Page 11 of Vampire Claus
Taviano’s mind rebelled against the impossibility. He couldn’t move or cry out. His guts, twisted in fear, already understood what sort of predator had him. The pain was terrible, as was the knowledge that he would die and never see Calogero again. The moon over the vampire’s head dimmed and he felt his heart stutter and fail. He was so weak that he couldn’t even try to get away.
Suddenly the vampire stopped drinking and pulled back his head. “The demon wants you,” he hissed in Italian but with an accent Taviano didn’t recognize. Curiosity showed in his dark eyes. “Fine. But you will serve me.” He slashed fangs across his own wrist and thrust it savagely against Taviano’s mouth.
“Let it in,” he ordered. “Drink and become one with the night.”
The bitter, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Taviano thought he would be sick but swallowed it instead. He drew in spurt after spurt of the heated stuff, letting the creature fill him with its darkness and power. By the time the vampire pulled away, Taviano grasped what had happened. Sound beat against his eardrums painfully. The slightest gust of air felt like a razor blade on his skin. The moonlight burned his eyes and he wailed.
“It will pass as you learn,” the vampire said coolly, watching his wrist heal. “Embrace what you become, but also understand that I will rend you limb from limb if you disobey me.”
Taviano rolled his head side to side, moaning in agony as the blood finished killing him. Another consciousness slithered through his mind, insinuating itself. Something completely separate yet intimate, willful and demanding.
He heard no words but the presence made its drives known. It wanted more blood, more life. It would use Taviano as its instrument and drain the world dry if it could. It hated the other vampire as a threat and a wellspring at the same time. Taviano could feel their relative strength like a throbbing in his gut. He was the weaker one, but his demon let him know that would change over time. It thrummed at him to obey and abide, no matter how much it wanted to rip and rend the creature from which it had come.
And then Taviano died.
His pulse stopped, his legs stilled and he couldn’t move his body. But his mind remained aware in his corpse. After a time that might have been eons or minutes, the sound of a huge drum began inside his chest as his heart beat again. It forced the substance that was no longer blood through his arteries, bringing strength and movement back to his limbs. Strength, yes, but no warmth.
“Did you see your boyfriend again?” Paul asked, and Taviano realized he’d told the story aloud. He hadn’t meant to do that.
He shook his head. “No. The vampire—his name was Bronislav—forced me onto a ship departing Naples that very night. It was many, many years until I was strong enough to break free of him. I made my way back to Naples at last, to find that my family had all died or emigrated. There was no trace of my friend at all. This was at the start of the great migration of Italians to the United States. By that time many had already begun to leave.” Taviano was quiet for a time. He added softly, “I often prayed that he was able to find a new life somewhere.”
“I hope he was sorry,” Paul whispered as he wrapped his arms tightly around Taviano’s waist. “I hope he thought about you every day and felt bad about the choice he made.” There was sadness and resignation to Paul’s tone.
Taviano lifted his head from the fist on which it rested. “Is there a story you’d like to tell me?”
Paul shook his head. “No. Thank you but I don’t want to talk about that now.” He shifted their bodies so that he splayed along the length of Taviano and claimed his mouth again. The kiss felt like sympathy at first, but became more. Paul’s velvety tongue explored his mouth and the heat of his erection burned like a firebrand. His exploration was intense. The way Paul rutted against Taviano’s leg, the heady smell of his arousal and pheromones, told him Paul would do far more than kiss.
As they shared their lips, Taviano ached to surrender to Paul’s desire and return it. He could use his fingers and tongue to show Paul how special he was, how valued. Maybe Paul would want to feel him press inside? It had been a literal age since he considered that part of his anatomy. Everythingcouldwork as it had when he was alive, with a little focus. If Paul asked for it, Taviano would let himself grow erect.
And then what?The shame instilled almost two hundred years earlier bit at him.Could I make love to a man before I force him to forget everything we did? How would that be right?Aghast at the venal impulse, he pulled back.
As if he’d heard Taviano’s thoughts, Paul begged, “Please don’t make me forget how wonderful this is.”
Covering his turmoil, Taviano vowed, “I’ll leave you with a good story.” He had to be satisfied and not reach for more. Light, friendship, even passion—Paul had already given those unstintingly. Grateful and moved, he murmured, “Merry Christmas.”
“Christmas.” Paul stiffened abruptly. He twisted his body under Taviano’s as he craned his neck to find a clock. “Oh fuck, it’s so late.” He squirmed free and jumped off the futon. “The shelter will close down.”
Taviano ached instantly for the loss of his warmth. Its absence made him aware that the ice in his vein had melted a bit while he’d held Paul to him. He shook his head.I’m ridiculous. I feel body heat from every victim.
But his victims never simply gave their warmth, the way Paul did.
Paul bustled around the small room, dragging open drawers to pull out a red sweatshirt, clean pants and boxer shorts. He tore off his corduroys and tossed them in a corner before stripping his mistletoe underwear. Taviano glimpsed more of Paul’s creamy skin, the pale moon of his buttocks, and tantalizing flashes of more ink. He ached to stroke those tattoos and feel Paul react as he worshipped each mark.
Temptation flared. He could compel Paul to stay with him, to put off delivering the presents. It would be so easy. Just a little nudge of magic and Paul would forget about the shelter until morning…
Chagrin burned Taviano’s gut. How could he consider anything so selfish, when Paul had been nothing but open and generous? It was grim enough that he would have to take away Paul’s memories at the end of their time together. He could persuade himself that act was ultimately for Paul’s own peace of mind. To abuse Paul’s trust, just so that Taviano could prolong their intimacy? The thought was abhorrent.
Dressed again, Paul hopped around to get into his boots. “Shit, dude! We gotta go. Maybe it’s not too late.”
Taviano stamped firmly on his regret and rose from the futon. He scooped up all four bags to follow Paul out of his studio and back into the cold Boston night.
Five
As they startedup the dark street, Taviano frowned. “You weren’t wearing a coat before, and you don’t have one now. Aren’t you freezing?”
“No, Mom,” Paul said with a sardonic glance. “I got rolled for my ski jacket a few weeks ago and I haven’t had the cash flow to replace it.” He shrugged. “I force how cold I am out of my head.”
Not entirely, though; Taviano could sense his shivers. Well, that was something he’d take care of, once he put Paul under and rewrote his memories of the night. Helping himself to cash from one of the drunken men who poured out of expensive bars would be child’s play. He’d leave the money for Paul, along with a recollection that he’d won it in a poker game.