Friday, February 09, 2007
The Passions of Bryn: Winter Wind
He nudged his napkin along the dark wood.
A bulge of water on the bar feathered in and drained. The bartender got a little wild with the ice cubes.
He slipped ten dollars under his glass. Nice tip.
"Hey, thanks man," the bartender said.
He nodded and picked up his coat from the stool. Outside the door, the bitter cold peeled him. Wind chills way below zero. He buttoned down to the knees, but the blistering gusts ripped through.
He curled tighter and pressed into the night.
Block after city block, little worlds of light marched under lamp posts. He passed flights of stairs, brownstones glowing from their transom windows. Too bad chunks of color flaked off the masonry. Fakes, all of them. Nothing but stucco and paint.
He turned onto a street where bare trees jostled in the wind. Up the stairs, he raised a hand to knock, but the door opened before his knuckles fell.
She was there. The winter at his back pushed him into her eyes, clear like glass. He stood as the hall clock ticked beyond the hours.
She took him.
Hands under his coat. Rooms blurring. Cool skin sliding over his.
Then, the motion.
Whirling. Slipping. Reaching out to claw every inch of him down.
She was waiting at the bottom when he came.
She bit him, and he gushed into her. His blood. His semen.
The vampire yearned, and he delivered. Every last shiver. Every whispered wish. Every memory when the air smoothed over still waters. He delivered.
And for a moment after he died, she even loved him.
Go to The Passions of Bryn: Requiem 1.