KALEIDOSCOPE III
Cynthia Hatch
Part 1d
"So, how was the weekend, Radcliffe?" He took a bite of the apple--easily the healthiest breakfast she had ever seen him eat.
"It was good, Joe. How was yours?"
"Oh, so-so, you know, had a few beers with the guys, helped my mom clean out her garage. What about you?"
"Well, I did some shopping . . . had dinner with friends . . . wrote a few letters . . . went to a play."
"Oh, yeah? What did you see?"
"Mh . . . Hamlet. Joe." She wasn't sure what had precipitated his interest, but it was always wise to stick as close to the truth as possible.
"That's a musical, right--lots of big production numbers--heavy metal score?" She tossed him a baleful look and began to arrange the files on her desk. "Just kidding. What was it, some off-Broadway production?"
"Very off," she confirmed. "Joe, why this sudden interest in how I spend my time?"
"'You noticed that, huh? Come on into the office a minute."
She followed him, curious. Inside, he tossed the apple core in his wastebasket as he passed and sat down, motioning for her to take a chair.
"Got something for you, Radcliffe. There's a seminar--at least four weeks worth--beginning next Monday. Some heavyweight legal eagles and law-enforcement types, running an update for us peons in the trenches. Moreno wants you there."
"Okay." she nodded. "Where's it going to be?"
"Case Western Reserve."
"Case . . . Cleveland? Joe . . . I thought you meant something here in town. Cleveland's so far away."
"Correct me if fm wrong, but aren't you the same Cathy Chandler that told me you'd skied in Switzerland . . . gone scuba diving off the Great Barrier Reef. . . and you're telling me Cleveland is too far away?"
"Cleveland is hardly the Great Barrier Reef, Joe."
"I grant you that," he smiled, "but what's the problem? You're in transition with us. Doesn't sound like your social life's all that pressing."
"I would just rather stick close to home for a while."
"Cathy, what you'd rather be doing isn't the issue here. This is your job. You asked me to go to bat for you with Moreno, and I did. You don't just turn around and refuse the next thing he tells you to do.""Why me, Joe? Surely, somebody else would jump at a chance to get out of the city."
"He wants you, Radcliffe. You want to be a trial lawyer--fine. This is a chance to get up to speed. Besides you're the natural choice--you're good at cutting through the bull and explaining things clearly to other people."
"I . . . I'll have to think it over."
For a moment he just looked at her, baffled, exasperated, and when she didn't say anything
more, rose to come around the desk."Cathy, I've never really pried into your personal life. By this time I gotta figure you've got one, and you want to keep that private--it's your business. But when it starts interfering with the way you do your job, it's my business. You're gonna have to set some priorities here."
"I know, Joe. You're right." The twinge of guilt stemmed equally from a sense of obligation and regret that he probably saw her silence as a lack of trust.
"And I'm sorry, but I'm simply going to have to give it some thought." She turned and left the office before his disapproving frown could soften into a look of concern.
All morning, she tried to shove the issue aside, feeling irresponsible as she did so. There was nothing unfair in the request, and no reason she could explain for refusing to accept what amounted to an assignment. Her efforts to come up with another candidate more suitable for the task only backfired. She was senior enough to grasp the more sophisticated concepts that might be addressed, lowly enough to be spared: many of the staff members had families, and she had just demanded concessions that were immediately met. What a bad time to rebel. What a terrible time to be asked not to.
Those few days on the coast had been an eternity. Four weeks? And just when they'd agreed to take the next step. Any day now . . . No, that argument was too potent to offer any hope of compromise. She blocked it from her thoughts, and dismissed too, for now, her efforts to deal with Joe's request.
Even then it was difficult to concentrate. There was something else she had determined to do--this very day, on her lunch hour, and that in itself was enough to invite a case of nerves.
"Cathy." Peter came around the over-sized desk to take her hands, kissing her on the cheek. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you . . . or how guilty I feel about not getting in touch with you after what happened."
"You know how the media blows these things out of proportion. It was just an occupational hazard."
"Please, sit down," he invited, perching his lanky frame on the desk near her chair. "To tell you the truth I missed the news accounts entirely--a mini-baby boom, that's my occupational hazard. The first I heard of it was from Jacob some time later. You're sure you weren't hurt?"
"If I had been, Peter, you would have been the first to know," she reassured him. ''I've never felt better."
"Then I take it this is a social call."
"No. . . not really. I was hoping you'd give me a prescription. . . for the pill."
"The pill?" he frowned at her, surprised.
"I know you're not wild about prescribing it for long periods of time, but this wouldn't be for long, I'm sure. And I took it in law school with no bad reactions."
"Medically, no . . . If your history doesn't show any side effects, a short-term course shouldn't be a problem. I suppose I'm just surprised to find you're involved in an intimate relationship. I had the impression that you and--" He broke off, and she followed the line of thought behind the craggy features as he made a crucial connection between his unspoken words and the look of sheer defiance on her face. "My God . . . it's Vincent, isn't it?"
"It is," she said with finality. "It always will be, Peter."
He drew himself up, moving slowly to the chair behind his desk. "How long has this been going on, Cathy?"
"It hasn't . . . not yet, but some things are inevitable, and I didn't come here so that you could try to talk me out of it."
He shook his head. "Don't misunderstand. When Charles died, I thought to myself, I should keep an eye on that young woman. Oh, I know you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, but I hoped you could come to me--if you needed a little fatherly advice. I hoped someday you'd find a man good enough for you. I've known few men in my life whom I admire as much as Vincent, but Cathy . . . are you certain of what you're doing?"
"Completely certain. I do appreciate your concern, Peter, but believe me, nothing you might say would change my mind. This is something I've thought about a long time--it isn't an impulse. If you're uncomfortable with the idea, then please just say so, and I'll go somewhere else for help."
"No . . . no, I'm glad that you felt you could be frank with me, and I suppose I shouldn't be all that surprised. When you've been a doctor as long as I have, you think there's a precedent for everything, but Vincent . . . It's good that you came to me. Cathy. I think if you're determined to do this it's imperative you take precautions. "
"If it's frankness you want, Peter, then it's only fair to point out that I'm not asking this because I wouldn't want Vincent's child. Nothing could be further from the truth. I just feel with everything so new. . . so uncertain . . . this isn't the time."
"Oh, Cathy . . . Cathy." He shook his head, but apparently something in her expression caused him to reconsider what he'd been about to say. "I agree absolutely that you should guard against pregnancy, but not just temporarily. We have no idea what sort of child Vincent might father, or, in fact, if it's possible at all."
''I've had this conversation with Jacob, Peter. You don't need to give me any paternal advice." Then afraid she'd sounded ungrateful, she smiled and added, "I do appreciate your concern, but I think I understand all the questions pretty well by now, so unless you have any answers . . . "
"Answers? No, I wish I did. Don't think Jacob and I haven't talked about it, debated about it, combed every obscure medical journal we could get our hands on. That was when Vincent was younger. We never came to any conclusions, and it seemed after a while, that he had accepted his solitary state, that it wasn't a problem we'd ever have to address.""Yes, well, things have changed." A natural curiosity prompted her to fill the awkward silence that followed. "What about medical tests? Did you ever try to learn any more--blood samples, that kind of thing?"
"It was too risky, and anything we could do on our own was inconclusive. Fortunately, Vincent's always been extremely healthy. His recuperative powers are extraordinary. But you must realize, Cathy, that there's a very strong possibility from what little we do know about genetics that he could be unable to reproduce. So if you've got your heart set on--"
"I've got my heart set on Vincent, Peter. Beyond that, whatever comes will come." The one point she wouldn't argue, because she had absolutely no rational basis for doing so, was her total conviction that Peter was wrong. Where the certainty had come from, she didn't know, nor when it had taken root, but it bloomed somewhere deep in her heart. Their love could--would--someday bring new life into the world.
"Cathy, don't do that please." Peter wagged a finger at her. "It makes me very nervous."
"What?""That look--that sort of beatified, secretive glow. I've seen it often enough on expectant mothers--when they're not complaining of back pains or water retention, that is."
"Not to worry, Peter," she laughed. ''I'm here to do the responsible thing, remember? Isn't that what all you father figures want for your daughters?"
At last he was forced to smile, and rising to come around the desk, he hugged her. '"Yes, God help us, I guess it is."
It was the third time she'd read this paragraph, she realized, without comprehending what it said. Jenny had recommended the book as a gripping adventure story, but her own thoughts, rich with anticipation, kept intruding. Still, she resisted succumbing to them completely. Bad enough that she'd left the dining room doors open to allow the last of the warm summer night breezes to play through the curtains. Several times she thought she'd heard a sound on the terrace, but it was highly unlikely that she'd have a visitor this evening. The nights of the week when he never came had fallen into a pattern. These, she knew, were times he served his own kind of sentry duty, prowling the far reaches of the tunnels where others feared to go, making sure his secret world was unbreached and free of dangers.
He'd said they would move forward, and she knew he meant it--but how far? How fast? It could be a bad idea to let her fantasies build on the breathless tension that lately accompanied every thought of him. She didn't want to tempt herself into another display of helpless supplication. He was far too close to surrendering to it, and she was convinced the choice needed to be entirely his. Her choice had been made long ago. More than anything she wanted him to feel that same certainty, that same clarity of purpose that meant he had accepted his right to love her as a man.
Doggedly, she returned her attention to the novel, but after a few minutes she admitted the adventures of fictional people, no matter how exotic, paled in comparison to her own, and she placed the book back on its shelf, moving restlessly to the phone.
"Cathy, I can't believe you're calling me. Did that slave-driving boss of yours forget to give homework tonight?"
"Come on, Jen. You know Joe's a pussy cat. He's just a bit of a workaholic."
"Well, no wonder you get along so well together. What's up?"
"Nothing, I just called to see how you were doing. Have you heard any more from your friend Michael?"
"Funny you should ask. He's called me three times, Cathy, from different places around the country--just to chat."
"That's terrific. Have you run out of things to say yet?"
"Ask Ma Bell. He's really interesting, Cath--and funny, and he says he's never known anyone like me before. It's kind of flattering to feel so unique, but he sounds sincere when he says it."
''I'm sure he is sincere, Jen. He has good taste. What have you been telling him--have you talked about your dreams?"
"No, I haven't mentioned that. Do you think it's a good idea? That kind of thing turns a lot of people off. I wouldn't want him to think I'm some sort of kook before he really has a chance to get to know me."
"Well, he is a psychologist. If he decides you're a kook, at least he can use your case history in one of his lectures."
"Great. That's not exactly what I had in mind."
"What do you have in mind, Jen?" she teased.
"Oh, it's too soon to tell. We've spent so little time together." The reply sounded like an attempt to be sensible in a situation where sensibility held a very low priority. "But he's very attractive--good build, blond, and he's so secure he actually wears glasses instead of contacts. Kind of funny, huh? Remember when we used to carry on about the tall, dark and handsome types--like the guy in that romance novel we read in college with eyes like 'burning coal tar'?"
"And to think you still decided to go into publishing. I don't know, Jen, I guess tastes can change." She smiled wistfully in the direction of the fluttering curtains.
"We've already made a dinner date for the day he gets back in town, and he's invited me to sit in sometime on a class he's teaching at NYU. Cathy, you've got to promise me that we'll get together so you can meet him. I want to know what you think."
"Are you sure he's going to appreciate being checked out by one of your friends? What if I don't like him? You just going to turn around and show him the door?"
"Probably not, but it will give me a perfect excuse to point out all the great things about him you missed. I want him to get to know you too, Cath. Come on, say you'll do it."
Catherine suddenly saw a pitfall looming ahead. Don't do it, Jen. Don't say he has a friend and why don't we-- "You know I want to, Jen. It's just a little hard to know when I'll be available."
"I've already figured that out. His folks have a house out in Great Neck. He's planning to throw a party there, but it won't be for several weeks. If things are still good between us, it'll be the perfect place for you to get to talk to him--you know, without being too obvious about it. Come on, Cath, say you'll be there."
"I'll be there, Jen," she laughed. "If it's that important to you, then I wouldn't miss it, but what about the journals he was sending you? Have you read them?"
"I'm in the process. Some of the script was faded. We had to send it out to be enhanced, but it's intriguing, Cathy. This woman, Felicity Whiting--well, she was really just a girl--was the daughter of a prominent merchant in Boston. She'd had a pretty cushy life--passing the time with lessons in music and drawing, going around to peoples' houses for tea in the afternoon. They had a houseful of servants. I doubt if she'd ever had to lift a finger. . . Am I keeping you from something'?"
"Unfortunately, no. Go on, Jen, this is interesting." She plumped up the cushion beside her and settled in.
"Well, when she was eighteen she fell in love with a preacher's son. You know how they talked in those days, Cathy. Most of her comments about him are rather formal, but it's easy to read between the lines and get that she was really hot for this guy."
"Oh, good, Jen, I can see you're planning ahead--is that line for the blurb on the book jacket, or are you saving it for the mini-series?"
"Very funny. Actually, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if there was a movie in it--or at least a paperback, but anyway they wanted to get married, but her parents didn't like the idea. It wasn't any really big deal: they didn't lock her in her room or forbid her to see him. But they had assumed she'd live a genteel life like they had, and Tom Compton had crazy ideas. He wanted to go out west to settle. They couldn't picture their daughter living that way."
"But she wanted to do it?"
"Absolutely. And finally her parents agreed, but just think how awful it must have been in those days. You didn't just move across country and expect to fly back for the holidays. The people who left knew they would probably never see their homes or their families again."
"That took a lot of courage. What about Felicity--did she ever get back to Boston?"
"Actually, Michael said she did--once. I haven't read that far yet, but it was twenty years later for a visit, and I don't know how much of her family was still alive. Anyhow, they went by wagon train all the way to Nebraska. There were problems with sickness and Indians and the weather--even some unscrupulous settlers that were in their own party, but they built a ranch--just the two of them, and to make a long story short, they managed to make a living, have seven children--five of them survived--and eventually more or less establish a town. Felicity taught everyone's children right in her own cabin. Can you imagine that, between getting up at dawn to feed the animals and cook and wash and garden and can and sew your own clothes and make candles and soap and God-knows-what-else they needed to survive?"
"And this was a girl who'd never had to lift a finger?"
"That's what's so amazing about it. Somewhere during the years Tom managed to get a law degree, I guess by mail, and he wound up being some kind of magistrate. Felicity went on to teach music and help in the establishing of all kinds of amenities that brought a little civilization to the place. And the really fascinating thing to me is that these weren't famous people. If she hadn't enjoyed keeping a diary, no one would even know they ever existed, and yet they had such incredible influence. There must have been hundreds--thousands--like them, people willing to give up their lives to start a new one under incredible conditions, but they did it. I tell you, Cathy, it makes me feel guilty for ever complaining because I have to hop in a taxi and go to an air-conditioned office."
"If you didn't do that, Jen, no one would ever hear Tom and Felicity's story."
"It just really makes you think. Were people so different in those days? Were they really so much stronger than we are?"
"I don't know. Maybe if those kinds of challenges still existed, people would find the strength they needed to meet them. It's just that they don't have to. There isn't any country out there begging to be settled."
"True. I've seen the wild west, and its name is Vegas. I think the country's lost a lot of its charm."
"The kind of life you just described doesn't exactly sound charming--challenging, maybe fulfilling--but not charming. Do you think it will make a book?"
"I'm almost sure of it, assuming we can work out a deal with the owner of the journals."
"Uh-huh. Is it really as good as you say, or is this just an excuse to negotiate with Michael Compton?"
"Cathy--you're questioning my professional standards? I wouldn't stoop to that kind of tactics. It's a good story. Besides, if worse comes to worse and he doesn't call, I can always make an appointment and tell him I'm suffering from bad dreams."
Catherine laughed, but later as she hovered close to sleep, Jenny's closing comment came back to her, blending into the echo of one made centuries ago: I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
Darkness permeated the city. Colors bled from the buildings and the trees, leaving only their shadow-selves to loom behind. Lights dimmed, and with them the sounds of civilization and of life itself. A black shroud, smothering energy and hope for the luckless few that watched its falling.
The time of night when the human soul might feel farthest from salvation, vulnerable to the murky dreams that crept like noxious vines from the earth to twine around the heart, or the bright ones, secret envoys from the fading stars, rebels of the darkness, their tiny codes sifting invisible through the jealous dark, whispering of the coming dawn. In every corner of the city people slept in gentle oblivion, and for some of them the dark curtains parted, and they lived a little life, belonging only to that night. For some of them the dreams were bright and hopeful or foolish and fun, but for some there was no touch of star dust and only the nux vomica found its mark.
~~~~~~~
Once again he stood on the raw-scraped ground that served as home plate. He saw the faces of Iggy and Max, Paul and Sammy and the others, and they were all yelling at him, their voices high and tinny against the roar of traffic beyond the fence. Once again he saw the ball streak into sight and stop, hovering in the heat-muffled air, waiting for him. He felt the power rise through him, through his arm, through the ragged bat, all one thing, one motion and a crack, like firecrackers on the 4th of July, and the ball snapping up into space, white as a snowball against the slice of bright, blue sky that showed between the warehouse and the wall.
They were screaming at him, all of them, to run, to run, to win the game, and he knew he should. He wanted to. He looked at his feet, stuck in the parched earth. A hole had worn through one toe of his battered Keds. He could do that. He could look, but he couldn't run, because he knew now what would happen. He could only wait till it did.
A hand clamped down on the back of his neck, turning him toward his father's florid face. "What are you doing? You have no business here. Get home. Get home to your mother where you belong, you lazy-- You want to be a bum, like these hooligans?"
His father's face rigid with fury, with disgust for his worthless son, his father's hand like a vice, turning him toward the tenement with its cramped, sour-smelling rooms, away from the sky where the ball still sailed, from the voices still calling, "Run, Stosh, run! You can win the game!"~~~~~~~
The wagons had stopped at a river, a mere trickle of brown that angled down from the mountains on the far horizon. Beneath her the wooden seat groaned as the man beside her jumped down. He was blond, and his glasses caught the noonday sun in opaque circles. "You can drink now, Jenny."
"I can't, Tom honestly. I can't come out till I've seen a hairdresser."
"There won't be a hairdresser for miles, not till we get to the Promised Land, not till we get to Vegas."~~~~~~~ "Your father was a policeman, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"And l understand you've put in some time with social services--pro bono work."
"A year and a half, yes, sir."
"Outstanding record at Westfield Law. Full scholarship. This is all unsubstantiated evidence. Do you have any proof?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Moreno--here's my resume, my letters of recommendation, transcripts. It's all right there." He shoved the folder across the desk and watched as it was opened, the papers removed.
"Mr. Maxwell, these pages are all blank. Have you ever actually practiced law? Have you ever even been to school?"
"I'm not sure, sir."
"Well, it's not important. Why don 't you take my chair? Come on, sit down. You're a good man, Joe. I'm proud to have known you, but I have to be going now."~~~~~~~~~
She was back in the tunnels, and it was Father. Father delivering the baby in her old chamber. Mary was there, sweet Mary, smiling and holding her hand, nodding encouragement. And Vincent in the doorway, so solemn. Like a rock. Nothing could go wrong if Vincent was there.
She turned toward Jerry who was gripping her other hand. He's scared, she thought, looking into his eyes so full of love and concern. She wanted to tell him that it was all right, that it didn't hurt at all, but both her hands were captive, and she didn't mind. It was a chain of love they were forming, of life, and suddenly it was over.
No pain at all, and Father was holding the baby, smiling. They were all smiling. Jerry was kissing her, the baby was kicking, waving his tiny, perfect fists, and in the endless quiet of her world. . .
She heard him cry.~~~~~~~~~ The doors opened, and she stepped out, bathed in moonlight, a delicate form in pure white, her bare feet moving so gracefully, so lightly over the terrace tiles, she might have been borne on the evening breeze. He watched it tease small tendrils of hair across her cheek as she lifted her face to its breath and the silver moon.
Transfixed, he stood, longing to speak to her, but hesitant to break the spell of her solitude. His body that had carried him lithely to the heights of the city now seemed to him clumsy, his hands hidden in the folds of the cloak, gross and out of keeping with the pristine scene on the terrace. He swallowed back the feeling, commanding his breath to slow.
She had moved to the edge now, gazing out aver the park, perhaps thinking of. . . He stopped the conceit even as it rose in his consciousness. Her world was a complex place, filled with perils and uncertainties, yet she walked with courage through its tangled mysteries, reached out with compassion to its victims. There were many things she might be thinking of, but no . . . the knowledge stirred subtly at the center of his senses, a miracle that could not be ignored, that, in truth, he had no wish to deny.
He felt suddenly that it was wrong to be standing here, basking in the glow of the ethereal image before him, unobserved, and he stepped from the shadows, shedding their familiar sanctuary, exposed to the moon's tranquil glow.
She turned, her expression changing even as she saw him, a radiance washing over her flawless face, so beautiful that for a moment he felt its effect like a physical blow. "Vincent."
Her voice called him into existence--conjured from a confusion of questions and conflicts, the man he wished to be. Her presence flowed through him healing old wounds, bringing him to the center of himself, where all was sure and strong. Doubts fled like guilty trespassers, and there was only a blinding truth. He knew it utterly, knew its name, knew it was love.
She moved into his arms, so soft, so warm against him, melting the power that coursed through his body, his soul, into a boundless reservoir of tenderness. He would protect her always--this fragile creature so full of fire, of strength. Kill for her, die for her. . . live for her.
She tilted her face up to him. Eyes, the color of spring, wide and innocent of the corruption she battled so fiercely, bright with intelligence and warmth. Her generous mouth, so quick to smile, to light the darkness with her gentle joy in life. Her lips, too soft for imagining, parting for him now.
His heart staggered in his chest. That look of total acceptance . . . No. How long had he forced himself to see it as such, content with the wonder that it should be so? How hard it had been, struggling to drag the truth of it into his consciousness, to face it with honesty, to recognize that it was more than acceptance she offered.
She desired him, longed for him. The knowledge had long flooded their bond, but stubbornly he had refused to recognize it, panicking at its implications--too seductive to grasp, castigating himself for the pretensions that whispered to him, until her words, her actions had made it impossible to deny.
No more. The light of her, the trust, her unswerving love. They had banished a thousand sorrows, a lifetime of fear and guilt. He felt his soul reborn in hers, purified. And all the rest would follow. Entranced, he bent to take her offered mouth, drowning in the sweetness of it, letting his own impassioned feelings speak to her in this language that went beyond words, beyond thought. She trembled under it, her small hands clutching him closer, and willingly he went.
To worship her with his mouth. To obey the invitation of hers, and feel himself inside her, claiming her sweet, wet mysteries as his own. To know her ecstatic response mingling with his own. His body was
locked in a paroxysm of tenderness, of fire. She drew away, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire, her small fierce being singing to him that everything was right. Was it possible to love so and still breathe? He forced his lungs to draw a necessary breath, touching her delicate cheek with his finger, careful always to turn the claw away.
Her smile at his touch. His hands no longer treacherous things. She welcomed his touch, craved it, and he traced the cherished features of her face, the perfect column of her neck. She wanted more. He sensed it. Knew it. And oh . . . how he longed to follow her entreaty. He kissed her again. His hands, no longer instruments of death, redeemed in the completeness of her love, like everything he was, they belonged to her, existed only to protect her, soothe her, speak to her of his adoration. Had he been wrong to deny her their vassalage? Selfish to withhold their expression of his passion?
She was kissing him, whispering words of love, of devotion, that soaked into his tortured soul like healing rain, and he damned the arrogance that kept him always so conscious of himself; scrutinizing every suspect thought, every untried feeling. There was only one reality. It was theirs--together, and it demanded everything.
He looked down, deep into her clear-eyed trust. Anything was possible, and like a man stepping to the edge of a cliff, he allowed his hand to fall below her throat, to slowly meet the softness that rose from her silken gown. His eyes closed involuntarily with the shock of the sensation, the creamy warmth beneath his sensitive fingers flooded his being, unprecedented, sweeping him into some level of awareness he never knew existed. He was helpless in its uncharted regions, his hand no longer his to command, gliding with reverence over the cool fire of her flesh, drawing a groan from the deepest part of himself. And it was right. He felt it in the glorious tenderness that was shaking his soul, heard it in her little gasp, as her lips, warm and moist, pressed against his neck.
Pure light blazed through him, as his fingers breached the delicate edge of her gown, drawn by a greater warmth, a deeper mystery. "I love you, Catherine." He heard his own choked declaration, her
whispered "yes," so full with supplication, as she arched toward him, welcoming his conquest. So right. Such a clean fire burning at his every nerve. Redemption in the very heart of passion. And beneath the sweet agony of desire, a perfect peace . . . waiting for them both.
He surrendered himself to it, to the aching pull of passion, the promised peace, and from the depths of that peace rose a dark vine, twining upwards before he could even grasp its meaning, spreading its black tendrils with such speed, he had no time to prepare, choking his breath, squeezing his heart, spewing an inky venom through every vein. It burst suddenly into hideous bloom, crimson, all-encompassing. The tenderness that had dominated every thought, every action, collapsed into a vortex, transformed again into the primal energy that swept him with terrible power, every muscle tensed to conquer, to destroy.
"What?" she looked at him, struggling to focus beyond a dreamlike languor. "What' s wrong?"
He had no speech. No power to draw back to him the response he knew he must feel at her look of concern. Her face floated to him in the darkness, too beautiful, too perfect. . . too ignorant of what confronted her. So fragile, her small body in the moonlight, vulnerable. His for the taking. A low growl pushed its way up from the flames, and he saw her face clear of passion, worried now, searching his for an explanation. Better. Better that look of uncertainty, because there was no certainty here, only a wild, random hunger. His hand shot out to clutch her pale shoulder, gripping it hard, and her look changed to fear. At last. This was as it should be. This was the only response possible to what he was, towering over her now, snarling his contempt for the folly that had kept her so long from seeing it.
Her mouth was moving, though he couldn't hear the words through the pounding in his blood. Begging, he was sure, whimpering, striving to understand the unknowable. It fired his purpose, confirmed the true nature of her meaning here. A victim. The fear in her eyes was familiar, comfortable. It was right. The slender strap of her gown snapped beneath his hand, and he ripped it away with a snarl, feeding on the disbelief, the terror that defined her face, feeling it inflame the power increasing in him with every breath.
So fragile. So absurdly easy it was to force her to her knees on the cold tile, her tears like foolish diamonds in the moonlight. . .~~~~~~~~~
The roar tore from the very center of his being, summoned from some secret place to burst the bonds of sleep, to thrust him panting, gasping into the waking world. It reverberated still off the old, stone walls, dying finally in the chamber, silent now of even the subways' rattle, the clanging of the pipes.
The bed was drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging to his overheated flesh.
He pulled in long draughts of cool air, willing his hammering heart to slow.
Her face--the look of love and faith transformed to terror. He felt forward, head in his hands, and knew the purity of pure despair.