Another Saturday Night
(And another outrage, by Nyx Fixx)
Nick hit the stop button on the remote and halted "Jurassic Park"
in mid-velociraptor attack.
"What arrant rubbish!" he snarled, aloud.
His irritated comment echoed off the barren walls and filled the
empty spaces of his deserted apartment.
Deserted, he thought, except for me. I'M here, of course, as
always, ad infinitum, world without end, and so on, and so on,
and so on, and...
He got up off the couch and stalked into the kitchen.
"How about some nice SWILL, Nicky?" he invited sarcastically as
he opened the refrigerator and drew out a bottle of fresh beef
blood. He took a long pull on the bottle. "Ah. Absolutely
revolting. Charolais. My favorite."
He put the bottle back and stomped grumpily back into the living
room. After a period of aimless wandering, he came to a stop at
the piano bench, and sat down. His hands went to the keys.
"Any requests?" he asked of no one.
No requests were forthcoming. An ugly smile twisted his face and
a capsule medley of moody Sinatra hits filled the empty loft.
"And now," he announced. "The big finish." A scathingly ironic
rendition of "The Wee Small Hours" took shape in the still air.
Nick sighed. Often, a good solid wallow in self-pity would make
him feel a little better. Tonight, it seemed, stronger measures
would be called for.
He went up the stairs, and into the bathroom, humming the bridge
from "My Funny Valentine" under his breath.
Nick started the tub filling with hot water and moved to the
medicine cabinet. He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he
opened the cabinet door.
"Hi. I'm Nick. I'll be your date tonight," he said to his
reflection.
An expression of dismay crossed the reflection's features.
"You? Again?" the reflection appeared to say.
"Tired of me already? It's only been seven hundred years."
"Closer to eight hundred. Can't you ever find a real date?"
"You're the one I really love."
"Don't lie. You hate me."
"You know what? We talk too much," Nick said, and moved the door
so his reflection would no longer be visible.
He got an an antique bottle of sandalwood essence out of the
cabinet and dumped a generous portion into the rapidly filling
tub. After he'd put an extra bathmat down at the side of the tub,
he turned out the light. The subsequent darkness was just right
for his light-sensitive eyes. Soothing and dim.
So far, so good, he thought, and went into the bedroom to take
his clothes off. He took his time about this, hanging each item
up neatly or putting it in its proper place in one of the chests.
He was a fastidious creature, whatever his failings. By the time
he was done, the bath was ready.
Nick was a pale blur in the darkened, steamy room as he sank into
the fragrant hot water. He concentrated only on relaxing for
several minutes. Releasing knotted muscles, loosening tendons.
The water and the dimness helped. After a time, much of the
bitterness he'd entertained earlier faded, seduced away by the
sensual comfort of the bath.
He began to wash. Being clean was one of Nick's less complicated
passions. He truly loved the scents of soaps and bath oils.
Vampires, he had discovered long ago, while extremely sensitive
to the scents of others, had very little scent of their own. He,
for instance, could quite easily sneak up on a hound, say, from
upwind, if he wasn't wearing any kind of artificial scent. Nick
didn't like being so scentless. It made him feel disconnected
from the earth. So he reveled in a variety of soaps and shampoos
and such things. Things that could lend him some olfactory
identity.
As he used a small brush on his fingernails, his mind began to
drift. His thoughts meandered here and there, and eventually took
more and more sensuous paths. Nick submerged his head in the hot
water to wet his hair. He didn't need to breathe. He could float,
face down, in water for hours, if he so desired. He could imitate
a drowned man to perfection. Rather a trivial talent, Nick was
thinking. Like sneaking up on bloodhounds, it wasn't the sort of
thing that had much practical application.
It was pleasant under the water. He decided to remain submerged
for a time, and used his hands to ply his body with soap. Drifts
of foam coalesced on the surface of the water and floated above
Nick's open eyes like clouds drifting across the night sky.
He emerged from this soapy microcosm to work some shampoo into
his scalp. Once this was done, he went under again, rinsing out
most of the shampoo. Foam and water poured off his head and face
and ran down over his throat as he re-emerged. The feel of the
warm suds sliding over his skin was pleasing, and then a little
more than pleasing. Sensation melded with thought and a fantasy
began to form in his mind. His body showed the usual evidences of
mild arousal. Sparks of gold and green in his eyes. The faint
prick of lengthening eye-teeth against his lower lip. The welcome
appearance of the smaller vampire of his nether regions, grown
rigid enough to just clear the surface of the water.
"Ah. You've been elusive these days," he said to his
uncircumcised old friend. "Just us, tonight, I'm afraid. Now, if
I was my partner, and she was me, your name might well be
"Sparky". Think of the humiliation!" he added, and snickered.
He gave himself over to the fantasy that had been burgeoning in
his thoughts...
...He saw himself, naked, helpless, inescapably bound to a
crumbling stone altar in a drafty ruin of an ancient mosque.
Moonlight poured into the structure through a great rent in the
roof, and silvered the beautiful, cruelly smiling face of
Janette. Her eyes flared as she stroked him in ways that he'd
never previously even imagined existed, much less experienced.
Warm blood was boiling in his veins to her sophisticated
ministrations, and a mortal heart fluttered in his chest,
beguiled to a mad rhythm by fear and lust.
LaCroix was whispering malign promises in his ear, cool
fingertips toying with Nick's nipples, cool lips moving
delicately against Nick's warm skin.
He couldn't move. He strained against his bonds and the
magnificent, malignant creatures who'd ensnared him laughed
evilly. He knew, with dread, perfect knowledge, exactly what was
going to happen to him next.
Tracy Vetter, dressed in a virginal white gown in the fashion of
the early 1200's, stepped briskly out of a patch of shadow.
"What the HELL?" Tracy exclaimed, shocked. "What are you people
DOING to that guy?"
Janette left off her bewitchments and stared at the newcomer,
appalled.
"Oh, dear . . ." said LaCroix, ceasing to slobber on Nick's
exposed throat. "It appears we've captured the wrong simpleton!"
"Ah, alors, a dreadful mistake," muttered Janette, hurrying to
loosen Nick's bonds,
"We're really terribly sorry, young man," LaCroix said, far more
conciliating than Nick had ever actually known him to be outside
of a dream. "Our instructions were to seduce, defile and
eternally damn an attractive, fair-haired half-wit. We naturally
thought that was you. But, as you see . . ." he nodded at Tracy.
"Your clothes, monsieur," said Janette, diffidently handing Nick
a neatly folded bundle. "There's no need to take this up with the
authorities, I hope?"
"Our superiors have very little patience with imperfect
performance," LaCroix whined. "The penalties for a mix-up like
this would be . . . severe."
Janette had drifted toward Tracy, and twined her shapely white
arms around Tracy's shoulders. "Come, ma petite," Janette
enticed. "I want you to meet someone. His name is LaCroix..."
Tracy, already looking as stupid as Nick was certain HE had
looked, just minutes ago, allowed Janette to lead her to the
ruined altar.
"You WILL excuse, us, won't you?" LaCroix said to Nick, still
intent on smoothing things over. "No ill will, I trust?"
"Why, no," said Nick, well pleased with this wonderful fantasy.
"An understandable mistake. Well, it's been interesting, truly,
but I really must run, so..."
He turned his back on LaCroix and started, rather hurriedly, out
of the mosque. On his way out, he saw Tracy, long skinny body now
innocent of clothing, bound to the altar in his place.
He suddenly found he couldn't stop laughing...
..."Good luck, Trace," said Nick, giggling to himself in the
darkened bathroom. "The first four centuries are the toughest."
This fantasy, though delightful, had not resulted in the fruition
Nick had set out to seek.
He turned the hot water tap on to warm the cooling bath water,
and immersed himself once more. A matter of concentration,
Sparky, he thought, and took himself in hand. Soon, only the
lesser of his heads was above water...
He was sitting at the bar at the Raven, dressed in a particularly
elegant collection of dark tweed and silk. LaCroix was ensconced
on a bar stool to Nick's right, twirling a goblet of AB, no Rh
factor, secretor, from the smell, under Nick's nose. The previous
owner of the blood had also been incubating a lively strain of
Asian flu, Nick determined, and would have been darned sick if he
had lived.
LaCroix was tricked out in some over-done black and silver
Halloween costume, as usual, and was purring nastily to Nick. The
man has absolutely NO taste at all, Nick sniffed mentally. He
might as well be wearing a sandwich board with "I'm a vampire"
printed on it.
"You cannot deny your true nature, Nicholas" said the wretched
creature, laying a proprietary white hand on Nick's thigh. "Even
now, your black heart is beating in your breast for what I offer.
Give in to it," he moved his hand a bit higher and squeezed
firmly.
Nick looked deeply into his sire's cold blue eyes, slapped the
goblet of AB up into his face (thereby ruining what was an
especially tasteless outfit, in Nick's opinion) and said
distinctly, in a voice that was designed to carry to every corner
of the bar, "Get your goddamned paws off me, and KEEP them off!
And get some decent clothes, bitch!"
LaCroix looked back at him for a long moment. His eyes widened,
his mouth dropped open, and for one precious, unforgettable
moment, he was SPEECHLESS. For the first time in his LIFE, no
doubt, thought Nick happily.
Then he drew back and clouted Nick across the mouth so hard that
Nick flew ten feet backwards and landed on a cocktail table
across the room. The table did not survive Nick's impact, and the
trio of vampires who'd been negotiating a menage a trois there
before Nick's percipitous advent were bowled over like nine-pins.
"Nicholas, really," said LaCroix, dabbing at his shirtfront with
a cocktail napkin. "Haven't I taught you better manners than
that?..."
...Bubbles rose to the surface of the water in the tub as Nick
sighed ruefully under water. That last had been a little TOO
incredible, even for a fantasy. No wonder it had derailed.
No, he'd have to concentrate a little harder, if he wanted to get
anywhere...
...The morgue at the station took shape in the theatre of his
mind. The cold, tiled room was dim; most of the lights were out.
Natalie Lambert entered the shadowy lab, and crossed to the
autopsy table.
Nick knew it was her from the sound of her step and the fragrance
of her blood. He couldn't see her. He was lying on the table, his
eyes were closed, and he was encased in a black vinyl body-bag.
He waited, silently willing himself not to quiver, as Natalie,
from the tone of her voice and the rustling of paper, read aloud
from an accident report.
"Explosion victim. Male, Caucasian, height, 6 feet, weight,
one-eighty."
Her voice sounded unusually husky, alluring.
"Well, let's have a look," she said, and slowly unzipped the bag.
Nick kept his eyes closed and composed his face in a subtle
smile. He was tempted to twitch as Nat pulled on the zipper, but
resisted the temptation rigorously. The opening zipper rattled
faintly as Natalie exposed first his face, then his throat and
chest, then his waist. She paused for a maddeningly long moment
over his hips, then suddenly whisked the zipper to the end of its
track, somewhere around his toes. His feet were bare. The
explosion had blown him out of his shoes. His clothes were in
romantic tatters, more framing his pale flesh than covering it.
"What a waste..." Nat said, admiringly.
Nick eased his eyes open a minute fraction and peeked at her
through his eyelashes. She was dressed in a pale blue lab coat,
thigh high white stockings, and nothing else. An enchanting
ensemble. Her abundant hair was loose, and tumbled over her
shoulders and breasts and the buttons of the open lab coat.
He continued to play dead (with an effort) as Natalie smoothed a
lock of errant hair off his forehead. A criminal glow suffused
her features. She turned away from the table and went to the lab
doors. Nick could hear the quiet snick of the doors being locked,
and then Nat's light tread as she came back to the table.
"A thorough autopsy begins with a thorough physical examination,"
she pronounced, wickedly, and her small, capable hands began to
travel the length of his body.
Nick had to grind his teeth to keep from writhing under her
seeking touch, but she was too caught up in her examination to
notice the small movement. Soon the perverse pathologist added
her lips and tongue to her tools of exploration, and Nick knew
his corpse-like pose could not remain entirely credible much
longer.
Natalie discarded her lab coat with an impatient sigh and
suddenly climbed atop the table with him, clambering aboard his
still form and taking the most impudent liberties with his body
all the while.
Nick's imposture of deathliness slipped irretrievably when the
lovely coroner straddled his hips. His eyes flew open, his hands
grasped her beautifully rounded buttocks firmly, and his formerly
still body arched with pleasure.
"Surprise!" he gasped, with a brilliant grin, and slid into her
moist recesses with a quick flick of the hips.
A moan of astounded pleasure parted her full lips, and she
tightened exquisitely around him...
...A soft growl of delight filled the dark bathroom. Nick reached
for the hot water tap with a trembling hand and turned it off
before the tub could overflow.
No trace of normal human pigmentation remained in his irises. His
fully elongated fangs sank easily into his lower lip and drew
twin spots of blood. He hungrily licked his lips as he
approximated Nat's divine recesses with one hand, and drew the
other across his mouth.
Water splashed as his hips bucked wildly. In his mind's eye, Nat
was riding his marvelously rigid member into the oblivion of
orgasm, screaming her pleasure with abandon as she went. As he
nipped delicately at her heaving breasts in fantasy, he pressed
the thin skin of his inner wrist against his teeth in fact. Fancy
blended with reality as Nat's smooth skin parted around the
sensitive tips of his fangs, and as he sank those same sensitive
incisors into his own slim wrist. He took the precious essence
inside the flesh to himself in both cases.
Blood filled all his mind and a paroxysm of ecstasy galvanized
his body. Soapy water sloshed over the sides of the tub as Nick
tossed in the throes of culmination, feeding on himself at one
end, and spewing forth the crimson essence of life in an
explosive climax at the other.
At length he subsided, and lay like carrion in the encarmined
bath water. He flipped the stopper lever weakly with a toe, and
let the now blood tinged water run down the drain as he recruited
his strength. When all the water was gone, Nick had recuperated
enough to stand. He used the shower to rinse the pinkish mixture
of water, blood and soap suds off his skin and hair.
He stepped out of the tub and reached for the bathrobe he kept on
a hook beside the medicine cabinet. The mirrored cabinet door
swung a bit as he pulled the robe away from its hook, and Nick
confronted his reflection for the second time that night.
He saw a wet, lonely, but reasonably sated vampire wrapped in
terry-cloth.
"Charity begins at home," he told the vampire in the mirror.
"You're pathetic," the reflection retorted. "Does your friend the
coroner know you make up sick fantasies about her?"
"Who's going to tell her?" he asked back. "You?" He moved the
mirror and made the reflection disappear once more.
"Not in this lifetime," he answered himself, with a desperately
unhappy sigh. Then he padded out of the bathroom and down the
stairs and left wet footprints in his wake.
Sorry, Nat, he was thinking. I don't really think you're a
necrophiliac. Though things might have been easier for us if you
were.
Certain elements of the evening's imaginary encounters replayed
teasingly in his mind as he curled up on the couch and reached
for the remote. It was late. The sun would be up soon.
He flicked the remote, and a pack of velociraptors materialized
on the television screen. Visions of Natalie Lambert plundering
willing corpses and Lucien LaCroix apologizing contritely
materialized in his head.
The sun rose. Nick slept. A new day dawned, and another long
Saturday night came to an end.
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