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Simon picked up his T-shirt and twisted it in his hands. “I told you I did. You know I did.” Then he grabbed her hand. “But I don’t have to. I can control it. He doesn’t even try. He enjoys the kill.”
Zoë took the T-shirt from him and smoothed it on her lap. “You can control it?”
“Yes, I’ve done it. I’ve lulled them into a gentle mist and sipped them slowly, then left them with breath.”
He didn’t mention the times he’d failed, when it had been so long since he’d tasted human blood that he couldn’t pull away, and had fallen into that mist along with his prey, and floated there, awakening ages later with a cold empty shell in his arms. It was always more satisfying to the end, and he’d often wondered if his kind fed as much upon the dying as upon the blood. Christopher seemed to relish it more than the blood.
“What about that crucifix?” Zoë asked. “Was it hurting you?”
“Oh, no.” He rubbed at his arm guiltily, as if it itched, an excuse to avert his eyes. “Just an old wives’ tale. You can’t believe everything you read. It was tasteless, that’s all.” What’s wrong with me, he wondered. I thought I’d decided to trust her. Still, it felt frighteningly stupid to give someone a weapon against him.
“Simon?” Zoë touched his arm. “Where are your fangs?”
She looked as if she pitied him. Did she still think him a mad, hungry boy from the streets? “They can’t just appear. They have to be stimulated by the smell or the promise of blood. Shall I show you?” he said half jokingly.
He reached for her and saw a spark of fear in her eyes. It excited him and urged him on. Ah, she believes just a little, he thought. Yet she folded into him and laid her head on his shoulder. She stroked his arm. Sweet warmth. Sweet, searing heat.
“Poor Simon. What can I believe?”
Her throat throbbed with life near his mouth, and the gentle, warm smell of her made him giddy. He fought it
briefly, but it was no good; she was too near, too inviting. The fangs slid from their sheaths. “Believe this,” he whispered, and kissed her neck softly. “And this, and this.” Then he kissed her with the sharp, sleek kiss, the silver kiss, so swift and true, and razor sharp, and her warmth was flowing into him. He could feel it seeping through his body—warmth, sweet warmth.
She uttered a small, surprised cry and fought him for a second, but he stroked her hair and caressed her. I won’t hurt you, he thought. Little bird, little dear. I won’t hurt you. And she moaned and slipped her arms around him. It was the tender ecstasy of the kissed that he could send her with his touch. It throbbed through his fingers, through his arms, through his chest, like the blood through her veins. It thrummed a rhythm in him that he shared with her. She sighed, her breath came harder, and he felt himself falling. I must stop now, he thought. But I can’t stop. He held her closer still, as if he could never let go. He couldn’t let go.
Yet he did. Gasping, he firmly pushed her away. They stared at each other muzzily.
“I can stop if I want,” he whispered hoarsely.
She blushed, then touched her neck and looked at the droplets of blood on her fingers wonderingly. “But it was … I mean, it wasn’t terrible. It was … I don’t know.”
He wanted to kiss her again. “It can be terrible. He makes it terrible. I can make it sweet.” He took her hand, and the throbbing began deep inside him once more. I can stop, he thought as he reached for her.
The phone rang. They both jumped.
Zoë pushed him away and went to answer it. “My mother,” she said, almost apologizing.
He heard Zoë pick up the phone in the hall. She answered as if frightened, but then her tone changed to one of surprise. “Lorraine! Hi! You did? She told you? Uh-huh. Yeah.” There was hesitancy in her voice. “Yeah, I guess I was.” Was that relief? “No, I was busy. Yeah. Trick-or-treaters.” Her voice was warmer, as if she was ready to talk much more, but she must have remembered him. “Listen, I’ve got something to finish up. Can I call you back later? Okay. Bye.” She hung up.
When she came back into the room, he could see the spell of the moment was gone. But what puzzled him was why she had panicked when she answered the phone. She must have guessed his thoughts. Her lips tightened, her gaze lowered. “I thought it might be about my mother,” she said. “She’s dying.”
It was a terse confession, perhaps in return for his own rambling tale. They were sharing deaths, he thought with bitter humor.
“Listen,” she said, “I think you should leave. I don’t know when my father will be home. I couldn’t explain you. It will be hard enough to explain this.” She pointed at the table.
“You dropped something on it?” he suggested. “Good grief, what? A bomb?”
Still, he wouldn’t let her push him out so fast. “You’ll let me come again?”
“Why?” Her hand went to her throat.
It made him feel ashamed. He stooped to pick up his T-shirt. “To talk,” he muttered. “Just to talk.”
“What have we to talk about?” It sounded like a denial.
He took a stab in the dark. “Death,” he said.
Her eyes grew large and stricken, but she nodded. “Yes.”
