Dead Man's Song

Page 64

In the center of the floor, Crow spread a thick mat of layered quilts, scattered with pillows, and onto this he lowered her, holding her hand until she was seated comfortably. He used the remote to start the CD player, and Loreena McKennitt began singing sweetly to them from the four speakers placed around the room. Sandalwood incense burned mildly and flavored the air with the aroma of exotic and faraway places, and Crow went around and lit a dozen long tapers, adding their golden glow to the light from the fireplace. There was an ice bucket with two bottles in it; Crow poured white wine for her and Perrier for himself into tall glasses and they lounged there listening to the music. The fireplace was cheerful but subdued, and the candlelight soothing to the mind and the eyes. Time just seemed to swirl, not really moving forward and not standing still. Time just was, and they were, and the moment was golden.
Crow touched her face and she reached and drew him to her, rising until they were an inch apart, both of them on their knees facing one another, bodies only a whisper apart. Crow took her hand and kissed her wrists, her palms, her fingers. He held her hand like a precious thing and kissed each fingertip, and then pressed her palms against his heart. Leaving her hands there, he reached and lightly touched her face, his own fingertips barely touching the softness of her cheeks as he bent to kiss her forehead, her eyes, and finally the sweetness of her mouth. It was such an innocent kiss, despite, or perhaps because of the intense purity of its passion.
He trailed his fingers down until he found the knot of her robe, and with the subtlest tug, the knot yielded and the ends fell away. The folds of the robe parted and candlelight touched her with gold: the curve of one breast, one thigh, the tips of her pubic hair. With infinite slowness and gentleness, he helped her to lie back on the soft mat. The folds of her rob fell in such a way as to cover her, and somehow that made his heart glad, as if all things in this night were conspiring to keep her safe.
Kneeling next to her, he kissed her lovely face and mouth, feeling the heat of her tongue. Her eyes were closed, long lashes sweeping down over her cheeks. Crow couldn’t help looking at her, at the construction of bone and tissue and blood and heat that had combined into such a pattern of loveliness, and he marveled at the fortune that had allowed him to be the caretaker of that loveliness if only for a single night. His lips sought hers again, and then drifted away downward to chin and throat, tasting the different parts of her, the different textures of her. He traced the lines of her collarbones with kisses, as well as the hard flatness of her sternum, and brushed against the upswell of flesh where each breast rose away from her heart. With great care he peeled open the robe and looked at her breasts as if he’d never seen them before, as if beholding some new mystery. They reflected golden light from the candles, and he bent to them, kissing the contours of each, finding the hardness of each nipple and drifting away only to rediscover them again and again, touching the pebbly hardness with the very tip of his tongue.
Val writhed slightly, her back arching as Crow took one nipple in his mouth, his teeth nibbling on it very gently as the tip of his tongue teased the flat tip. The writhing of her body made the robe fall open even more, and he looked down the length of her, past belly and hips, down long legs to the feet and to each pink toe. To his eyes she was a collection of perfect curves and planes and angles, each part correct in its design and in its part of the whole of her. At the inward curve of her left knee he paused and pressed his mouth and teeth against a pressure point, drawing a line of sensation with teeth alone that made her body twist. Then he continued up her leg, kissing the inside of the long, soft, slender thigh, going higher until he could feel the feathery brush of her pubic hair against his cheek. He shifted, turned, and bent to bring his lips gently down onto the dark swirl of hair, drinking in the perfume of her body, the scent of her awakening passion. His lips explored deeper until they touched heat and wetness and softness. Val hissed and moved as his tongue found that tiny rosebud, coaxed it to hardness, and kissed it deeply.
He shrugged out of his own robe and settled down naked on his chest. Both of his hands swept slowly up and down the length of her, touching and exploring as his tongue began it rhythmic dance back and forth, back and forth, slowly at first, then faster as her breath came faster. Val knotted her fingers in his hair and arched her back as the sensations within her began to build and it was not long before the tremor began deep within her. Crow could feel it through his hands, through his tongue, and through every part of his body that was touching hers. It was a faint tremor at first, but it grew quickly, vibrating out from inside of her, blossoming up, becoming real and full and at a certain point, unstoppable. Her hips were bucking now, twisting and shifting under him, and Crow had to hold on to her to maintain that contact, to keep that essential rhythm so that she don’t fall from that peak. When she climbed to the top of that mountain, her whole body arched, froze, held for a long moment, and then there was a release so violent and so total that Crow was buffeted by her. Val managed no words, just a continuous and inarticulate cry of pleasure and sensation. Her fingers knotted and twisted frantically in his hair, pushing Crow’s face against her, forcing a deeper, harder contact until the relentless waves of pleasure begin slowly—very, very slowly—to diminish, each new wave reaching to a lesser peak and settling lower.
As her body began to relax, slumping bonelessly, exhausted for the moment, Crow kissed his way up her stomach, along the straight line of her sternum, up the graceful curve of her throat, and finally to her parted lips. They kissed, tongues darting and dancing, and he took her in his arms and held her, feeling her sweat mingle with his, feeling her breasts crushed against his chest, feeling the hammering of her heart so much in rhythm with his own. Gradually he rolled over onto his back and with infinite gentleness and care, he helped her slide atop him. It was a movement so skillful, so synchronously performed that even as she sat astride him they were joined. They both uttered small, almost inaudible gasps
There was a long time for silence, for doing nothing but holding that position, for maintaining that perfect contact. They lay in the candlelit darkness for a long while, and Crow felt a burning tear land on his cheek. He reached his hand up to touch her face, searching for a troubled frown and finding only a smile, and he knew that the tear was shed for beauty, and not for pain. He immediately felt his own eyes well up, and as they wept, they began that slow rhythm that is the pulse of all life and love.
Chapter 22
(1)
For a town like Pine Deep having Friday the 13th fall in October was a reason to celebrate. “Little Halloween,” they called it. Schools were let out at noon, special football games were scheduled, there was a major party planned for the Haunted Hayride, and the town got into the party mood. The Harvestman Inn ran a special for groups of employees who showed company ID: thirteen beers for thirteen bucks. Motley’s Steaks offered a special on thirteen-inch hoagies, and the Dead End Drive-In was advertising a thirteen-movie marathon of classic horror that kicked off with the entire Friday the 13th series, including a Jason Voorhees costume contest.
Tourists would be pouring in by noon, and by two o’clock there would be ten thousand people packing the streets and another five thousand at the Pinelands College stadium for the non-league game between the Scarecrows and the Temple Owls. Then the town proper would reverse course and start to empty as everyone cruised out to see Concrete Blonde or Los Straightjackets in concert at the Haunted Hayride, or went to the Drive-In, or crammed the bleachers for the Scarecrows-Owls game. The town bars would be full, of course, but shopping would drop off after five o’clock, which was fine since many of the vendors set up booths at the Hayride and in a carnival line around the campus parking lot. Little Halloween was planned for months, and never in Pine Deep’s history had the holiday been as important to the overall financial survival of the community as it was this year. Terry Wolfe had been working to find ways of including the farmers in the town’s nonagricultural activities so they could make a buck. Maybe a few bucks; enough to meet their mortgages and get through the rest of the season with their farm deeds still in their hands. For everyone it promised to be a great day in Pine Deep.
(2)
Propping himself up on one elbow and watching her sleep. Crow thought that he had never seen anyone or anything as beautiful as Val looked at that moment. There was just the faintest rosy glow of sunlight painting the window and the softness of it caressed her cheek and jaw. He wanted so much to touch her face, to trace the line of her cheek, but he didn’t want to wake her.
“I love you,” he whispered.
She opened one eye, surprising him. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Did I wake you, sweetie?”
“Just the frequent heavy sighs. You sound like you’re deflating.” She was smiling, though, and bent forward, kissing him on the nose. “I love you too, you goof.”
He leaned toward her and gathered her in his arms. She was soft and warm and real and he covered her face and throat with kisses.
“Hey, slow down, cowboy,” she said, coming up for air, “before you start something you don’t have time to finish. Don’t you have somewhere you have to be?”
Still nestled in her neck, he peered over her shoulder at the bedside clock.
“It’s not even six and I don’t have to meet Newt until seven-thirty. We got loads of time.” He made Groucho eyes at her.
Val affected a yawn. “I should try and get some more sleep. I have a long day ahead of me, too. I don’t know if I should fritter away the morning with the likes of you.”
“‘Fritter’! I’ll give you ‘fritter,’ you vixen!” He began to tickle her, or tried to, but she was quicker and jammed her fingers under his elbows and got his ribs, reducing him to helpless shrieks of laughter. He tried to get away, but she wasn’t having any of that and climbed astride him, tickling him all over. There was pain—in her shoulder, her head, his wrist, his hip—but neither of them cared. Some things matter more than pain.
One minute later they were wrapped in each other’s arms and though they were both smiling, neither was laughing.