"Under the Porch"

A quiet space. A private place. Soothing shadows and solitary silence. They’ll never think to look for me here, once they realize I’m not there.

I love them. I do. I am there for them, always. When they need a cuddle. A companion. A neutral ear. An excuse to play. They think my life is empty without them ... and it would be, if not for these stolen moments under the porch.

I can hear my heartbeat.

I can smooth my fur.

I can rest undisturbed.

I can be.

My name is called above the floorboards. My corner of the sofa is empty. I am not in anyone’s room. I am not in the yard. I am nowhere they can see. When rising panic trills in someone’s voice, I will emerge to a flurry of attention aimed at soothing themselves rather than welcoming me.

I love them. I do.

My life would be empty, but it would be mine. 

Being an introvert, even one with extrovert tendencies, can be difficult in our demanding world. At the end of a particularly exhausting day, I will “go under the porch” to recharge my batteries undisturbed. I am a people person, thus a people pleaser, so while this piece was written from a pet’s point of view, it easily applies to the way I sometimes feel about being “Dr. Ruth”.

Today is my most precious day off—one with no plans except to write write write. Reijo’s romance is once again moving along smoothly, so I’m treating myself to a pot of peach momotaro as I follow my hero's path to wedded bliss. He’s a lovely boy, exactly the sort of character to work with on a sublimely sunny day. Gratitude abounds.

With love,

Oscars Wild

There was a time when I watched the Academy Awards to see how my favourite movies fared. These days, I watch them to see what’s worth seeing after the fact. And to see who’s wearing what, of course, and if the host can do better than Bob Hope, Billy Crystal, or Steve Martin did in their time. Awards as rule mean little to me, but the Oscars are an event. Even when they suck, they’re still the Oscars.

Ellen DeGeneres made them more fun, this year. Movies are magic and she has the right blend of humour and wide-eyed wonder to let the starts shine in their designer best. Her face in the “selfie that crashed Twitter” says it all: “Look, Ma! An ordinary kid in the midst of a constellation!” Honestly, I loved it enough to post it and copyright be hanged. I’d happily have Ellen host into the next millennium.

Alas, there were no real surprises among the winners except for the original song. I was stunned when Let it Go from “Frozen” beat out U2 and Pharrell Williams. I was dancing to Happy and bobbing to Ordinary Love, so was floored when neither of them scored the little golden guy. I thought for sure the political nod would go to U2 for their song (featured in “Mandela”), but “Frozen”, I am told, is also political. It’s the first Disney animated pic where the heroine is rescued not by the traditionally strong and handsome prince, but by another girl (her sister)! Oops. Well, having being enlightened, the song still left me cold.

Same for the naysayers who question that the selfie and pizza segments were staged. Um, these people are actors, folks. Staged or not, their job is to make us believe it’s for real. So buy in and enjoy, for Pete’s sake. Besides, if it was a staged promo, it failed because I’m not running out to buy a Samsung iPhone. As a spontaneous show of fun, however, they knocked it out of the park.

I love the movies. I don’t go to them as much anymore—too many explosions and too little story—but the cinema had a powerful influence on my budding creativity (not to mention my hormones) when I was a teen. It can still inspire me to rend my garments and wail, “I wish I’d written that!”

Hey, I’m only 52. I may yet write that Oscar-winning screenplay, perhaps adapted from my own original work.

“I’d like to thank God, my family, and the Academy …”

Oh My Papa

Dad and wee Ru - 1968

There was a time in my teens when, every night after dinner, my father would rev up the stereo and play Eddie Fisher’s paean to paters everywhere—the sugared chestnut titled “Oh, My Papa.” I think it was his way of reminding my sisters and me (the boys had married and moved on) how lucky we were to have such a kindly, benevolent man at the head of the family ... that, or he enjoyed watching us scatter to our rooms with our hands clamped over our ears. It was sometimes hard to tell with Dad.

It sometimes still is.

While my sibs and I were growing up, our mother was almost always accessible, but Dad was mysterious and a little scary. He was so elusive that time spent with him was precious—unless you were in trouble for something. We all learned early on to walk with our hands behind our backs in case he swatted our butts as we passed. I don’t recall Mum ever threatening us with “wait ’til your father gets home”, but if he was already home …

He sang to me when I didn’t want to go to sleep. He painted me a picture of a polar bear because I asked him to, even though he had never seen one before and had no idea how to go about painting one. (I still have the painting; if I can find it, I’ll post a photo of it.) Dad painted a lot when I was a kid. I loved watching him mix the oils and brush the colours on the canvas. To entertain me—and perhaps himself—during production on a tropical sunset, he told a story about being held captive on a bad island and swimming across the ocean to the good island, pausing en route to do battle with a great white shark that grazed him with its teeth before he sent it packing (he even showed me the scrape on his leg!) Cuddling with him on the couch of a Sunday afternoon, listening to his heart beating strong and slow beneath my ear, I nearly blacked out more than once trying to match my breathing to his. I didn’t dare wriggle, either. No matter how numb I got, I stayed as still as I could for fear of disturbing his nap. It wasn’t as if he had a bad temper; I just wanted to be good so I could cuddle with him another time. Once I hit my teens, I’d sit on the end of the couch and he’d stretch out with his feet in my lap and my paperback propped on his slippers. Occasionally, he was stabbed with my nail file for nudging my book with his toes.

Dad was serious about providing for his wife and family, but he knew how to use his downtime. I learned practical stuff like how to stretch a dollar and bake a crumble from my mother (sewing, alas, never took root). From my father, I learned to dream. And write. And sing. And draw. And how to call an offside in hockey. And that it was okay to have a crush on a movie star. And that if I thought Bram Stoker wrote scary stuff, I should give Dennis Wheatley a whirl.

It seems that he and I can discuss, debate, and dissect any subject. I have talked with my father about the meaning of life, the nature of God, and how to coach in the NHL. For as long as I can remember, he has encouraged open dialogue between himself and his kids. If we are troubled, he wants to help. If we are in trouble, he will help. If all is well, he’s either relieved to hear it or doesn’t believe it for a second.

No matter how old you are, everyone wants their father to praise, commend, and/or recognize them as funny, smart, intelligent, successful adults. Dad and I have had our tussles—what father and daughter haven’t?—but like my mother, I choose to have selective recall. Besides, I have figured out that any conflict stemmed from me growing up and Dad struggling to let go of his little girl. He is thirty years and six months older than me. There was a time when three-and-a-half decades seemed unbridgeable. Not so anymore. My older older brother once observed, “As I got older, Dad got smarter.” Well, as I got older, Dad and I became a lot more alike than is comfortable for him. Turns out we’ve always been alike; it just took this long to realize—and accept—it. I’m good with it … and I hope he is, too.

Today is Dad’s birthday. Listen carefully, Pop; I shall say this only once:

Oh, my pa-pa, to me he is so wonderful
Oh, my pa-pa, to me he is so good
No one could be, so gentle and so lovable
Oh, my pa-pa, he always understood.

Gone are the days when he could take me on his knee
And with a smile he'd change my tears to laughter

Oh, my pa-pa, so funny, so adorable
Always the clown so funny in his way.

three and a half decades later

“Black and Blonde” (Part 5)

He woke at dusk. She was all over him again, voracious with teeth and nails, playing him like the fool he was. His body responded as if its need for her outweighed its need for blood, and maybe it did. For a blissful, thoughtless moment, he let himself enjoy the rasp of her tongue on his belly, willing her further south. Reading his mind—or had he mumbled under his breath?—she obliged.

She bit him and he came in a shower of blood and fruitless semen, arching with a mangled cry off the worn mattress while she gulped once and grimaced. “God, I hate that stuff you call blood,” she spat, tossing her hair like a filly in the winner’s circle. “How can you drink it night after night? It might as well be bilge water.”

He lay, panting, on his back, gazing at her through the stars that danced before his eyes. He had no answer. Becoming a vampire had not made him a duke or an earl. He was still a peasant boy spread out for her amusement. He hadn’t decided how he felt about it, yet. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

“I’m taking you out of here tonight,” she declared, rolling off the bed in a glorious tangle of arms and legs. “I’ve got a suite at the Four Seasons; I’d have taken you there this morning, but …” She flashed him a naughty smile “Are you still happy to see me?”

He nodded, following her with his eyes as she collected her clothes. He was hungry but didn’t want to lose sight of her. She wouldn’t hunt with him, anyway, and he couldn’t hunt with her. They were from different worlds. The gift of immortality had not altered that.

“Then you’ll come with me,” she said.

“No,” he croaked.

She slid into her shirt but left it open. “Why not?”

“This is my home.”

She snorted. “Get over it, Ariel. You’re a god now; you don’t have to live like this.”

“I’m no god,” he answered. “I’m a predator like you, and they’re catching onto us, Clare. They’re starting to figure out what we are and how to stop us. I don’t want to die. Do you?”

She didn’t understand the question. “I am death. So are you. There hasn’t been a mortal yet who could cheat either of us. You give them too much credit.”

“You give them too little,” he said, and as he spoke, an awful possibility dawned on him. She held mortals in as much contempt now as she had done at the beginning, when Raymond had taken her from her father’s castle and raped her for her blood. Black knew she preferred to kill. She loved it, revelled in it. Raymond had taught her well—but even Raymond had tempered his appetite with the passage of time.

She grabbed his hands and pulled him upright. “Come with me, my love. I will show you pleasure beyond your wildest imagining.”

“Have you been killing?” Black asked.

“What do you mean?”

“How long have you been in town?”

“A few days. Long enough to set myself up at the hotel. Why?”

“Clare, if you’re lying to me—”

“What? You don’t believe me? Ask Raymond. He’ll be as shocked to see me as you were.”

“Raymond is a liar. I’d be a fool to believe anything he says.”

She smiled, sidling close. “You are a fool, though, aren’t you, my beloved? Look at the way you live, scraping out an existence by the grace of inferiors. They don’t love you, Ariel. They’re afraid of you, so they pretend to be allies. Any one of them would turn you in for the price of a mickey.”

He got out of bed, convinced that his hunger was making her make sense. She didn’t know what she was talking about. She didn’t know his people. She had never known his people. She came from a world frosted with illusion. What did she know of the hideous truth?

“I’ve made you angry,” she said.

He pulled his t-shirt on over his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sure you are.”

“I can’t bear to see you living this way. You’re so much better than this.”

He turned to face her. She was sitting on the rumpled bed, hands dangling between her knees. Her nails were painted pearl white, curved like claws. He wanted them to scrape him raw so she could lap up the blood that oozed from the wounds. “I can’t come with you, Clare. Not tonight.”

She nodded. “You want time to think.”

“Yeah.”

“You do want something better, don’t you?”

“Don’t we all?”

She smiled. “I just want you.”

He laughed softly, a reflex aimed at deflecting the usual hope that she wasn’t jerking him around this time. She was so beautiful, so desirable. He had loved her from the first moment and been grateful to her for saving him when Raymond would have let him die. How ironic that she who had spared him was the one who killed him every time she left.

He wanted to say, “I’m yours.” It was smarter to say nothing. 

* * * 

He dealt for blood with one of the warehouse squatters, a man in his forties whose engineering career had been snuffed by a drug problem that eventually cost him his house and his family. “I want to die,” he told Black. “Can you do it for me?”

“It’s not my place,” Black said, “nor yours, either. Have we got a deal?”

The fellow thought for a minute, then nodded. “Give me the dope.”

Black hesitated.

“What is it?”

“When did you last eat?”

“What’s it to you? Just give me the dope, man, then you can have as much blood as you want.”

He didn’t want tainted blood. He was tired of it. It was sour and left him slightly disoriented, the way scotch burned his throat but didn’t make him drunk. This guy was hardly a pure specimen on either end of the syringe, but he wouldn’t be so harsh on the tongue if Black drank before handing over the goods.

“Forget it,” the man said. “If you’re not going to kill me, you give me the dope first or walk away now.”

He conceded victory with a grim face. When the fellow was pleasantly glazed, Black bent his head and pierced the quivering jugular with his fangs. The blood spouted, surprised, into his mouth. It ran cold over his tongue, heating up as it hit the back of his throat. He swallowed, conjuring the flavour of Clare to mask the bitterness. She had expensive taste and fed from the best—the rich proceeds of greed and avarice in the upper classes. Last night, he had scented caviar and champagne in her blood and been hurt when she refused to drink from him. Little wonder, he thought now, sucking back the sting of despair; this was the hemoglobic equivalent of Aqua Velva. He drank the fellow to unconsciousness, then settled him as comfortably as he could beneath his newspaper blanket. It might be more merciful to kill him, but Black doubted he could stomach the job. It was getting harder to take what little he was offered.

He met up with Aurora on his way to the bar; she had paused to light another in a long chain of Marlboros when he spotted her at the corner. She grinned at him. “Hey, Black, that was some serious combat happening over my head last night. You get lucky with another girl?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘lucky’,” he answered. “Have you got a quarter? I need to make a phone call.”

“This from a guy with a pocketful of fifties,” she grumbled around her smoke. She dug through her bag for change. “I swear I don’t know why I let you use me this way. You sure you can’t hypnotize people through your shades?”

He took the quarter. “I’ll make it up to you, honey.”

“Go a round with me like you did with your mystery chick last night and I’ll call us even.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t want to go a round with ol’ Black.”

“Says you,” she retorted, accepting his kiss on her cheek. She blew a lungful of smoke into his face. “Not gonna tell, are you?”

“Nope.”

She studied him through hooded eyes. “Old girlfriend,” she decided.

“I wouldn’t say that, either. Any luck with the search for Travis?”

She shook her head. “If your boy did fall off the wagon, he didn’t do it down at our level. Cokeheads are upper crust junkies, Black. You’re fishing too low in the pond.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “Sorry, honey.”

He waved her off. “Didn’t hurt to try. You’d better get back to work.”

“Sure you don’t want a quickie on the house?”

He laughed at her. “I’ll take a raincheck. Go on, get lost. I’ll catch you later.”

“Promises, promises,” she sighed, wandering off in a cloud of blue smoke.

He went to the bar and called Tess at the number she had given him. It turned out to be a cellular phone, and he was instantly angry about it. Cell phones were glorified radios that anyone could tap into; he had her hang up and call him from a land line so they could arrange to meet without fear of being ambushed. Black was not naive. Clare was in town for a reason—and Raymond was well aware of it.

to be continued ...

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 ...