a delightful burden I never wanted to set down.
She lifted her head, arching it back, her mouth open in a breathless cry as she accepted the climax I gave her. Her legs went stiff, her arms wrapped convulsively around me. Her hair and skin glowed in the faint light from the window. Dear God, she was beautiful.
My other hand came up, because I couldn't stand to wait any longer. With one of my fingernails I dug into my neck over the large vein. I felt no pain, only a sudden trail of scarlet fire seeping onto the flesh.
She saw-and understood. She kissed my lips once and then put her own to the wound. My sigh stretched into a moan as she took from me and as I gladly gave. I'd never had this kind of a climax before, not as a human, not even with Maureen. Like a storm, it rolled over and through and went soaring up to a peak lasting as long as she drew on my red life, taking its promise into herself.