Chapter Four

His blood poured into her body in warm, steady streams. Mouth working against his arm, she drew that divine medicine from his veins. Every drop; down her throat, through her arms and into her legs, down to the tips of her toes, it all brought her back from the dead. Like a great, burning explosion of rejuvenating life, like being born again.  

She fell in love with that feeling.

Oh, how high it made her. Words couldn’t describe the sensation of it all. Nothing in this world could ever be so amazing. Everything tingled. Her skin tightened, and she felt alive, more alive than ever before. Nothing scared her anymore. She had absolutely nothing left to fear. It felt like flying, like soaring through the clouds on a great winged beast, like floating to heaven.

A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest and rippled through his throat. Her lips held tight to his arm, sucked at his flesh, pulled so hard she thought it would tear away. Her jaw flexed, gums burning. Teeth – no tiny fangs – had sliced through. She could hear them press into his skin, feel it give into their tiny points. He winced, but that unpleasant little reaction didn’t stop her. No, she wouldn’t stop until that hunger went away, wouldn’t stop until she could control all that demanding need.

He drew in a sharp breath as his hand gripped her waist; squeezing but not hurting, not in a bad way. She couldn’t tell if it was pain or desire filling his eyes. His bottom lip rolled between his teeth as if he struggled against what he felt for her.

God, she wanted him so bad. She pulled and sucked at his flesh as if was his sex, waiting for her mouth to bring its explosion. Blood poured faster, started flowing free like the dam had broken and the flood released. And those little explosions of life and energy burned so much harder. They hit her like a freight train, one after another.

“Chérie, you must stop now.”

But she couldn’t, like a junkie to his pipe; she couldn’t stop, didn’t want to and might try to kill for more. It would be too damned cruel to take this feeling away. That fire burning inside of her had finally driven away the awful chill. She finally felt like something more than death, and somehow she knew if she didn’t have his blood that horrible, determined death would come back.

I’m healing! I’m healing! Don’t stop me now, please.

His hand shoved against her shoulder though not in a brutal or malicious way, but more in the way of forceful because he didn’t have a choice. She could taste his panic as he said, “You will end me if you do not stop.”

And the thought of losing this wondrous being, this splendid angel, made her tear herself away. That was the only thing she’d come to fear: life without him. She didn’t know him, had no clue to his person, but it didn’t matter. He’d saved her. He made her feel things she was fairly certain she’d never felt before. She couldn’t. It had all been too magical to exist in the real world, in the mortal world and she absolutely would not have anything to do with putting an end to all that.

Her body fell back against the fluffy cloud of bedding and she giggled, laughed hysterically. Oh God, the sensations, pounding through her, bringing her back to life. Such strength in his blood. Such power and intensity. And she felt every bit of it. Felt it churn through her and awaken everything she thought had been dead.

In silence, he watched and she could do nothing more than lay there and revel in all those strange yet invigorating sensations. She stared into the ceiling. This was absolute heaven, not limbo, not Hell, but pure heaven. She no longer cared that she didn’t know her own identity, didn’t care if she ever figured out her name or hometown. With all these new feelings, it just didn’t matter as much. She just wanted to feel like this forever.

“What . . . What,” she couldn’t find the words. “How?”

“You needed blood,” he said.

“Is it always like this?” She still stared at the swirling patterns in the ceiling, feeling like she might be skipping along all those curling lines into an abyss.

“Non, not always. You were very weak, chérie. Mine is the first blood you have taken. Though feeding from such an old creature will give you that high.”

“How old are you?”

He sighed. She watched his chest rise, hold for a moment then fall. His face turned thoughtful. “Maybe close to four centuries,” he said then thought about it a moment longer, “I forget. So much time has passed. I’ve seen so many things. Civilization alone has seen so many changes in my lifetime. It all begins to blur together.”

“Four hundred years old,” shocking that. He looked no older than maybe mid-twenties.

“Qui, mademoiselle,” he said.

“That’s so inconceivable,” she said.

Rolling over to face him, her body curled into itself, knees pressed against her chest. She really looked at him this time, saw every little detail. His face looked so serene, as if nothing had ever stricken him, as if he’d never worried a moment in his very long life. Every smooth feature carved with precision, every detail chosen by the wisest of Gods. Gray eyes, so light they almost looked white, shimmered and swirled, and she would swear she could drown in his gaze alone. And those lips, those soft lips with their light red tint, she could still taste them on the edge of her tongue. She imagined her fingertips tracing the firm lines of his square jaw until they tangled in the raven-colored waves of his hair.

Her eyes danced down his chest, his beautiful, bare, white chest; all muscle, fine lines and ripples. His arms, so thick and so strong, had held her in what felt like her darkest of hours. His wrists. . . .

Oh shit, his wrist! She’d made a bloody, ruin of it. Purple and red, teeth marks, spots of blood pulled to the surface into tiny dots. All that wonderful, pale skin now red and swollen. Dear God, she’d brutalized him. Eyes darting away from the horror, she met his calm, gray gaze with nothing but unadulterated disgust on her face.

“Look what I did to you,” she said in a ragged rush of shock and disbelief.

“It does not hurt, chérie. These are superficial wounds,” he whispered as his other hand rubbed across the marks. “They will disappear quickly.” His voice sounded nothing less than pleased, satisfied.

I . . . I . . . I . . .

“What is it,” he whispered. His hand caressed her chin a moment then he slid his gentle fingers down her throat.

“I can’t believe I did that to you,” she said, still gawking at his wrist.

“Heat of the moment, chérie. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Her hand searched for his arm, held it so she could see. She did that to him and yet he didn’t seem to mind it at all. She couldn’t believe it, no matter how much she stared. Her thumb passed over the bits of raised flesh, rolling over it repeatedly so the reality of it all could sink in. Tiny teeth marks, just inside the marks he had made. They came from her teeth, no her fangs. She had fangs…?

“Believe it, ma chérie. For this,” he said nodding towards his arm, “this is very real. Forget what you thought you knew, forget what you believed, forget your faith, because everything has changed. Nothing in your life will be as it was.”

That sounded dreadful and somehow beautiful. But it truly didn’t matter; she had already forgotten everything, lost everything from her mortal life. Though, she didn’t think that had been his point. He needed to let her feel the weight of what had happened. He needed her to understand that strange things would become her new reality and she just had to accept it all.

 “Forget what you thought you knew,” he had said. Whatever the hell that was. Had she ever believed in vampires? Witches and Ghosts? Had she ever believed in God or the devil? For Christ’s sake, she didn’t know and now, suddenly, she had to believe in something that seemed so far beyond real. She had to believe because she’d seen the evidence first hand. Her mind spun as it tried to embrace the thoughts, to believe in things only read about in books. Myths and mysteries had become true stories and she had to learn to accept it.

 And he watched in silence though he seemed to know every racing thought she had, as if he knew without asking. She could see it on his face, in his eyes, like he had been watching a movie this entire time. His brow furrowed when he focused on her, eyes whipping back and forth across my face as if he were searching for something. At that exact moment, her mind stopped reeling. Her thoughts became coherent, and he relaxed.

“Is feeding on a human so intense,” she asked, looking back to his ruined wrist which had already begun to heal.

“Feeding from a mortal will not have the same effect, though great in its own right.” He watched in silence as she stared at his arm, then he finally said, “Let me see your teeth, please.” She opened my mouth and he pressed his thumb against the points of her new fangs. He made little noises of approval. “You must have been in that alley for quite some time. Your fangs have grown to the proper length and they are quiet sharp. It usually takes more than a few days before that happens.”

“I felt them burn. In the tub, I felt them pressing through my gums.”

“Qui, they do not just appear. They build behind your gums and lengthen as the days pass. I would almost venture a guess at,” he eyed her mouth consideringly, “maybe five days now.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Three nights.”

Dear God, had she really laid in that alley for two days without anyone noticing? Had the passers-by really not cared about the girl laying there dying?

“Rayce?”

“Qui?”

“Have you killed a lot of people?”

His gray eyes darkened, shifted away. His head bowed. So much shame in that one little mannerism. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked the question.

“Not everyone has to die.”

“Come again?”

“You don’t have to kill everyone you drink from, chérie. There are mortals in this world who would give their souls to spend the evening in the arms of a vampire. If you are not so fortunate to find such a person, you can always entrance them, bend their will and take the memory of the feeding from them before you release them. I would rather not do the latter, but if I must . . .”

She didn’t say a word.

“But that did not answer your question I see.” He brushed the hair from her face, wiped a spot of blood from her lip then licked it from his finger. She watched him, watched every little fidgeting motion he made. It was very clear he didn’t want to answer the question and she wouldn’t press. Then he finally said, “I have killed many over the years. More than I care to admit or can even remember. I have grown much wiser as those years have passed. I can have my nourishment. I can have my rapture, and my victim does not have to lose their life.” He paused a moment, narrowed his gaze. “To dwell on their deaths would be senseless. I grieved for my victims. I grieved for my soul and I moved on.”

She sighed, closed her eyes and felt the sudden need to pray for her own soul.

He lifted her hand to his lips, a delicate kiss on the knuckles before he gently placed her palm back against the bed. “You should get dressed. We need to find adequate nourishment for you. This new strength my blood has given you, it will not last forever.”

Rayce went to the closet, pulled out clothes and shoes she thought she would never be able to walk in. Took a bag of something he had taken from the armoire and placed it all in a neat pile on top of the dresser.

Just let me stay here a moment longer, she thought.

“Chérie, you cannot just lay there,” he said.

She didn’t remember saying that little wish aloud. Stunned, shocked, freaked out, whatever, her eyes narrowed. How had he heard her when her lips never moved, never made a sound? His hand caressed her cheek. He smiled and it softened those smoky eyes that made him look so ethereal and magical and kind, even sensuous.

“You have tasted my blood. We are now tied, a bond if you will. I will know your thoughts as long as you are with me,” he said just before he placed another tender kiss on her forehead.

“But I can’t hear you.”

“I must taste of you.”

“Well taste me then.”

“Ma chérie, not yet, you must feed first.”

Fine, feed me, I don’t care. Taste me! For God’s sake, taste my blood already!

The idea of having him inside her excited her. She had to have him. She wanted to feel his mind almost as much as she wanted to feel his body. She needed to feel him, feel that palpable, miraculous angel whirling through her thoughts and writhing beneath her hands. Her heart longed for his. Her lips longed for his and her body, oh it longed to be his.

A slight laugh and her eyes cut to him. He smiled; traces of laughter fresh on his face and dear Heaven how it glowed. She almost lost herself in his laugh and his eyes until she realized what tickled him so.

Well now, wouldn’t this be interesting now that he could hear her thoughts.

“I think I’ll get dressed now,” her nervous voice said without the benefit of thought.

Rayce bowed his head just before he ducked out of the room. A fresh pile of clothes awaited her. She lifted the bag of toiletries away, sorted through it all: a toothbrush still in the package, a brand new container of deodorant, a bottle of Obsession for Women, a hairbrush with the tags still dangling from the handle. He had gone out and bought all of it for her?

A red dress, cut low, flowing into a sweeping asymmetric hem, is what he had chosen. Black panties and a black bra, black leather knee-high boots, would she have dressed like this as a human. She couldn’t remember of course, but what she’d awakened in looked nothing like that. Her dirty, old converse sat in the floor, next to a pair of tattered blue jeans and a tiny yellow t-shirt. How boring she must’ve looked in that getup.

Like any girl, she had to have a mirror to get dressed. The need came as a natural instinct. Girls just don’t throw sloppy clothes over their heads and run out the door, but then again…. She looked back at that pile of dirty, ratty clothes in the floor. Maybe she had been one of those girls. Nonetheless, in her new being, her new life – or was it her new death? She had to be much more presentable to woo a man into letting her drink the blood from his body. 

On the wall, just by the door, a floor length mirror hung. Finally, she’d have a chance to look at herself for the first time, to know what her body truly looked like. She shuddered a moment. The thought of actually seeing herself scared her a bit. What if she’d become some hideous, monstrous creature?

She approached the mirror with closed eyes. This would have to be a slow process. She took a deep breath. One eye eased open, no monster there. The other eye opened and she could see her entire form standing there. She raised a hand, waved to be sure. Yes, yes that was her reflected in that mirror; the girl who had no identity, the girl who had become the undead.

Pale white skin wrapped around a tiny frame. She was short and slim. It even looked like she frequented a gym. Muscles curled beneath her flesh as she turned her arms and her torso. She eyed my bottom, pleased to find it perfectly round, firm. Her breasts were nice; plump and pale.

She leaned in closer. Green eyes stared back, eyes that didn’t belong on a human body. Different shades of green, and she could see every little speck of color. From the faintest to the most brilliant, they all swam into an endless swirl. How completely enchanting those eyes.

Even her lips were amazing; pale pink, plump but small. Oh how seductive they seemed, and all the beauty was pleasing. So pleasing, her smile widened. The gleam of pearly whites made an appearance, and when her mouth peeled open, she noticed the fangs. Her thumb pressed against a tiny point and a drop of blood bloomed from her white flesh.

“Dear God,” she gasped. “They’re real.”

Unpublished Work ©2012 - Allison Cassatta 

Chapter Three

“Oh God,” she gasped and tried so hard to shove away from him. It had been his blood the entire time; calling her, begging her, controlling her. His blood, not his sex, had made her animalistic. And something about that little epiphany hurt the depths of her very being. “Get away from me,” she begged in an airy rush of words. Tears burned her eyes. Panic pressed through her limbs. “Get away.”

Whatever attraction there had been turned to utter terror. Forcing her arms between their bodies, pressing her elbows down into his ribs, she tried to shove away. Her mouth watered. She wanted to taste that bright, red, sweet-scented fluid blooming from his shredded flesh.

“Let me go,” she screamed through her tears. “Let me go, let me go!”

“Ma chérie,” he held tighter.

“Rayce, I swear you’d better let me go or I’ll claw out your eyes.”

“Ma chérie, please calm down. Let me explain,” he begged.

“Let me go, Rayce. I can’t live like this. Let me go damn it!” 

His arms loosened. She’d been pushing against him so hard when he let go, she fell back into the tub. Her body kept sliding. With a messy splash, she hit the surface of all that hot water. It sloshed over the tub’s edge and drenched the floor. Water spilled into her mouth and burned through her nose. And even that didn’t snap her out of hysteria.  

Rayce grabbed her hand, held it within his icy grasp and pulled her up before she drowned. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead. Blood blossomed from his wounds. God, that scent, it was all she could smell; mouth-watering, delicious, metallic aroma. His eyes narrowed, flared with power and frustration. He said, “You need blood. You will die for sure without it.”

“I… I don’t want this. Please don’t make me.”

No, make me, please! Let me taste it. Please, just a quick taste.

So much need, but she couldn’t admit aloud how badly she wanted it. She wanted his blood in her mouth so bad it hurt. She just couldn’t allow herself to become a monster, the very thing in the dark that children feared, the thing of nightmares.

Oh God, she began to crumble from the inside out.

Stay away from me! I’ll kill you if you come closer!

“Chérie, please just drink of my wounds. My blood will not heal you. It will not sate you, but it will bring you enough strength to hunt for better.”

“I can’t,” she breathed.

She’d said the words and knew they were a horrible lie. Give her your blood. Let her drink. She wanted that heady, aromatic liquid in her mouth, on her tongue. Let her taste his flesh. Oh God, it was true, she had become a monster. Her body trembled, lips quivered.  It couldn’t be.

“I will not watch you die,” he finally said. “If death is what you seek, I will carry you back to that alley and lay your body amongst the filth as though I had never found you, but I will not watch you die.” He closed those magical gray eyes and bowed his head. Ebony hair covered his face to hide his agony.

Why did he care so much? Was she not a complete stranger to him?

“Fine,” she said. “Just make the pain go away. Make my body work again.”

His solid, white arms plunged into the water, scooped her body out and carried her away; dripping and shivering. A towel wrapped around her as he laid her limp, lifeless frame amongst the billowing fleece and smooth silk of his bed.

The burgundy t-shirt caressing his muscles so amazingly well, fell away and she only saw his rigid, alabaster backside glowing in the candlelight. A giant filigree cross, tattooed in black, stretched across his entire back. Her fingers begged to trace every detailed line and every little turn. She wanted to feel those immaculate, carved muscles against her palms and maybe, if the mood suited him, she could do it all over again with her tongue.

He turned back to her and only his black slacks covered him. From the waist down would remain nothing but a fantasy to race through her rampant imagination, the memory of his hardened sex pressed against her painted in vivid pictures.

She watched as he moved closer, like slow motion, magical and fluid. Muscles flexed beneath his skin, curled and rolled like a sleek animal hunting prey. He sat down next to her and she couldn’t stop her stares. Something about the look in his eyes showed how bad it pained him to be the one to lead her into this dark realm. He didn’t want to be her savior, not like this, but he wouldn’t allow her death.

His arm wrapped around her shoulders, lifted her body from the bed. He bit into his wrist and drops of red slowly pulsed from his flesh. “Here,” he whispered as he pressed his arm to her lips.

At first, she fought it. Her lips together, refusing to drink. Annoyed with her deception, Rayce’s muscled arm flexed with irritation, but she wasn’t ready for this. She couldn’t be a blood-drinker, a killer. His arm flexed again and the metallic, copper scent of his blood grew stronger. It whirled through the air until it was all she could smell, and she simply couldn’t fight it anymore.

Her mouth flew open, ready and waiting, and when the first drop of blood hit her tongue, she knew she’d never be able to fight it again. 

Chapter Two

Something soft and warm wrapped around her, something fuzzy and familiar. It felt like home, like a blanket from a childhood bed. She pulled the fabric to her nose and it smelled just like the angel who had saved her, the angel with the magical, musical voice.

Candle flames licked against a faraway wall, and for a moment, she could actually see the huge room around her. Tan walls with a single covered window. Furniture; possibly antique, but definitely beautiful. The bright orange coils of a heater stared her in the eyes. Her savior had left it there to warm her. She’d been shivering and sweating and every inch of her body throbbed. She was sore to the touch as if she’d been beaten, and God help her she was starving.

The scent of basil and bay floated through the air. Her mouth began to water, stomach grumbled with demand. She tried to lift herself from the bed, but her arms quaked and her body swaggered as she pressed her palm against the mattress. She’d only managed to gain an inch or so and all that effort got her nowhere. No closer to food, but much closer to passing out again.

Christ, what has happened to me?

“Mademoiselle,” his velvety voice whispered.

Thank God! Oh, how she thought he’d left her there to die of starvation in that lonely, darkened room. “I…. Am I going to be okay?” she asked. Her voice quivered with uncertainty.

“I think you will survive, ma chérie.”

“You saved me?” It sounded like a realization formed more as a question and he responded with a delicate “qui.”

God, how she wanted to hug that gorgeous man, wanted to kiss his beautiful face, pull him into her arms and hold him while she cried tears of relief against the curve of his neck. She didn’t even know his name, but to her, he was an angel and that’s all that mattered.

“I made soup. Maybe this will warm that cold body of yours before you catch your death. Do you think you can manage a sip?” he asked. His voice sounded so concerned, so caring.

Of course she could. For him, she would try anything.

His arm slid around her shoulders, lifted her torso from the bed. He held the warm, piping bowl in his hand as he touched it to her lips. The soup rolled over her tongue.

She would’ve sworn he concocted death’s potion. It was absolutely revolting. Not in a way that her stomach could handle. It physically hurt, felt like needles trickling down her throat.

He saw the pain, saw the disgust on her face and the look in her eyes almost broke his heart. “Do not force yourself to drink. It will only make you sicker.” He paused for a long moment, considering eyes floating over her weakened body as he sat the bowl on a far table. “Hmm, I feared as much.” And that open-ended comment scared her nearly as much as waking up in the streets with no identity and no sense of being.

“You feared what?” she asked. Every bit of dread and hesitation rolled past her lips.

“Well ma chérie, you are cold to the touch, yet your flesh burns with such a fever that you are sweating. You have absolutely no color left in your body and you cannot even bring yourself to sip of that broth.”

“What does that mean?”

“I am afraid, mademoiselle, you are undead… a vampire.”

Laughter ensued. She couldn’t help it, she laughed so hard it hurt. How crazy the notion sounded. Her gorgeous angel had lost his mind even worse than she had. Vampire, really? What kind of fairytale did he live in?

“May I check your throat,” he said.

Out of pure instinct, her hand locked over her neck, fingers investigating the flesh. Of course, she found nothing, no marks at all. She’d seen plenty movies. She knew he wanted to check for bites.

“Maybe our fiend took from your thigh or your breast,” he said.

Oh dear God, he wanted to touch her body, very intimate parts of her body. “Don’t come near me. You’ve lost your mind. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” She started to ease from the bed again, “but I think I should be going now.”

With a ragged rush of breath, she attempted to stand. Her body wavered, knees threatening to fold under the slightest weight. The room began to spin. She collapsed, but he caught her. God help her, he swept in from across the room and caught her. No way did he have time to clear that kind of distance and keep her from falling to the floor.

“How…?”

“As I said before, ‘undead’,” he said matter-of-factly. His gray eyes bore into soul. They flared with restrained power.

Trembling, gut-wrenching, heart-stopping panic washed through her in a flood. Adrenaline made her high, gave her a hint of strength. His arms wrapped around her waist and suddenly she felt smothered. She tried to push away from him. Hands pressed against his chest, she pushed hard, but still he held her against his body. Her feet barely grazed the floor.

“Get away from me! Let me go!” She screamed as she pounded against his chest. Still, his grip was firm, unrelenting. “Let me go!” Her pleas trailed off into violent sobbing and the pounding lessened. “Let me go,” came out again, like a weak little whisper. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get away. Her body grew heavy. Dark, empty blackness crept in.

She fainted.

Sometime later, though how long she didn’t know, she awoke on the same fluffy bed, head throbbing harder than it had before. Fire raged in her empty gut. Her chest felt compressed, like something heavy pressed against her.

Lurching forward, she felt soft, warm, fleece graze her bare nipples; felt it brush her thighs as it slid away. She was completely naked, completely vulnerable with her body bared for him to see. Her hands cupped my breasts. Heat spread through her face. The soft tip of her fingers brushed across her breast; two little marks, raised and vicious. Those marks, the stranger knew he would find if only she’d had the courage to let him look.

Eyes closed, fear rose like a violent knot in her throat. “God, he was right” she breathed raggedly. “I died. I was dead—am dead. Oh, God, no!”

She slowly opened her eyes, let her gaze travel down. There they were. Her touch hadn’t deceived her. Oh, he was right, that incredible, insane, guardian angel had been right. Someone had turned her into a walking corpse and no amount of four-lettered swears would change that. No amount of praying would take it back.

He sat away from her, silently watching as she tried to hide her body. She didn’t even notice him at first. In the candlelit darkness of the room, he faded into the atmosphere. His gray eyes stared straight ahead, never leaving her form. His body tensed. He leaned forward. The flickering flame cast a golden glow over his pale skin. Concern shone like a painful scare on the beautiful curve of his face.

She screamed and cried and cursed. Her body curled into a wicked crescent as she slid under the covers. Tears rained down her face again, and this time, her brutal cries brought him to her side. He sat down on the edge of the bed, but didn’t touch her. That alone was a small comfort.

His gray eyes softened, became gentle and endearing. “Mademoiselle, it isn’t the end of the world,” he said in what had to be his most tender voice. “This is an affliction that you can survive with help.”

“Am I truly dead?”

“Not truly, non. You are undead, very different than being dead.”

“What do I do now? I don’t even know who I am. This place can’t possibly be my home. I don’t even know if I have a home. Oh my God, what am I supposed to do?”

Her palms pressed to the bed as though she could just push away from it all and escape this whole horrible experience. His hand slid over hers, so sweet, so patient. She looked down to see their fingers’ little escapade and their hands had the same eerie, white hue, the same vapid color.

Gasping, she fisted her cold, trembling hands against her chest.

“Do you remember anything? Think very hard. Did you vacation with friends? Maybe you have family living here. Do you remember anything at all,” he asked.

His voice forced her eyes away from the discovery of her dead skin. She looked at him; his gentle hands, his strong arms, his firm chest, his handsome face and gray eyes. “No,” she sighed.

“Think upon it. Think very hard.”

Closing her eyes, she retraced every step back to the stinking, damp alley on Decatur Street. At first, everything was blank, vicious, empty nothingness. Then she remembered walking across the uneven pavement, remembered the colors and the sounds. Oh the sounds: so overwhelming, so alive. And that smell, sweet Jesus, where had it come from? What was it? So strong and fiery: red pepper and paprika, clove and cardamom, it had whirled through her nostrils in a blaze.

So much beauty, so much culture, New Orleans had to offer. Things she’d enjoyed. Things that made her heart race and her mind swoon. She’d thought she could fall in love with the city and its vigor, but had no clue why she’d gone there in the first place.

“A coffee shop,” she mumbled. It was a cute corner bar with elegant, dark wood counters and quaint checkerboard floor. She loved the smell of the fresh-brewed coffee. Two old men played chess next to the window. The barista had been a thin girl with gorgeous eyes and dark hair. A faded green shirt clung to her chest, tight-fit jeans, and a brown pageboy cap. She remembered thinking how adorable and how perfect for such a place. Oh, what was the name of it?

“Envie,” she gasped.

“Ah qui, the espresso bar on Decatur,” he said.

“Yes!” She thought about it very hard. “I’d ordered mocha, non-fat milk.” Did she speak with anyone? Her brow creased. “I just… I can’t remember anything. I’d walked back out to Decatur Street with a big, steaming cup of mocha in my hands and I had started towards the market….”

Oh yeah, the French Market.

Now, she remembered. How stunning that place had been. Masquerade masks in every color of the rainbow; she’d wanted one so badly. They were so beautiful. And all the silver jewelry. She’d been amazed by the intensity of it all. People had moved in droves through the market, past table after table while venders had peddled their wares. “The French Market…. I don’t know. I can’t remember anything else.”

Then the word “Esplanade” hit her like a ton of bricks, like it might be a vital clue and part of her brain was awake and coherent enough that it wanted to make sure she knew the importance of it. In a rush of ragged breath, she said the word.

“Esplanade Avenue? It is close by,” he said. “Do you know the significance of it?”

“No,” she said with a haggard sigh as she slumped further into the bed.

“Very well,” he whispered and he brushed his hand across her black hair. It trailed down in long, flowing tendrils, fell against her arm and shimmered in the candlelight. She’d never noticed it before, never realized the brown highlights woven into all that black.

“We must break this fever of yours,” he said in a whisper as he tucked the fallen curls behind her ear. “I will draw a warm bath for you.”

“Yes please.”

Alone now, she had time to think about everything she’d learned and had yet to learn. Undead, how does one begin to process that? Who knew vampires really existed? Who would’ve ever imagined that things really do bump in the night and they weren’t horrifying or menacing. At least, this one wasn’t.

She’d never seen a man so utterly edible before. Well, not literally edible…. Wait, maybe now, in a way he would be. His firm, square jaw rounded into a soft chin. No facial hair, just smooth white flesh that came to a dead stop at a pitch-black widow’s peak. There was something sinister in his gray eyes, but when he really looked at her, she didn’t see it. She saw loyalty and concern, hope and misery.

                “Ma chérie, your bath is drawn,” her angel with misery in his eyes said. “Do you need my assistance?”

She tried to lift her body from the bed. That old, familiar rumbling pain shot though her, arms quavered as she pressed her palms against the mattress. Slowly, she slid to the edge, planted her feet amongst a cushion of thick carpet, stood and had to grab the bed to keep from tumbling to the floor.

“Please,” her voice barely made a sound.

He glided into the room, eyes turned away, with a robe in his hand. She thought it chivalrous the way he refused to look at her naked form or the way he seemed so uncomfortable being alone in the room with her. He held that soft, colorful, silken robe out and she took it from his hand, but just the touch of it against her flesh hurt. Tiny, unpleasant noises pushed through her throat, spilling little sound over the tight line of her lips.

The angel of mercy lifted her into his arms and carried her to a stark, white bathroom far from the room she’d been staying in.

Staring into all those bright surfaces burned her eyes. They clenched shut, begging for relief. No, poor eyes, I won’t let that awful light hurt you, she thought.

Carefully, he eased her naked body into the piping water of a huge bathtub, though he still refused to watch. His head turned away as if seeing her nude would be more than offensive, even sinful.

Goosebumps rose on the surface of her skin as soon as she felt the first bit of heat. She shuddered in his arms and assumed he took it the wrong way, because as soon as he had settled her in the tub, he went for the door.

“Please don’t go,” she said, but her voice held no conviction. “Just stay with me. I don’t want to be alone.”

His face slowly turned, gaze fixed on hers. He didn’t dare look at her nude body.

Misery had returned, her cruel evidence awash in all the majestic gray in his eyes. She watched his chest rise and his shoulders stiffen. His nostrils flared and his eyes widened. She could tell he didn’t want to stay in there; alone, with her, but he would only for her comfort.

She sunk down into the water’s caressing warmth. Body instantly relaxed, head resting against the tub’s edge. “I never got your name,” she whispered, staring into the filigree designs on his tin ceiling.

“Rayce,” he said. His “r” rolled into a purring hiss.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle. And what shall we call you?”

She didn’t have a clue and that crushed her soul. She thought for a moment, tried to recall her name. Nothing, not even the smallest remembrance of what she might have been called. Rolling away from him, she hugged herself in hopes that her arms might have the strength to hold her together, but oh how she wanted to cry.

“Ma chérie, a name is but a tag. It does not make the person. It does not change what is in your heart. It is unimportant and it shouldn’t concern you so.”

How sweet.

“Rayce, no offense,” she rolled back towards him and gazed into his face, “but you know who you are. Have you ever lost your identity? Do you know how bad it feels—not knowing anything about yourself?”

“Non, I do not, mademoiselle.” He fell silent for a moment. Eyes wandered here and there, but never met hers.

What I wouldn’t give to read his thoughts.

Her mind meandered around him, around his being, around what his past could’ve been like. She’d been completely lost in thought until a pain raged through her and her own screams pulled her away from her daydreams.

Heat, so much heat, like a bolt of fire tore through her insides. Razorblades slid down her throat as she tried to swallow. Her gums began to ache. Her brain wanted to explode. Blazing heat seared her eyes. The pain curled the tips of her fingers and toes. Her body twisted and contorted, writhed and wrenched. She screamed again.

Rayce pulled her tormented body from the water. He held every dripping, wet bit of her against him. He made hushing noises as she breathed in that intoxicating scent of his. He brushed the hair from her face, rocked her back and forth while the sound of his voice sang like a lullaby.

Just make the pain stop, she wanted to say, but could only scream harder.

“Chérie, quiet yourself. Screaming does not help this pain.” He pressed his lips to her cheek and continued to rock. “Shh,” he breathed. When he touched her, all the pain receded. She felt no fear.

When their flesh met, she felt flutters of velvet. Every inch of her skin tingled. This man would be her utter undoing. “Now, remain calm,” Rayce said. “Fall into my voice and I swear, Chérie, that everything will be just fine.”

She did, she fell into his voice, into that magical sound. That sound so thick with nurture she’d swear it could push all the horror away. His voice curled through the air, ran across her tingling, wet body, threaded down her spine. She sank into his voice. Eyes closed, face rested against his chest.

And Just when she thought everything inside her had calmed, that she had a moment to feel nothing, his scent shot through her like a raging hurricane. She wanted to taste him, to feel him. She needed him.

She pressed her lips to his. A furious kiss, a press so full of passion it seemed as though everything around them would burst into flames.

His eyes widened, muscles tensed. He started to push away, but she wouldn’t let go.

The intimate press of his stiffened arousal against her bottom made her core throb, and she ground herself against him. Heat rose between her thighs. He moaned into the kiss as her soaking wet breasts stabbed against his firm chest. His length grew harder. An explosive, tingling, rush jolted her body and she realized how badly she wanted him inside her.

Hands tearing at his shirt, that fabric had become a nuisance, a road-block on her escapade to unleash his heavenly body. She rocked back and forth against the growing bulge at his groin. “I want to feel it,” she growled against his mouth. “Let me touch it.” Her fingers raked down across his arms, the arms that had held her body and kept the blinding pain away.

Then she smelled it, not his normal invigorating scent. No this was something new, something amazing, something sweet. Her need grew more demanding. She would crawl out of her own skin just to get closer to tasting him. Her hands fought to free him of his pants though she wouldn’t allow enough space to get her hands between their bodies. Her thighs tingled with a wet rush of heat.

“What is that smell?” she struggled to speak as she ran her nose down his throat, breathing him in. Her lips worked at his neck and his head rolled back in offering. A guttural sound rumbled through him. She could feel the vibration against her tongue.

“Non,” he breathed. “I cannot….”

And she sucked harder, grinded harder, moaned louder. He awoke a need in her, not so much sexual, though that had been a part of it. No, he’d awakened a hunger not unlike the one she’d had when she rose from death. That magnetic, metallic scent tuned her on, made her mouth water, and drove her to the verge of sanity.

What is it? I must have it!

Chapter One

Cold. So damned cold, and hungry, and scared, and sore. That’s how she felt when she awoke amongst the filth and concrete and garbage. It smelled horrible, like rotted food and stale beer and excrement and God knows what. And the noise, damn it! She winced in pain. Too much noise: people yelling, cars honking, engines roaring, music blaring. Her head pounded like a band of a thousand men marched across her skull. And worst of all, she realized she had no idea who or where she was.

Blinding, gut-wrenching pain tore through every inch of her being. Sweat poured off her face though cold shivers climbed her flesh. She couldn’t even open her eyes to see. She tried. Heaven help her she did, but when her heavy lids lifted, fire blazed and daggers of dim light stabbed her retinas. Her eyes slammed shut, refusing to endure.

Oh God, what’s happened to me?

She wanted to scream for help. Oh, how she hoped those distant people would hear her cries; that someone would run to her aid. She tried to scream. Her mouth made the shape, but no sound pushed past the giant, dry knot in her throat. Then she realized she couldn’t breathe, like a weight pressed against her chest. No air! She couldn’t breathe!

She panicked.

Shit, help me! I’m dying!

So much fear and pain and confusion and thirst. She knew she had to move. She had to get to safety, but she couldn’t. God help her, she couldn’t move. Every inch of her body had become a giant, dead weight; a useless machine built from God’s grand design.

She carefully pried her eyes open again, relieved that she could actually do it. In fact, she could finally see again, and what she saw was a haze: dark in color, foreboding in nature. Shocked or stricken, she stared into a distant, starlit, night, framed by walls that reached towards the sky. Bricks; cracked and peeling. Walls littered with vines, left to wither and die. She could certainly sympathize. Her palms pressed against the ground, against moisture and slime.

She tried to move again, lifted her head by only inches and it took every ounce of energy she had. Black fireworks exploded in her eyes. Another roil of pulsing torment shot through her gut. She fell back to the moist pavement, lying in the muck and stench. She couldn’t even feel a faint hint of life inside her body.

This had to be the end. Her chest didn’t heave with breath. Her heart didn’t pound. Her veins no longer pulsed. She felt absolutely nothing, not even the resemblance of hope, and no one could save her.

Had I been dumped here to die?

She gave up; on hope, on life. She accepted her fate and accepted her death. But in preparing for this to be the end, the most incredible miracle happened.

“Allow me to help you,” a deep, velvet voice said. So musical. So enchanting. That voice wrapped around her body, ripped her from the morbid chaos of doom. It gave her hope.

A glowing white hand from Heaven thrust through the darkness of her personal Hell, fingers splayed and begging. She would’ve sworn it was the hand of God, reaching down to take her to Heaven.

He knelt down beside her and she saw it wasn’t the hand of God at all. Oh, he could’ve been a God, but he was in fact a man: a very real man, with smoky gray eyes and hair as black as night that rained down around his face and hugged the hard line of his jaw. He swept the soggy curls from her face and stared down at her with the sincerest concern.

“Trust in me, I will save you,” his incredible voice sang. Those deep gray eyes bore straight through to her soul. She wanted to cry, to let him embrace her while she wept. She wanted to adore him, wanted to worship him.

“Where am I?” she finally said.

 “Decatur Street, near the French Market.”

 “I don’t know Decatur Street! I don’t know the French Market! I don’t know where I am or how I got here. I – I . . .”

“Please calm down, mademoiselle. This is New Orleans. Won’t you let me help you?”

New Orleans? What the . . .

Was this the place she called home? She couldn’t even tell the man her name if he asked. And she felt the first burning tear fall from her eye. Her body began to tremble and before long, she was absolutely sobbing.

“Mademoiselle, please do not cry. I will help you. Everything will be fine. Please trust in me. Take my hand and trust in me.”

Too much, too many sensations and the pain came back like a roll of thunder. Muscles pulled into fists that pounded beneath her skin. Her skull pulsed like it wanted to combust. Her sight faded, flashed back a moment, then faded again. Her throat undulated. She screamed a shrill, ragged sound. “Oh God, it hurts!”

“Do you trust me?” he asked a bit more frantically. That magical voice with its French drawl, that wonderful rhythm, swept through her body and tickled her flesh. Everything inside of her reacted to him. Heat rushed through in a wave of sensations that made her thighs quiver. “I can ease your pain. Please, let me help you.”

What could she do? Lay there and die for sure? Or maybe she had already died and this was hell.

She took a chance, hoped for the best and took his hand.

His arms slid under her legs and back, cradled her against his body. That god or angel or whatever he was lifted her from the filth, lifted her from certain death. Her head rolled over his arm, hair spilling out behind them. Limp limbs fell toward the Earth. She wanted to curl into a ball and listen to the sounds of him, find the warmth in him, wanted to hug him and kiss him and thank him, but she had become nothing more than a body with nothing left to animate it.

She put all her trust in him, all her faith. His arms felt so safe, so strong. He had to be an angel and the thought of it comforted her. If she had died and this was her afterlife, she could’ve lived it without fear, without dread. She could’ve embraced death as long as those strong, safe arms never let her go.

He moved so quickly yet so smoothly she couldn’t feel the first footfall. A moist breeze swept thought and she shivered. The muscled God holding her in his arms pulled her into the mass of his solid chest. Her head pressed against him and she couldn’t hear his heart. She couldn’t even hear him breathe. But she didn’t fear him. For the first time since she’d awakened, nothing scared her.

So many buildings, tall and old, like a painting in a museum and such beautiful ironwork. Neon signs flickered behind giant windows. It all passed by so fast. She could smell water, close yet far, and it smelled refreshing. Then coffee, but not any old coffee, there was something special about it. Her mouth began to water. Then she smelled spice, strong and demanding, so thick she could taste it as she breathed it in.

“Where are you taking me?” She asked in a winded voice.

“My home in the Faubourg Marigny. I will feed you. You can bathe and I shall find you fresh clothes. Do not fear, mademoiselle. I will care for you until you are well, this I swear.”

 “I don’t know what happened to me. I don’t know anything. Please don’t let me die like this.” Tears began to burn in her voice.

“You will not die in my arms, ma chérie.”

And she believed him. With every aching inch of her being, she believed he wouldn’t let her die, that he wanted to rescue her and keep her from harm. She only had to stay in his arms and everything would be okay.

They moved further from the river, closer to the drunken masses. The smells changed: nothing refreshing or clean about it anymore, no more strange-scented coffee, only spice and alcohol, and people . . . many, many different people. They screamed. They sang over the music. They lusted and loved. Some had fun while others hated themselves and everything around them. And it never struck her as odd that she knew all of that even in a semi-conscious state.

Nestling against him, she took a long, deep breath. His body smelled so good, like clove maybe. That whole night had become but a blur in the bigger scheme of things and maybe the smell of him wasn’t important at all. Sadly, that wonderful smell faded. She couldn’t hear the rhythm of his feet beating against pavement, couldn’t see his glorious gray eyes. Eventually, even the black waves of his hair faded into darkness.

Unpublished Work ©2012 ~ Allison Casssatta