-Aleister Crowley
Alix finished her Italian soda and lay back for a moment on the velvet settee, looking up at the white and gold architectural bas-relief on the ceiling of the cafe. It was late, and the place was about to close for the evening, but going home was the last thing that Alix wanted to do. Her investigations this evening had come to nothing: an unknown source who had left a message asking to meet her had never shown up, and she had wandered through the happy crowds on the Third Street promenade, breathing the sea air and window shopping, hoping that something would happen. She had the sense, as she pushed past the tourists, the trendoids and the Hari Krishna dancers, that she was being followed, and guessed that she would be approached by her shy contact when he felt safe.
He hadn't, apparently, and so she had come here, to this elegantly appointed little coffeehouse on a quiet side street, to try to unwind (and kill some time, a little voice added) before heading home. As she took in the artwork, the comfortable, romantic furniture, and the expensive floral displays, she wondered for about the twentieth time tonight why anyone would ever go to Starbuck's. People are sheep, she thought, scornfully, or maybe they just like crappy corporate coffee and plastic chairs. She rose, slowly, and stretched, thinking "well, at least there's still the walk between me and home." She raked one hand through her close-clipped blond hair, pulled on her leather jacket, and walked out into the night.
The loft she lived in was not too far from the Promenade, in an old warehouse off Seventh that had yet to be renovated. She didn't miss the tidy little house she had lived in with Erik - she had been glad to sell it. She certainly didn't mind the walk. The night was her natural element - she felt comfortable, shielded from the harsh realities of the day. And in this line of work, nobody comes out before sunset, anyway, she laughed to herself. She carried a small but effective locking knife in her jacket pocket, and she knew how to use it; Raban had offered her some more unusual safeguards, but she had refused them.
"Just because I investigate this stuff for you doesn't mean I have to be a party to it," she had told him, and Raban, knowing her history, had reluctantly agreed.
She had allowed him to set some safeguards that prevented the two of them from being linked, more for his protection than for hers; anyone (or anything) that could get to him could probably find her anyway, she reasoned, but she would hate to see the chances she took come back to haunt Raban. He was one of her few remaining friends (hell, he was her only remaining friend), and she needed him probably more than he needed her.
Her low, soft boots made little sound on the nearly deserted streets. It was oddly warm for this close to the ocean, and even in the suede miniskirt she wore for outings among the fashionable, she was comfortable. The fog had come in about an hour ago, and the streetlights had golden halos. She tried to come up with some excuse for staying out, something to investigate, someone to look up, but she knew that everyone was either asleep or out prowling the city. She sighed. There was nothing to do but go home. When she reached the big, old building that housed her loft, she paused under the streetlamp outside and smoked a cigarette while she looked around, making sure that nothing looked out of place. Everything was quiet, so with one last look at the mist-shrouded sky, she tossed her butt on the street and unlocked the door that led to the stairs to her apartment.
No one else was in the building this late - the other unit was used by an artist from Venice Beach as his studio, and he had gone home long ago. The silence was oppressive. When she reached her apartment, she checked the door for tampering, then let herself in. She crossed the screened-off entryway and moved to the stereo without turning on the lights, letting the filtered golden glow through the big windows show her the way.
She flipped the "on" switch and hit "play" on the CD, and the sounds of Concrete Blond filled the big, airy main room. She hung her jacket on a hook on the stuccoed wall over her bed, flopped down on the futon which was still unmade from this afternoon and pulled off her boots and socks with a sigh. She stared sightlessly at the dark room, trying to avoid thinking about Erik as she did every night, and was about to reach for the light on the low table next to her when a patch of shadow next to a window in the darkest part of the loft moved.
She remained sitting perfectly still, calculating the distance to her jacket, wondering frantically who (or what) had made it into her sanctuary without her knowledge. Then a smooth, soft voice came out of the darkness. "Good coffee?" it asked.
Startled, she could only manage a lame "What?"
"You stayed in that cafe for a long time. I was wondering if it was the coffee, or the ambiance."
So he had been watching her. Was this the person who called her? Perhaps he preferred meeting her here. Then how did he get in? She decided that as long as he stayed by the window, she would play along. "A little of both, actually. Did you call me?"
"Yes." A flat monosyllable.
She could see him now - he was tall, and seemed to be leaning against the wall, gazing out the window. His hair looked light. She could tell nothing else about him. Perhaps she could turn on the light- "Don't." That odd flatness again. Okay, no light. He didn't want to be seen.
Well, this is going nowhere until I get more information. "Where did you get my number?" He moved forward, into a patch of light from the windows behind her.
"From Rowena," he said, and she leapt from the futon to try for her knife.
Alix didn't see him move. She lunged for her jacket, only to find herself suddenly flying sideways and away from it. She landed on the floor on her side, hard, but was immediately on her feet again. Her arm ached horribly, but she could still move it. Frantically she looked for him. He was standing by the futon, holding her jacket while he rummaged through the pockets. He wasn't looking at her.
As she tried to figure out if she could make it to the door, he spoke again, his voice the velvety purr it had been at first, and not the expressionless monotone that it had become. "You recognize me, then. Still, formal introductions are in order, I think. I'm Shelley, and you are?" Without giving any sign of her intent, she sprang toward the door, and found herself slammed hard face-first into the wall and held there by an impossibly cold rock-hard body. Her hurt arm was twisted painfully behind her back, her other arm flat on the wall over her head. She couldn't work it down and couldn't reach him behind her.
His voice had become emotionless again. "I said, `you are?'" It took a moment before she could get enough breath back in her body to speak.
During that time, the painful upward pressure on her arm increased, and when she answered, it was very nearly a scream. "Alix! Alix Barnes!"
The pressure lessened, and she gasped her relief. "Hello, Alix. Charmed, I'm sure." The warmth was back in his voice, and it brightened as he continued. "I'm a fan of yours, actually. I read some of your work. Not a lot of background, and I thought the characters were rather two- dimensional, but the action was spectacular! Of course, it had its flaws, but then maybe that was the fault of your ghostwriter. Perhaps I should take up my concerns with him, what do you think?"
She blinked, confused. Her cheekbone hurt from hitting the door. He shook her a little, pressing hard on her arm again. She squeaked, and he let up. "You're not very good at this question-and-answer stuff, are you Alix? I promise I'll go slowly. You gave information to someone about Rowena, information that they turned into a rather luridly written account. I want to know who wrote it."
Alix's head spun. She knew that Raban was not her employer's real name; she doubted anyone knew his real name. But she knew what he looked like, and she knew where he lived. And she knew a couple of his pseudonyms. However, she'd sooner invite the demon that got Erik over for cocktails than give any information to this murdering ghoul. She said nothing, just lay against the door and tried to figure out how she could get out of this. I've been in worse, she thought, and then she heard the sound of her knife clicking open.
"Nice knife. Spanish? What kind of wood is this?"
She was so startled by his friendly tone that she answered "Pear" before she could think.
He purred appreciatively and held it up before her eyes. "It's a lovely piece of work. Of course, I'm easily impressed, I guess, because I don't carry a knife, and I don't know much about them." He quickly changed his grip on her arm, bracing it with his body and bringing his hand up over her mouth, twisting her head painfully sideways to look at his face. His eyes were a fiery red even in the dim light, and his teeth - he smiled widely and continued. "Well, you can see why I never got around to appreciating knives - I don't usually need them. But I'm happy to make an exception, for such a fine implement."
He moved the knife out of her line of sight. She struggled, violently, trying to bring her free hand back to claw at his face, trying to bite his hand. He yanked her head back, throwing her off- balance and forcing her to press her arm flat above her to avoid having her spine broken, pressing so hard on the sides of her face that her jaws were forced open. She was effectively neutralized. All she could do was give a muffled shriek which sounded very quiet as he hooked the point of her knife under the neck of her shirt and ripped downward.
He cut slowly all the way down her shirt, not trying to avoid gouging her skin, and she could feel the stinging of the razor-sharp point on the skin of her back. She squealed, more from the fear than from the slight pain. He made a second pass, upward this time, to cut through her bra, then he used the knife to push back the edges of her ruined clothing and laid the edge gently on the skin of her shoulder blade. When he spoke, it was the cold, emotionless voice that she was learning to dread, with a raspy, growling edge. "You're not bleeding much, yet. Talk to me, Alix." She went quiet. She was terrified of the knife, and of him, but Raban's geas left her unafraid that she would talk. She couldn't. But she did scream when he began to carve her back.
He stroked her gently with the blade at first, leaving trails of fire on her skin. Her breathing was coming in fast, terrified pants. Then he began to raise the knife and slash at her in short, quick strokes which bit savagely at her flesh. Now each breath was a shriek, muffled by his icy hand. The lack of air, the pain and the fear finally combined, and she slumped against him, nearly unconscious. He stopped his vicious attack and held her still against him.
When he spoke again, his voice was nearly unrecognizable. It sounded barely human. "This isn't working out, is it Alix? Any more of this, and I'll have my teeth buried in your flesh. And I doubt either one of us would say very much after that, would we?" She was returning to herself, wishing helplessly that she had blacked out. "Still, I hardly think a little taste could hurt." He leaned his head on her shoulder, his long golden hair falling softly against her bare skin. And he licked her cuts in long, sensuous icy strokes.
She whimpered and shut her eyes. She realized that she had been crying. I haven't cried since Erik was killed, she thought, and she wondered if she was about to follow him. Shelley moaned, an excited, passionate sound, and she sobbed again. Suddenly, he lifted his mouth from her skin and spun her around, slamming her raw back against the wall and grasping her arms over her head in one powerful, icy-cold hand. Her mouth was free, now, but she knew that all she could accomplish by screaming in this neighborhood would be making Shelley angry. She kept her eyes closed and didn't struggle. It was obvious from the damage he had already done to her that he was too strong to fight.
"Look at me, Alix," he purred, and she opened her eyes and looked up into his monstrous, beautiful face. His mouth was red with her blood, and his eyes were glowing.
His eyes... she heard Shelley's voice from far away. "I don't usually do things this way - it just doesn't seem fair, somehow. Besides, it pisses Karl off, because he doesn't have the knack. But I came alone, tonight, so I guess you're in luck. You won't tell, will you, love?" She felt warm, all of a sudden - warm and relaxed. Shelley was so beautiful, with his golden hair and ivory skin and red eyes - eyes! The shock of what was happening to her sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline into her body, and she tore her gaze from his and squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, God, he almost had me, she thought frantically. I've told the kids a thousand times, never look into their eyes, and here I am, about to become Dracula's love slave and lunch, all rolled into one. Gods, I'm almost as stupid as Erik!
She expected him to start cutting her again, and she jumped when she felt the icy touch on her collarbone before she realized that it wasn't the blade, it was his hand. He was pushing at the remains of her clothing, and then he gripped her shirt and bra, ripping them off as if they were paper. His cold surrounded her bare skin, and she knew that her nipples were humiliatingly erect. She kept her eyes closed, but she knew he was getting ready to cut her again, to slash at her breasts - she tensed her whole body.
And then he put his hand on her stomach, and gently slid it up to cup her breast, and ran one thumb in slow circles around her nipple. The gentle, erotic touch startled her and her eyes flew open - to stare straight into his.
He laughed low in his throat. "Back again? I missed you," he said in a sing-song voice. She fought to retain her slipping control, to avoid the feelings that were welling up in her. Him, they come from him, not me, she told herself, but as he continued to stroke her breast with a chill hand, she felt the wet warmth spreading between her legs, and knew she was losing. He smiled at her. "Sorry, sweetheart, I can only let you get away once - I have my average to maintain." She moaned with fear - and a growing desire.
He grinned and stepped away from her, letting go of her hands. She fell to her knees in front of him, still staring up at his face, her head tilted back. He looked down at her as she crawled closer to him. She was desperate for his touch, even as a part of her mind screamed for her to run.
He stopped her with his hands resting on her shoulders before she could rub her head against his crotch. "Eager little thing, aren't you? I'll be happy to oblige, love, just as soon as we all agree." He knelt on the floor before her and lifted her face to his, cupping it in his hands. She was so cold - was a window open? His eyes gazed into hers, so close, and a far- away voice in her head told her that if she couldn't break free now, he'd never let her go. And she told the voice that she didn't care, that was fine with her, she had been so alone for so long, to belong to anyone seemed a rare and wonderful thing. She heard his little sigh of satisfaction as she felt her barriers crumble. And then she was his.
He laughed delightedly into her passion-bright eyes. "Isn't that funny? All that fuss, and I can't remember why we were fighting! Do you remember?" She shook her head, numbly, fascinated with the velvety sound of his voice and the chill feel of his hands on her face.
He snapped his fingers. "I've got it. You didn't want to tell me who you worked for. But you'll tell me now, won't you, love?"
She nodded, happy to be able to please him. "Raban," she said, and was surprised when he frowned.
"No, my love, that's his nom de plume. What's his real name?" She shook her head, uncomprehending. She didn't remember. His smile vanished and he growled at her, "What does he look like then? Where do you meet him?" His voice became menacing. "Tell me, Alix. Now."
Tears came to her eyes. "I don't know, Shelley. I'd tell you if I did."
He snarled and fisted one hand in her hair, using it to pull his face even closer to his. "Let's find out, shall we?" And he shoved a white hot probe into her mind.
The pain was exquisite, as she yielded everything to him, holding nothing back. She felt herself laid bare, her memories, her thoughts, her dreams, and she realized that he was deeper inside her than any man had ever been. She moaned low in her throat as she felt her consciousness slipping away.
Then he withdrew from her completely, leaving her gasping, and she saw him glaring down at her with rage-bright eyes, snarling. "Bitch! You knew you couldn't tell, and you wasted my time fighting me!" He still held her head by her hair, and now he slapped her with his other hand, hard. She cried out and tried to press herself against his chest. He yanked her back and hit her again. And again. She sobbed his name, frantically, trying to salve his anger, to soothe him.
At last he hit her hard enough to knock her to the floor. He stood over her for a moment, then raged around the room, destroying her furniture, throwing things against the walls, shouting in his rage. She remained on the floor, crying, as she heard him slow and finally stop. The room was quiet. Alix didn't dare lift her head to see where he was. And then he was standing over her, his leather-clad legs on either side of her curled body. He was smiling down at her, warmly. When he spoke his voice was like satin. "Well, Alix, I guess you're the consolation prize."
She moaned as he bent and lifted her to her feet. He wrapped one arm around her, holding her to his chest. The touch of his hand on her back sent fresh pain through her. He tilted her head up to meet his eyes. "I've gone a little too far to leave you alive, love. Besides, you wouldn't want to have to clean up this mess, anyway. But just because I have to kill you doesn't mean we can't have fun, does it?"
He had loosed enough of his hold on her mind so that she could understand what he was saying to her. She whimpered, "Shelley, no, please-" and then his mouth came down on hers.
Her protests were swept away by the passion of his kiss. Its icy cold burned into her lips, searing her, as she moaned into his mouth. He pulled his mouth from hers and left her, swaying unsteadily, for a moment as he moved to the futon and pulled it from its half-destroyed platform to lay it flat on the floor. He returned to her and pulled her to the mattress, shoving her roughly down on it on her stomach. Then he followed her, pressing his cold length against her torn and bleeding body.
She moaned and gripped the mattress hard with fisted hands as he tilted her head aside and pressed his lips to her neck. She felt the gentle brush of his teeth, and then they tore into her. Her scream was more of satisfaction than pain, and she gloried in the feeling of being drawn out into his mouth. She writhed beneath him as he growled against her throat. His legs came up to spread hers apart, wider, wider, until she was opened fully on the bed. He ground his crotch against her ass below her rutched-up skirt as he sucked at her neck, and she pressed her body up eagerly to meet him.
All at once, he pulled himself from her and knelt on the bed beside her. She rolled over to look up at him, and he pulled her up to kneel facing him. She put her hands on his skin, feeling it smooth and cold under her palms, like fine marble. He groaned at her touch, his mouth and chin red with her blood, and pulled her close to force his mouth savagely down on hers.
The coppery taste of her filled her mouth, and he pulled from her to murmur, "Taste yourself, sweetheart? Can you taste your life on my lips?" before crushing her mouth again. His fangs were still distended, and he cut her lips, licking it away, sucking on them and tearing at the cuts to bring fresh blood. When he lifted his head, her mouth felt swollen and bruised, and she instantly felt a trickle from her lip down her chin. He lowered his head to her breast and drew her nipple into his cold lips, then he bit at it viciously and began to suck.
He shoved one hand between her legs, ripping off her underpants, and plunged it inside her as she writhed in pain and ecstasy against him. She was wet and ready for his invasion, and he was able to force his ice cold hand inside her cunt. He growled his approval. "Ready for it, sweetheart? Ready for my cock? There's a price, love. When I shove into you, I'm going to rip open your throat. And there won't be any turning back, understand?" He laughed as she cried out, throwing her head back, baring her neck for him.
He bit at her breast again and sucked, then lifted his head to look at her. "You'll have to beg for it, princess. If you don't beg, who knows, maybe you'll live through this. But if you beg me, I'll take you. All of you. Do you want it?"
For a moment he lessened his control of her. She saw herself as he must see her, helpless in her need, writhing on his hand, bleeding from countless wounds because of him - and still desperate for his attentions. She thought of her life, her work - and of Erik. And of loneliness, endless nights and days.
She focused her eyes on Shelley, on his beauty and his savagery. He was like a God, a bright angel, fallen to earth to bring suffering and ecstasy. And she knew that she wanted to die beneath him. She begged. Passionately, shamelessly, she begged. "Shelley, please Shelley, take me, make me yours, I'm yours, fuck me, drain me, Shelley-" The last word, her last word, became a moan as, with a growl, he bore her down onto the bed and forced her knees apart with his.
He was as good as his word. As his stone-hard cock shoved into her already opened cunt, his teeth ripped into her throat. She felt her blood spurt into his mouth even as she wrapped her legs around him, bringing him closer. He fucked her savagely, pulling almost completely out of her desperate cunt before slamming it back in, bruising her womb. She thought she might be bleeding, but with so much blood, what was a little more? She was spiraling up and up, towards ecstasy, towards death, unsure which would claim her first. She fought for her climax, grinding her clit against him, shrieking her need, and finally with a cry of triumph she felt her cunt contract hard around his cock as her body shuddered against him.
She fell from her peak into darkness as she heard him gasp her name
against her throat, as his suddenly warm cock spasmed inside her, and she
felt a last, lingering pleasure at hearing her name on his lips, his blood-
covered lips, as the stars rushed up to meet her.