In My Own Way

Despite my recent decision to focus exclusively on writing Reijo’s romance, I’ve been unable to proceed. Yes, I’ve been sick, the Olympics were on, work continues to interfere with everything etc., but those are all excuses and pathetic ones at that (okay, maybe not the being sick one; nothing in life got done while I was down with the cold/flu). Plus, I had written the romance into a corner and writing out of it was tedious, time consuming, and not altogether satisfying. It’s a weak link, but I can fix it in revisions and at least the story is back on the road again.

Next obstacle? I write a scene in my head first, then I transcribe it. In this instance, I know where the character is going, just not how he’s going to get there ... or, rather, what happens to him before he gets there. Truly, I don’t want anything to happen to him because he’s been through enough, thanks very much, and the journey in this scene this is supposed to be a happy one. I really, truly, deeply, do not want to write a scene that delays his path to his beloved ... so I have written nothing. Nothing. Nada. I got sick, I watched the Olympics, I went to work, and when my thoughts turned toward Reijo’s ride through the woods, I almost felt the wall go up. I was not going there, no way, no how. I even manipulated Professor Ekkles and told myself that “writing just isn’t meant to happen right now”. I had no interest, no inclination, nothing. Not a block, per se, just ... nothing.

Then Sting enlightened me.

Ter and I caught him on Great Performances, playing songs from The Last Ship before the show opens on stage next summer. I particularly enjoy his little stories about how songs come about, and the experience of building a Broadway musical from scratch. He told one tale about a character named Arthur, who is partly autobiographical and therefore one of his favourites. Turns out the rest of the team didn’t share his affection for the old guy. They suggested that Arthur be replaced by a younger rival for the female lead’s affections. Well, Sting was crushed. He accepted the decision, but he was deeply unhappy about it. He talked about moping around for a bit, wrestling with his ego and so forth, then he—and I quote—“got out of my own way”. He decided to create a song for the new character. He didn’t want to, he admitted he hated the guy, but he gave it a shot and the song was born.

On hearing that story, I thought about my “problem” with Reijo and realized I was doing the same darned thing! I want him to arrive on cue at his beloved’s side, his progress unimpeded by drama or disaster, yet knowing that ain’t gonna happen has rendered me unable to write anything at all. I’ve been my own obstacle.

I have been in my own way.

Since that little revelation (thank you, der Stinglehoefer), I have stepped aside and let Reijo know that I’m listening—and he’s coming through! Neither is the delay as heinous as I feared it might be; yes, he’ll be late for dinner with his prospective in-laws, but at least he’ll arrive safe and in one piece. Gee, if only I’d relaxed and let him tell me before I shot head first into a writer’s block, I could have saved myself a little extra grief.

It’s a good life lesson. Get out of your way and watch what happens!

Medallion Men

Canada 3, Sweden 0

0400 PST. Ter and I are up and in position with tea and teddy bears. I’m waiting for the anthems, but the game starts without them. Oh, duh, thinks I, this is the Olympics. They play the anthem after the game. Which one will it be? Canada’s or Sweden’s?

By now the whole world—whether or not they care—knows it was Canada’s. Jonathan Toews scored in the first period. Sid Crosby plucked the puck and scored unassisted in the second. Chris Kunitz sealed it, also unassisted, in the third. Final score 3-0. BC’s Carey Price got the shutout. I’m glad I got up to watch it live, especially since Ter is hilarious when she’s dopey and during one of Price’s few roaming moments, she loosed a stream of gibberish that sounded like Chinese though she said was more likely native to the fourth dimension. We were happy. The boys played like, well, pros. They stuck to their plan, didn’t give an inch, and pounced on the other team’s gaffes. They played like that through the whole tournament, and while this was the only one of two games I watched from start to finish, I got a look at their style against Latvia and the US, and they stayed solid against stubborn opposition. It was a better team than we had in 2010. Who knew?

I guess they did, and they’re the ones who truly mattered.

So, the party’s over. I felt a similar sadness when the 2010 Games were done. As with Christmas, you spend so much time and energy prepping for the event, get tired enough to wish it was over halfway through, then feel slightly let down when it ends. It made sense to feel that way in 2010—not only were we the host country, but I live across the strait from the host city. The party atmosphere leaked over the water to brighten the dreariest month in Victoria’s calendar. While they were on, like it or not, everyone was in to the 2010 Olympics. When they were over and the world went home, the locals stood around looking alternately lost, relieved, and satisfied. We’re probably still paying the bills (Montreal finally finished paying for 1976 last year), but at least Vancouver escaped the dubious honour of being the most expensive Olympics to date. Sochi put on a grand show, but 50 billion dollars’ worth? That’s a lot of rubles. And they didn’t win the gold they wanted. I’d be sorrier about that one except that it went to our guys instead. The spirit of the Games is one thing. Hockey is a definite other.

I will remember more of Sochi than Canada winning all the gold in hockey, though. My 2014 champion is the Latvian goalie who nearly killed himself to hold our boys at bay—57 shots and the second goal only went in because his coach didn’t call a time out to let him breathe. Being mesmerized by Yuna Kim and dazzled by Carolina Kostner in the ladies’ free skate. Laughing with Ter over the baggy pants on the halfpipers. Wondering what the heck happened to les freres Hamelin in speed skating. Sharing pins and needles with my co-workers while the Canadian women fought back in the hockey final against the States. My heart beating with the clock on the bobsleigh run. Tearing up for Teemu Selanne after the Finns won hockey bronze. Watching Virtue and Moir perform to Rihanna’s “Stay” in the exhibition skate. Feeling immense pride in every athlete who sported the maple leaf in every event, win, place or show. I don’t know why they do it; I’m just grateful that they do.

And I’m glad I was able to see so much of it. Thank you, world.

Go, Canada.

“Black and Blonde” (Part 4)

“Before you go …”

Here it comes, Black thought.

Raymond laid a companionable arm along Black’s shoulders, and Black allowed him. “… pick a flavour. Chocolate, vanilla or strawberry.”

“I don’t have time for this, Raymond.”

“Then choose quickly.”

Black sighed. They wound a crooked path through the bodies on the floor, stepping over or beyond the lazy reach of grasping hands. In the cavernous foyer, Raymond’s arm pressured Black toward the staircase, a grand curved monument to the Old South though the house itself was styled in the Art Deco mold. Black didn’t care for either fashion. He was more of a minimalist.

He had mentioned time. What he had meant was patience. But Raymond did nothing for free and would get his kicks before Black was permitted to leave. In the master bedroom suite, three juicy young women lounged—blonde, brunette and redhead. The TV was on at the foot of the bed. Candles and incense burned. The smell of alcohol and expensive perfume wafted to meet Black at the door.

“Pick one,” Raymond said. “Take your time,” he added when Black opened his mouth to make an arbitrary choice. “They’re each delicious and more than willing. Go ahead. Get to know them.”

“While you watch?” Black inquired sardonically.

Raymond gave a modest shrug. “I’m obligated to ensure you don’t get greedy. Just one, Ariel. Leave the others for another night.” He smiled beatifically at the girls. The brunette smiled back. Her eyes were dreamy, doped on drugs and doctored wine.

The redhead snickered. “Ariel? What kind of a name is that for a guy?”

“And a cute guy, too,” the blonde added.

“It’s from Shakespeare,” Raymond admonished them. “The Tempest, isn’t it, Ariel?”

Black stared at him, not amused.

“You knew Shakespeare?” the redhead asked. The pupils swam like oil in her wide blue eyes.

Raymond hooted. “He’s not that old, darling.”

“I don’t care how old he is,” the brunette said, getting shakily to her feet. She was lithe and limber, a little too slim for his taste though her surface scent was by far the most appealing. She swayed toward him on bare feet, a fine gold chain glimmering at her ankle. “He’s good looking.”

Black would have stepped back but Raymond pushed him forward. Chocolate caught him in her arms and stroked her hands through his long hair. When she kissed him, he tasted charcoal and cherry wine. Nice.

Not to be outdone, Vanilla and Strawberry pulled themselves erect. The redhead tried to coax Raymond into playing, but he stood back with a severe shake of his head. The blonde elbowed Chocolate aside and laid her lips on Black’s. Her mouth was butterscotch. Too sweet. He pulled away before she was ready and earned a fleeting scowl for it.

“Try me, Ariel,” Strawberry purred, hooking her hands on his belt and jerking his hips against hers. There was ginger in her kiss, and warm cinnamon in her blood. She had deliberately bitten her tongue—a neat trick the other two had yet to learn. Black, dissatisfied with his earlier wharfside pint, fell prey to a rush of his own hunger and pulled her close for another kiss. He dove deep to pull on her bleeding tongue and surfaced, gasping. Strawberry grinned and licked his chin. Her hands worked down inside his jeans, feeling for flesh. She was young, unspoiled by want and harsh living. Sure, she was high on whatever Raymond was burning in the candles, but her skin tasted of cream and her blood was enhanced, not ruined, by the drugs. He stroked her throat with his thumb, pressing hard on the life thrumming through the artery. She arched her neck in response. He pressed harder. She moaned, the lids drooping over her eyes. She was suddenly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life, a riot of colour and taste and smell. He ran his tongue along the path his thumb had traced and laid the curve of his incisors against her pristine skin.

“Wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute,” Raymond interrupted, taking the girl by the arm and yanking her aside. She clawed at Black’s back as she went, leaving stinging marks behind. Black himself was on the verge of an animal rage, but Raymond only smiled the silky smile that never reached his eyes and said, “She’s not for you, Ariel. I’m sending her to the dogs. Jett!”

A vampire stepped into the doorway and took the redhead in meaty hands when Raymond surrendered her. She looked bewildered, her mind too muzzy with opiates to register genuine fear, but her eyes on Black spurred him to action. He sprang—and took the full force of Raymond’s forearm across his throat. He fell back, choking. Strawberry was dragged, screaming, down the hall, a gift for the goons on Raymond’s payroll. Chocolate began to cry. Vanilla stood silent and shaking, waking to a nightmare.

“Nicely done, Ariel,” Raymond said. “I’m sure the boys will enjoy her.” He beckoned to the girls. “Come along, darlings; you’re spared for another night. Oh, and Ariel—” again with the smile “—don’t be such a stranger.”

He didn’t try to rescue the redhead. He didn’t try to spirit the blonde and the brunette away when no one was looking. He left the mansion with a sour taste in his mouth and a bitter truth in his heart.

He didn’t like vampires. He didn’t like them at all. 

* * *

Well, there was one he didn’t mind. Much.

He manhandled the Duster around and coasted in neutral to the bottom of Hogg Hill, where the car was abandoned until further notice. It was late and he had a long walk back to the waterfront.

Aurora had helped to get him a room in the hotel where she worked. Small and sparsely furnished, it suited him perfectly because the window faced north and direct sunlight was never a problem. The rent was cheap, the neighbours respectful, and the cockroaches didn’t bother him. The zoned-out kid at the front desk barely noticed him when he came in, and he met no one on the stairs as he climbed to the third floor. His room was at the far end of a narrow corridor lit by twenty-watt bulbs. His eyes were strained in the murky light; he couldn’t imagine how the mortal residents managed to avoid the crap littering the floor. Condoms, syringes, greasy sheets of newspaper, broken beer bottles—the carpet was so dirty that it crunched under his boots. Times hadn’t changed, only the nature of the refuse had been altered.

He had installed a new deadbolt though the door was worn enough to fold under a determined fist. It wasn’t tight security, but it was better than nothing. The bolt slid back with a solid click. As soon as Black touched the doorknob, he knew he had company.

Oh, great.

He didn’t know how he felt, so he tried to feel nothing as he pushed the door wide and fumbled for the light switch.

She was tumbled in the ratty La-Z-Boy, one leg draped over the chair’s arm, the other crooked at an angle that was half-challenge and half-invitation. The shirt beneath her jacket was open to the navel; the nipple of one breast peered out like an eye through a lace curtain. She had changed her hair again. Gone were the lustrous locks, replaced by a chic bob the colour of burnished walnut. Her eyes were brown, too, but they had not changed. They were still the same lazy, self-indulgent, siren’s eyes he remembered from the last time—and the time before and the time before and the time before. She fixed him with those eyes and didn’t dare a smile.

“You’re not happy to see me.”

“I’m always happy to see you. That’s the problem.”

She smiled then, and Black closed the door. She looked good—but she always did. So did man-eating tigers. “I was worried you might still be angry with me,” she said.

“I’ve been angry with you for more years than I can count.”

“Of course you have.” She cast a dubious glance at her surroundings. “Each time I see you, I’m disappointed. I hoped you would have done better for yourself.”

He ignored the jibe. “Does Raymond know you’re here?”

“I didn’t come to see Raymond. I wanted to see you. I miss you, Ariel.”

“You need me, you mean. What have you done this time?”

Her eyes widened with faux innocence. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“Why start now?”

“Maybe I’ve changed.”

“Maybe hell just froze over.”

She pulled in her legs and got to her feet. Six-two in heels, she was built like a dancer, too tall and boyish to be credited as beautiful in her time. A freak in the seventeenth century, she was supermodel material in the twentieth. She cracked it like a whip, too: she stalked across the floor and hooked a finger in the collar of Black’s t-shirt, reeling him in for a kiss that burned like dry ice. He didn’t know she had bitten him until he tasted his own blood, thin and acidic with the taint of cheap wine. His heart stuttered along with his resolve; no matter how angry he got with her, she leaked into his system like water into a rock. When the water froze—and it always did—it blew him apart.

“Clare—”

She took his hand and slipped it inside her shirt. Her nipple was hard when his fingers found it. “See, I have missed you,” she murmured. “I’m halfway there just thinking about it.” She grabbed at his free hand but he clenched it and tucked it beyond reach at the small of his back. Clare laughed. Undaunted, she made a play for his crotch instead. He had a brief memory of the girls hanging on Raymond, then she had him and his own hand tensed on her naked breast.

Why fight it? Why not view her as the whore she was and use her the way she used him? She wouldn’t care. She might even come to love him for it. Then he could pay her back for the grief she had caused him over the years; she and Raymond, the sick delinquent pair who had tortured a peasant boy for fun and left him to die when they were done. She had saved him in the end—if her brand of immortality could be considered salvation. It was a feasible plan, one he considered every time he saw her. Make her love him then make her pay. Simple. Brutal.

Impossible.

He responded as always, free-falling into bed, a victim of his own pleasure as much as hers. They rolled together, wrestled, struggled, pushed and pulled and teased and tormented and laughed and wept and sweated and bled until the north light brightened at the window and sent them to sleep in each other’s arms.

to be continued ...

Potpourru

Ter and I have been sick for what feels like forever though I’m sure it’s only been a couple of weeks, but it’s interfered with any sort of mystical magical airy-fairy philosophical wonderment that normally makes my day more hopeful. When I’m trapped in an ailing third dimension, I get no further than the first rung of the survival ladder, and that means little-to-no astral meandering while my compostable container fights off the flu bug.

Life dares to continue without me, however. Canadian women have won tons of gold at the Olympics, this week. Curling, halfpipe, bobsleigh. The hockey game was on in the boardroom at work yesterday and man, was I glad I hadn’t taken the day off to watch it from the beginning; by the time my 10:00 meeting was done, I dropped in to discover that the girls were almost done as well. 3.5 minutes to go and they somehow scored twice to force overtime, then scored on a power play. If not for Marie-Philippe Poulin and some questionable calls, we’d have been singing The Star Spangled Banner instead of O Canada. I was briefly kinda sorta maybe a little but not really sorry for the US team, given that I’d have been extremely bitter to lose the gold after shutting out the opposition through 56 minutes … but since the outcome went my way, I’m good with it.

Oh, and it’s always good for morale, when you’re in your fifties and feel like crap, to watch figure skating of any ilk. Ramp up the competition to Olympic caliber and prepare for tears. I’m grateful that I had no aspirations as a kid because my bones would have shattered bigger dreams, but I still envy the athletes who can create such memorable moments of grace, beauty, art and physical strength. I don’t always care which country they’re skating for, either. Yuna Kim skated a short program that was pure poetry; regrettably, she lost the gold to Russia. Controversy rages after that one, too, by the way. Will they never get past Salt Lake in 2002?

I’ve also been watching True Detective. Another grisly-crime-committed-in-a-southern-backwater-dump-cop show where said cops are polar opposites yet must forge a relationship if they want to bring the murderer to justice. This one is interesting because of the format—the cops who solved the murder are being interviewed 15 years later, and the story jumps back and forth between then and now—and because Matthew McConaughey plays the oddball in the pair. I want to see where he goes with it … and it’s entertaining me between sneezes and re-steeps.

I read more when I’m sick. I’m almost finished with Dangerous Women and am three-fourths through a steampunk mystery/romance that has pretty well assured me that it isn’t my genre. Then the author of Fifty Shades of Gray was in Vancouver for a book signing last week. She wasn’t interviewed but a few folk in the lineup were—the most amusing thing about the story was the one member of the broadcast team afterward who admitted to reading the first book and clearly did not get the cult obsession that sprang from it. The inevitable movie is in production, gods help us. Maybe I should start writing porn, since that’s what seems to be selling.

I’d have to lower my standards, though.

Augh! Can’t do it!

So much for that idea.

*cough, cough*

Food Porn 3 – Caramel Apple Upside Down Cake

Experimental GF baking continues. The chocolate chip cookies baked into a single 9 by 13 cookie that had to be carved into squares for eating; they were crisp and delicious, however, so I will try them again, with adjustments to try and keep them from glomming onto each other in the oven. They tasted good frozen as well, because sometimes I just won’t wait.

I’ve always been averse to pastry—too fussy, too finicky, blah blah blah, though my wee sister can’t see my problem with it. Easy for her to say. She’s a master, as she proved with my Christmas mincemeat dilemma last year. Whining aside, I’ve discovered a local source for GF baking, so butter tarts are back on the menu. So is pizza, thanks to thin and crispy crusts being available at the grocery store. Ter and I load ’em up with toppings and pig out on Friday nights.

A work buddy who is also gluten-free (most of the time) uses regular recipes and simply substitutes GF flour for all purpose. She also defies the experts by matching amounts one for one, rather than reducing the flour by one eighth. I was originally scandalized by such wanton disregard, since surely the amounts are doctored for a reason, but she merely shrugged and said, hey, it works. Not with muffins, though; she still can’t figure out why they turned out like hockey pucks, to which I reply, don’t they always?

Last week, cake became an issue. Bored with tarts and cookies, I pored over my special needs baking book in search of a simple recipe and didn’t find what I wanted. Then I remembered the upside-down cake recipe I snipped from a supermarket flyer a couple of years ago. It calls for rhubarb, but I’ve also made it with peaches or pineapple, and it’s fabulous. I’d been eyeballing a couple of apples that were approaching their best before date, and thought they’d make a dandy bottom—or top, as the cake may be.

Bracing myself for the baking gods’ wrath, I took my reckless friend’s advice and substituted measure for measure GF flour for AP. With my able kitchen elf’s assistance, I made the caramel apple upside down cake pictured above and it turned out great! Light and tender with good crumb texture and those sweet, sticky apples on top … yum!

There is a downside to it, though. The first bite is generally the best of any food item. Not so with gluten-free. Lovely as my cake turned out, the first bite was purely weird. Rice flour has a distinctive flavour and if you’re not expecting it, the surprise is not a pleasant one. So persevere and go for the second bite. I promise you, it gets better. I ate two pieces before my sugar tolerance shut me down, else I’d have porked the whole thing in one sitting.

Fortunately, it also freezes well.

Medal Mettle

It kills me to hear an athlete say that they’ve disappointed their country when they don’t win gold at the Olympic games. Ter and I watched Patrick Chan this week, biting our nails when Japan’s Yuzuru Hanyu blew a few jumps in the free skate and thus left the door ajar for our man on blades. Four points had separated them after the short program and after Hanyu proved to be fallible, in theory, the gold was Chan’s to lose.

Only he had a rough skate, too. In the end, those four points made all the difference. Patrick Chan won silver in Sochi—twice. He also helped his mates to silver in the first-ever team skating event, and if not for those Russians …

Finnish hockey god Teemu Selanne said in Torino that bronze is better because you have to win that medal. Silver simply means that you lost the gold (Sweden beat the Finns in 2008—thanks to a broken hockey stick, of all things). Since he put it that way, I understand the disappointment and long faces often seen on the second place finishers. My attitude has usually been, Hey, you got to the final! But in sport, there’s one winner and there’s everyone else.

Patrick Chan said with tears in his eyes that, among other things, he felt like he’d disappointed his country. I’ve heard others say it, too, and every time my heart breaks not for the country, but for the athletes themselves. They’re the ones who put it on the line, who work and train and devote their lives to pursuing their passion. Wow. Olympic gold. Sure, it’s a pretty colour. It symbolizes supremacy. It’s a funny thing, but I watch the Olympics and see greater things than gold medals being awarded. I see the athletes supporting each other regardless of nationality. I see relationships being forged and differences being dissolved. Champions don’t always win a medal. Sometimes they just finish the race. And while I get that flying your nation’s flag lends some responsibility (kind of like how you behave in someone else’s home reflects on your parents), there isn’t one member of the Canadian team who doesn’t deserve to be at the Games. They’re all heroes to me.

“Black and Blonde” Part 3

The next night, he did something he had sworn he would never do. He went to see Raymond.

High on Hogg Hill, the midnight palace started rocking at sundown and didn’t stop until sunrise. A thirty-two room mansion built in the 1930s, it was half Black’s age and had seen twice as much action. The whores and junkies here were children of a higher tax bracket than the waterfront gang and none of them were smart enough to get paid for their services. Just being invited was honour enough. Some camped out for days, wasted beyond coherence, on animal skin rugs. Others dropped in occasionally, when the urge to submit grew unbearable. Once Raymond got his fangs into you, he became your god.

The Duster crapped out halfway up the hill and Black had to walk to the summit. He was passed a dozen times by expensive imports packed with air-brushed youth, a generation of latchkey kids set loose on the world in search of love and acceptance. There was an underground belief among mortals that vampires gave love as easily as they made it. Black knew better.

He accessed the property by scaling the wall of the lower garden. Only an hour past midnight, the party had already spilled from the main house and trickled downhill; the first casualties—a pair of naked, sweating males entangled at the base of the wall—were nearly interrupted when Black landed a foot from their bobbing heads. He skirted wide and picked his way toward the light, following the distant throb of bass and blood through box hedges and flower beds. Living statuary proved to be more party guests, couples and clusters of both genders engaged in drunken chatter between sloppy kisses and sloppier sex. Stronger than the sight and sound combined was the smell: a thick, syrupy blend of salt, earth and opium. The scent of blood hung like a scarlet mist in the swollen air. Black had bartered a pint from a wharfside derelict and knew it hadn’t been enough. If he got out of this unscathed, it would be a miracle.

He got as far as the swimming pool before he glimpsed his first vampire. They spotted each other at the same time. Black stopped in his tracks, ignoring the skinny dippers in the heated water. The vampire was a bouncer, assigned to keep everyone happy and toss out interlopers. Black didn’t know him.

He stood his ground as the bouncer prowled around the rim of the pool. The other’s look was intimidating, but Black was not impressed and let him see it. “Raymond around?” he asked when the chances of being overheard were slim.

“Who wants to know?”

“Tell him his grandson is here to see him.”

That earned a suspicious glower. Big goons like this one were prized even less for their senses of humour than their intelligence. “Wait here.”

Black shrugged agreeably. The scenery was pleasant enough; he rarely had opportunity to watch such sleek, pampered individuals in action. They were like dolphins, arcing and slicing through the water. One of the girls spied him lurking in the shadows and swam over. The subsurface light slid like a tongue along her nude body. “Hey, cutie, wanna play?”

Cutie? “I don’t play, sweetheart. I’m always dead serious.”

She laughed, more drunk than drugged from the sound of it. “I can be serious, too.”

“Sure you can.”

She brought up her knees and pushed herself back from the pool’s edge, showing off her perky breasts and long legs. Black walked away. “Hey!” she called after him. Anything more was strangled when a boy sneaked up from behind and ducked her head beneath the water. She reared up, sputtering, and turned on the boy with a shriek. He laughed but she was angry; how quickly mischief turned to menace. Soon the other swimmers were getting involved, taking sides, throwing punches.

“Party’s going awry,” Black advised the vampire posted at the terrace doors.

“I go in when blood is drawn,” the vampire said.

Black shook his head. The first goon returned without Raymond. Black prepared to argue dismissal, but the bouncer beckoned him inside the house.

The music was louder here. Conversely, the action was calmer. Candles burned: pillars and tapers and votives scented with herbs. Smoke from incense sticks wafted drowsily through the vaulted drawing room. Crystal bowls of tablets, capsules and powder were scattered across low tabletops within easy reach of the overstuffed loveseats. Bodies were strewn everywhere, draped over furniture and each other like a scene from a film subtitled in a Romance language. A few hardier souls were upright and slow dancing, chins propped on shoulders, arms loose around waists. Articles of designer clothing hung on lampshades and pooled in jewel colours on the floor. Black was overdressed and underdressed at the same time. Remarkable.

In the eye of this slow motion hurricane, a tall, thin vampire swayed in sensuous rhythm to the music, holding a half-naked male in his arms. They were kissing with tongues, but the vampire’s eyes were wide open and searching. When they found Black, the kiss ended. The boy slithered down the length of the vampire’s body and came to rest, unconscious, at his bare feet. Raymond stepped over him like one avoiding a crack in the sidewalk. He was dressed like the decadent lord he had been in life, swathed in a loose, lacy shirt and snug satin pants. His hair gleamed coal black in the flickering light.

“Well well well well well well well,” he drawled in a deep, rasping voice, sashaying Black’s way with a languid swing of lean hips. “If it isn’t a crasher from the wrong end of town. My parties are by invitation only, Ariel. How’d you get this far?”

“I came on foot.”

Raymond gave him a pitiful look. “Still driving the Duster? My, my. How practical of you. If only I could drive the same car for more than six months at a time.” He gestured with a pale, elegant hand at the languishing crowd around them. “Can I offer you someone?”

Black silently produced the photograph Tess had given him.

“Oh, someone specific,” Raymond remarked. He took the photo, studied it, handed it back. “He’s not one of mine. Sorry.”

“Do you know him?” Black asked.

“Are you deaf? I just said he’s not one of mine.”

“Yeah, but do you know him?”

Raymond snatched the photo back and gave it a dramatically close inspection. “It’s hard to tell with the shades, but he looks like one of the guys in a band I hired a couple of years ago. What’s his name? Trent? Trevor?”

“Travis.”

“Yeah, that’s him. Wicked bass player, can’t sing for toffee.”

“Couldn’t,” Black said.

Raymond’s brows rose. “Past tense? That’s interesting. Most of the immortals I know prefer their meat alive and kicking. Maybe you’ve spent too long in the stews.”

A wandering brunette stopped by to paw at Raymond’s groin; he dislodged her with a murmured obscenity that Black chose not to overhear. She pouted at Black, blaming him with sooty eyes, and stumbled into the mélange behind them. “It’s all relative,” Black said, coldly.

Raymond gave a good impression of drugged indifference, but his deep set black eyes glittered like a raven’s. “What do you want with a dead body?”

“Information. When did you hire the band?”

“A couple of New Year’s Eves ago. I tossed a charity bash at the Four Seasons. Don’t strain yourself to remember it; you weren’t invited.”

Black disliked the casual arrogance in Raymond’s manner. He disliked many things about Raymond, but on any occasion, one or two items were more prevalent than the others. “Have you seen him since?”

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone who has?”

“No.”

“Anyone who might have?”

“This is boring, Ariel. I’ve got one for you: does this have anything to do with the blonde who’s been on your tail of late?”

Black was so surprised that he almost took off his sunglasses.

Raymond smirked. “Oh, I know about her. Longer than you have, no doubt. Let me guess: she’s got the goods on you and you’re being forced to help her prove that her boyfriend wasn’t a coked-out loser who danced with death and lost. Oh, Ariel, you really are a babe in the forest.”

“How do you know about her?” Black demanded.

“It’s called self-preservation. If you were older and a little less … traditional, you might be more attuned yourself.” A redhead dropped by to grope him this time, and Raymond had to brush her off before he continued. “You should take her out before she gets you into trouble.”

“I can’t. Like you said, she’s got the goods on me.”

“So find the one who’s holding. She only thinks a vampire did her boy. There’s no proof.”

“How do you know so much?” Black asked suspiciously.

Raymond scowled. “You don’t listen to a damn thing I say. No wonder a peroxide tart with an expiry date was able to bust you. Listen up now: she’s got a vendetta, which makes her dangerous to more than just you. Think about us, Ariel. We’ve got to protect ourselves.”

Black scanned the smoky room, noting the lax limbs and glazed eyes of bodies sprawled like so many rag dolls. “Yeah,” he agreed, “but who’s going to protect them?”

“That’s not our problem,” Raymond reminded him. “We need them more than they need us. If we can seduce them, we can use them. Don’t be a victim, Ariel. Remember, we’re superior. Well, some of us are.” And he laughed.

Black gave Raymond a long, contemplative look. Bred in a time of utter decadence, Raymond had brought the extremes of historic hedonism to his immortality. Younger by some centuries, Black only looked older. How odd that he more often felt it.

 

to be continued ...

Love Will Save the Day

love (luv) n. [OE. lufu] 1. a deep affection for or attachment or devotion to someone, or the expression of this. 2. good will toward others. 3. a) a strong liking for or interest in something [a love of music] b) the object of such liking. 4. a) a strong, usually passionate, affection of one person for another b) the object of this; sweetheart. 5. sexual passion or intercourse 6. [L-] a) Cupid b) [Rare] Venus. 7. Tennis a score of zero.

Pick one and make it a verb.

With noun as defined in 2. above,

All You Need

Following “I Am” is “Happy”, a documentary about the science of happiness punctuated with stories of people following their bliss. Turns out that wealth and status account for a whole 10% of our happiness quota. 50% might be DNA-related, which leaves a full 40% of how to get happy up to the individual.

The most powerfully memorable scene in the film featured a comic addressing a junior high assembly. He asked for volunteers who’d been teased or bullied to come forward and tell the other kids how they felt to be on the receiving end. The braver kids actually stood up and shared; by the end of the session, everyone was in tears and the bullied kids were heroes. The voiceover stated that the best thing we can do is teach our children to love.

I thought, Kids are born loving. We have to stop teaching them not to love.

Because that’s what we do. Intentionally or not, love is taught out of our kids and replaced with judgment, jealousy, anger, and fear. It takes time, but eventually, love becomes a commodity or a condition rather than a freely given right of birth.

Ter related an experience she had at the grocery store on the weekend – she met a toddler in the produce department who was happily offering high-fives to everyone he saw. Most people ignored him. Ter didn’t. She leaned in, smiled at him, and gently smacked her palm to his. He loved it. They shared a moment, then went their separate ways.

At the checkout, she spied the little guy in the lineup two tills over. His dad was paying for the groceries and he was sitting in the cart, looking around. When he saw her at a distance, he broke into a grin and thrust his open hand high in salute. High five, lady! He remembered her. They had connected.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I usually thumb my nose at it, but that was before I realized that the day is a celebration not only of lovers, but of love itself, in all its many forms. Love, love, love. It’s what we are, what connects us, what surpasses barriers of language and culture and social status. Children don’t care what you’re driving or how many vacation homes you own. They only know the person behind your eyes. Ter connected with the little guy at the grocery store. He won’t remember her in years to come, but he recognized her in that moment.

 

High five!

Random Acts

What a week! Mercury is in retrograde, the full moon is looming, and Valentine’s Day urges love to conquer all. Yeeeeah—good luck with the third when the first two are in effect.

But seriously, folks, February 9 to 15 is “Random Acts of Kindness Week”. I know because the Rumi calendar in the kitchen says so, not because it’s been widely publicized. And why is that? It should be publicized. Kindness should be encouraged rather than regarded with deep suspicion. Our souls are by nature generous, compassionate and loving, inclined to kindness without prompting … yet our combined intellect has created a world of harsh planes and jagged angles, the “eat or be eaten” culture of status and greed and aggression.

If only we weren’t so darned intelligent.

Recently, I saw a documentary called “I Am”, the story of a successful Hollywood director who sustained a critical injury that started him on a journey to learn what the world is all about. I’m giving you a crummy Coles Notes summary; the show should be required viewing in high school and college classes throughout the western world, then shown with subtitles everywhere else. I loved it. One scene in particular inspired me, and if I had the courage, I’d re-enact it at the inner harbour or at the mall.

This pilgrim in pursuit of his true self made up a sign and offered free hugs to anyone who wanted one. People were practically lining up, laughing and blushing and crying over something as simple and loving as the human touch. Wow. Imagine how much happier we’d all be if we were hugged more often. I’ve heard that three hugs a day is the minimum to maintain a healthy self-esteem. Many of us don’t see three hugs in a week.

I love hugs. I happily give big, double-clutching, full frontal body hugs on request. But could I offer them to strangers? What if I offered and nobody accepted? I could do it in a group, for sure. But on my own? Nice idea, Ru. Let’s just keep it that way.

Still, kindness needn’t be a contact sport. It needn’t even go beyond home, beyond yourself. Seek opportunities to be kind—to friends, co-workers, family, the Bucky’s barista or the kid corralled in a shopping cart. Heck, be kind to yourself. You’ll find it spreads pretty quickly.

The Dark Side

On the subject of Chuck Wendig, he also has a character called Black—Miriam Black, to be precise. A psychic who can tell when, where and how you are going to die just by touching your hand. I discovered her after reading JC Hutchins’ guest post the other day. Curious, I hopped on over to amazon.com and took a look inside the first book (there are three). I read the sample and now I’m intrigued. “Hooked” is pushing it this early on, but comparing a good urban fantasy to crack on paper isn’t far off the mark where I’m concerned. Rob Thurman has nailed it with Cal Leandros. Jim Butcher did it with Harry Dresden, though so far I’ve only read the piece he wrote for Dangerous Women. Simon R. Green created the Nightside, a city neighbourhood where it’s always three in the morning and the freaks never go home to bed. Laurell K. Hamilton started me off with her Anita Blake series … though I gave up on Anita after Incubus Dreams—nine books in and the series turned from a fun ride to pretty well raw porn. I like sex, but by then Anita was getting it on with everyone for no discernible reason, and quite frankly, after she chose Jean-Claude the vampire over Richard the werewolf, I washed my hands of her. I didn’t even bother with the Merry Gentry series because I saw it going a similar route. Most recently, Rachel Caine’s Weather Warden series had me reading on the limo. Happily, I’m not even halfway through that run and it makes for good summer reading. Joanne Baldwin is a bit like Stephanie Plum with superpowers.

Anyway, I’m planning an attack on Russell Books in search of Blackbirds, to see if Chuck’s Miriam can give my Ariel a run in the Whose Black is Blacker? department. If I go back for the follow up, I’ll know.

“Black and Blondeˮ Part 2

 

She said her name was Tess. Shit, he thought, even her name is pretty.

Pretty or not, there was a problem. She wouldn’t be alone with him, and he had an aversion to public places. He finally decided to take her to the all night diner where he was a semi-regular; after the bars closed, he often took a seat at the counter and sipped tomato juice until dawn.

The regular patrons were night crawlers as well: pimps and hookers and small-time dealers, outcasts of society who accepted him as one of their own. Tess tried not to look like a tourist, but she was clearly out of her element. He thought it funny how her effort to be inconspicuous wound up attracting attention. Maybe he was the problem. He wasn’t prone to bringing in women from the outside. Showing up with a fresh face was going to cause a stir.

“Hey, Vlad,” one of the girls hooted from a back booth, “what’s with the newbie? Getting tired of the locals?”

“As if I could ever get tired of you, honey,” he retorted.

“Tired of teasing, you mean.” The hooker’s chortle became a wet, hacking cough that dissuaded further banter. Black nudged Tess toward a brown vinyl booth. Despite her resolve, she was a little too wide-eyed to fool the crowd into thinking she belonged.

“She knows what you are,” she whispered in astonishment.

Black took the seat opposite. “Why not? I know what she is.”

“But—”

“We’re all friends here,” he said abruptly. It was hard to be patient with some people.

The waitress came to take their order. “Coffee’s good,” Black told Tess, who ordered a cup, with cream, and a slice of lemon meringue pie. Black settled for his usual.

She forced her gaze to meet his though the scenery behind him was far more entertaining. “Do you ever take your sunglasses off?” she asked.

“The light bugs my eyes. Tell me why you think a vampire did your man when the cops say it was suicide.”

The sudden change of subject startled, but got her focused on something other than the freak show at his back. “There were marks.”

“On his neck?”

When she shook her head, her pale hair shimmered a dozen shades of gold. “The report says that he cut his wrists in the shower.”

“You don’t believe he did?”

“I know he didn’t. He wouldn’t.”

“Religious, was he?”

“No, just stable. Happy. There was no reason for him to kill himself. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Suicide rarely makes sense to the ones left behind.”

Pie and coffee came. So did a large tomato juice. Black reached for the pepper.

Tess ignored her order. “You think I’m in denial. You might be right. I still expect him to come home after dark. Sometimes I make cacciatore for dinner because it was his favourite. His car is still sitting in the garage. I dream about him trying to reach me, to tell me something. I think I could let him go, except that I don’t believe he’s letting me go. It sounds crazy, even to me.”

“Tell me about the marks,” Black said.

She bared her arm to the light and ran a thumb along the network of veins running blue beneath translucent skin. Black’s mouth watered without warning. He covered by swigging juice from his glass.

“The slashes went from wrist to elbow, not side to side,” she said. “When I saw him at the morgue, there was bruising on either side of one wound, near the heel of his hand. The doctor said it was probably due to pressure from the initial cut, but it didn’t look right to me. It looked like the skin had been punctured.”

Black ran a hand over his mouth, collecting the saliva that had leaked at the corners. “Are you a pathologist?” he asked.

“No. I’m an artist.”

“What do you know about vampires?”

“Only that they exist, and people are becoming more aware of their existence.”

“Then you know they’re in danger of being hunted to extinction.”

“One is,” she said fiercely.

Black smiled without humour. Like so many of her kind, she would allow all save the one who had shattered her life to go unmolested. But for every pretty blonde with a murdered mate, a dozen more waited and wished for vengeance. Death was not always accidental, but it was rarely necessary. “Your man was keeping secrets,” he said.

She stiffened. “You didn’t know him.”

“Neither, apparently, did you. Vampires don’t kill on a whim. If you’re right, and he didn’t take himself out, he was killed for a reason.”

“So you agree that he might have been murdered.”

“It’s possible.”

“Then you’ll help me.”

“I’m still not sure what you think I can do.”

She lost her composure to a blast of exasperation. “You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”

“So you say.”

“Don’t give me that—I know you are. I saw you bite that girl. That hooker called you ‘Vlad’—”

“That’s not my name.”

“So it’s a nickname; pretty weird for a normal guy, don’t you think? I’m not out to get you, truly I’m not. I just want you to help me find the one that killed my lover. Why won’t you?”

“One, because I don’t know you from a hole in the wall. Two, because vampires don’t join social clubs and hang out together. Three, because what I said is true: vampires don’t kill on a whim. And four, because vampires don’t hunt other vampires, for any reason. If you’re so sure that your man was murdered, take it to the police. Let them find the culprit. Leave me out of it.”

The vehemence deserted her. She shrank before him, growing small in her ratty denim. Her eyes closed on a wince and when they opened again, her lashes were beaded with tears. “I can tell them about you,” she said, taking one last stab at blackmail.

“What are you going to say? Drugs killed that girl.”

“I’ve got the pictures. She had wounds in her throat.”

He started to feel sorry for her. “Look, sweetheart, you’re hurting to make someone pay for your man’s death. Taking me down won’t do either of us a damn bit of good. I’ll ask around. Maybe I can find someone who knows something. I’m not making any promises, okay? I’m just—Christ, you’re so pitiful—Have you got a picture of him?”

She dug into her purse. A black leather shoulderbag, it looked more like an airport tote than a purse. Not a good idea in this neighbourhood. She was asking to be mugged.

The picture she produced was a Polaroid taken at a summer barbecue; the man in the deck chair wore shorts, shades and a captivating smile.

“What’s his name?” Black asked.

“Travis.”

Tess and Travis. Cute. Like many couples, opposites attracted: where she was small and blonde, he was—had been—lean and dark. Not a beer drinker, though. The bottle in his hand was a wine cooler. Sometimes opposites just looked that way.

“You loved him.” Meant as a question, it didn’t emerge as such.

She nodded, wiping her eyes with her fingers. An amethyst set in gold winked on her left hand. Not a wedding ring. He wondered how well she had known her man.

“What did he do for a living?”

“He was part artist, part musician.”

“Into drugs?”

“Recovering from cocaine. He’d been clean for a year when I met him.”

“Had he fallen off the wagon at all?”

She shook her head. Black didn’t take it for truth; addicts were experts at concealing their habits from their nearest and dearest. Could be Travis had slipped off the rails and she never knew it.

“Can I have this?” he asked, brandishing the photo.

She hesitated. “I guess so.”

“I want to show it around,” he explained.

Tess nodded. “Do you think it’ll help?”

“It won’t hurt.” He cracked a smile. “You haven’t tried your pie. I hear it rocks.”

She managed an answering smile and picked up her fork.

 

* * *

He was mad at himself for agreeing to help her. He hadn’t the vaguest idea how to go about it or where to start. Though vampires were everywhere, they steered clear of each other to avoid public scenes. The world was beginning to acknowledge their existence, but humans prided themselves on having no natural predators. Faced with a race of blood drinkers, the mortal tendency to jump at conclusions was running wild and, in some cities, murders were happening with vampires—or suspected vampires—as the victims. And people were getting away with it. There was no protection without legislation, and since no one was about to start up a World Vampire Fund or canvas Greenpeace to save the vampires, Black and his kind were on their own.

Some found acceptance on the fringe of society with the rest of the flotsam. Black had made himself a fixture on the waterfront and earned the trust of those who had learned what he was. He did not have to kill. He was fed by donation—and it had surprised him how easily donors could be found. There was no shortage of mortals eager for the thrill of having blood pulled from their veins, as long as it was guaranteed not to cost their lives. The wilier ones bargained for cash or drugs, but many wanted nothing more than the experience. Black preferred the hagglers over the freebies. If he had something to offer in return, he was less likely to be exposed. That Tess had tracked and trapped him so easily was a concern. How had she known where to find him?

“It’s this fine fanny of yours,” Aurora told him, patting his rear for emphasis. “A woman with half an eye would pick you from a crowd and follow you into the jaws of hell. So what gives? What does she want?”

Black filled her in as they walked, hoping she might have some insight. Aurora had contacts all over the place; she was fond of saying that networking was the best way to learn new tricks. She even knew a few vampires, though Black was the only one she trusted. She listened intently, chain-smoking Marlboros and sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup. Her eyes were as black as the coffee. Toss in two creams and it would match the colour of her skin. He liked the deep brown gloss she wore on her lips, but not the marks it left on the styrofoam. They looked like old bloodstains. Old blood was disgusting.

“Could be her man was into some kinky stuff,” she suggested when he was finished talking. “One vice leads to another and all that. If he ran afoul of a vampire, would death be a given?”

“Not a given, not without reason. Threat of exposure or extortion are the only things I can think of—and extortion,” he added with a wry smirk, “probably doesn’t warrant murder. Does it?”

Aurora ground the butt of her cigarette under a stiletto heel and fumbled, one-handed, in her bag for another. “Guess not, else his trophy blonde would be in the grave with him instead of avenging him.”

He laughed at that. Trophy blonde.

“Let’s see the picture,” Aurora said, lighting up.

Black pulled the Polaroid from his jacket pocket. Aurora’s brows rose. “You know him?” Black asked.

She snorted, blowing smoke like a dragon. “I wish.”

He laughed again. No one made him laugh easier than she did. They both glanced up when a wasted youth approached and asked if Black was holding. “Not tonight, college boy. Even if I was, you’re in no shape to pay me for it. Come back in a week.”

The youth cursed him and bumbled away. Aurora rolled her eyes and returned to the subject. “What can I do, Black? Want me to ask around?”

“Yeah. See what you can find out—but be careful. If a vampire is involved, I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

She shrugged. “You’re the boss. Right now, I’d say we’re running out of night.”

He looked up. The sky was still overcast but the clouds were shifting from black to gun metal grey. The street was growing quiet. Time for the night crawlers to burrow deep and let decent people run the world for another day. “Need a lift?” he asked.

She smiled, printing lip gloss on the end of her cigarette. “Will you let me smoke in the car?”

“Those things’ll kill you,” he scolded, taking her arm and escorting her the few blocks to where his car was parked. The door groaned when he opened it for her. “Sounds like the bed when you sit on it,” he remarked with a wan smile.

“Honey, I don’t sit on my bed,” she retorted, rolling down the window. She looked at him when he got behind the wheel and sat for a moment, feeling suddenly tired. “Black? You okay?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Just a wave. I’m fine.”

“Want me to drive?”

“You can’t handle this thing,” he said, shoving the car into gear and starting the engine. A ’74 Duster in need of serious medical attention, it came to with a belligerent roar and chugged away from the curb. He appreciated the distraction of getting Aurora home in one piece. The lure of the rising sun, even through heavy cloud, was annoying, and he was painfully aware of her living, breathing flesh in the seat next to him. Aurora didn’t do drugs. The worst thing she inhaled was tobacco smoke, and caffeine was her primary stimulant. Hers was probably the healthiest blood on the stroll. Sometimes he tired of feeding on junkies. Sometimes he longed for a mouthful of pure blood, healthy blood untainted by chemicals and cheap booze; sometimes he thought if he found a font, he would drain it dry and still want more. Sometimes all was not enough. If the blonde’s lover had happened on a vampire with similar need, there was no reason for his death but greed.

But Black would never tell her that.

 

to be continued ...