Ravenous (Triskaidekaphilia Book 2) Read online

  "I've never stopped loving you," she whispered, "never stopped dreaming of those weeks in Rome. The heat… the passion… You showed me how to live."

  Their lips touched, softly at first, and then—with a desire as strong as his need for blood, as desperate and deep as its taste—he pulled her closer, relishing in all that had haunted him over the centuries, everything he'd hoped could have been, now within his grasp.

  At the sound of a knock on the door, they broke apart, breathless.

  "It could be the Van Helsing Division," he said. "Quickly, go out the back."

  "And Cabolt?"

  Theo bit back a curse; how could she still be thinking of him after the kiss they'd just shared? "He'll have his antidote."

  Phoebe squeezed his hand and ducked into the back room, taking all her warmth and vibrancy with her to leave Theo alone in the dark.

  Another knock came upon the door, and—feeling half-numb—Theo opened it, fully expecting to find the new police division on his doorstep. What he found there instead was Cabolt.

  "You're looking for Phoebe," Theo said.

  "I got halfway to the hotel and—"

  "You just missed her."

  Out on the street, a police car drove by with its sirens on. Both men tensed at the sound.

  "She asked you about—" Cabolt started.

  "Yeah. Come back tomorrow after closing time." Theo needed time to think things through, to allow Phoebe's scent in his nostrils and her voice in his ears to fade, so he could consider this rationally and make his plans. He'd have to sell the shop. They could go off the grid for a bit, a few decades, so she wouldn't have to see Cabolt's face on the news, see him growing older and frailer with each passing year.

  "I ought to have known Phoebe would work something out." Cabolt smiled and shook his head. "I'm a fool for ever doubting her. I've never met anyone like her; she could talk the clouds into breaking with just her smile. She's my life, the reason I do all of this, you know. I'd be nothing without her."

  "Sure," Theo said, trying to ignore the growing unease in his stomach. The taste on his lips soured. He reached for the door handle, urging Cabolt outside. "Just… be here tomorrow."

  Phoebe held her husband's hand, trying to memorize its feel in hers. She was setting things right, she reminded herself, and besides, she'd have Theodore to help her forget. The kiss last night had been a test, one she'd passed, for in those brief moments, she'd forced herself to forget Cabolt, to wipe from her mind the years they'd shared, until there was nothing left but Theo. Theo and Rome and the life they might have shared had things been different. She could do this. All she had to do was forget.

  From behind the espresso bar, Theo brought out two syringes, tucked away in the folds of a dishcloth.

  "Have a seat," he told Cabolt. "We'll do you first."

  "Two?" Phoebe mouthed to Theo, frowning toward the cloth.

  He leaned in and muttered in her ear. "You think he'd do it if he didn't think you were joining him?"

  Of course he wouldn't. Satisfied, Phoebe settled beside Cabolt and took his hand. "Is it going to hurt?"

  Theo pulled out one of the syringes. "It'll knock you out for a few minutes while the transition takes place, and when you wake, you'll be just as human as the day before you were bitten."

  At this last line, he looked to Phoebe, who would have blushed if she were able. The day before she was bitten they'd spent together. The specifics were lost in foggy memory, but she remembered being happy, hopeful about life after Cabolt's death. She'd have to rely on that reassurance now, too.

  "Ready?" Theo asked Cabolt, holding out the syringe.

  "Are you certain you don't want to go first?" Cabolt asked Phoebe, who merely shook her head, blinking back tears. The syringe on the table glimmered menacingly. Could she go through with it?

  "All right." Cabolt placed his arm on the table, and with all the carefulness of a surgeon, Theo inserted the syringe in his arm. Cabolt squeezed Phoebe's hand, and within moments, she could feel the strange and steady pulsing of blood reinvigorating his body.

  "Watch it," Theo said, grabbing Cabolt's arm and helping Phoebe lower him to the table.

  His eyelashes fluttered, and in those last moments before he drifted out of consciousness, Phoebe's lips formed the words I love you.

  When she was certain he was unconscious, she stood and smoothed down her dress. He was as good as dead, or would be soon, in a matter of mere decades, and now came the difficult task of moving on.

  "I assume you have some sort of escape plan in mind," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. She reached into her pocket and extracted an envelope. "I wrote a letter explaining things to him, but we'll want to be away before he wakes."

  "Kiss me again, Phoebe."

  She turned to face him, to keep her eyes from wandering to the man at the table whose face was becoming more lined, more colored, more human as the moments wore on. She reached up and lifted her face to Theo's, closer and closer until—

  The prick of a needle pierced her arm. Instantly weakened, she crumbled to the chair.

  "What?" Her voice sounded strange in her ears, muffled by the sudden surge of blood rushing through her body. "I don't understand. What have you done?"

  "I couldn't let you do it, sacrifice your happiness like that," he said. "We had a good fling, but I know you only agreed to stay with me because you love him, because you know the only way a selfish idiot like me would agree to give up the antidote is if I got something in return. I can’t steal that from you, Phoebe. And besides, he needs you, too."

  "But you—"

  "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

  Her heart thudded in her chest. It beat with gratitude, with relief that she wouldn't have to yet give up the life she'd grown to love. When she woke, she'd be human again—fragile and painfully mortal—but Cabolt would be there. With him, she could endure anything, up to and including death.

  "Besides," Theo said, his voice distant, stretching across the centuries as her consciousness slipped away, "we'll always have Rome."

  About Wendy Nikel

  Wendy Nikel is a speculative fiction author with a degree in elementary education, a fondness for road trips, and a terrible habit of forgetting where she's left her cup of tea. Her short fiction has been published by Fantastic Stories of the Imagination, Daily Science Fiction, Nature: Futures, and elsewhere. Her time travel novella, The Continuum, is forthcoming from World Weaver Press in spring 2018. For more info, visit wendynikel.com

  JAAP BOEKESTEIN

  Light Play

  You check your skirt and blouse for the last time. He demands your appearance be immaculate.

  It is.

  With a dry throat, you knock on the door of The Room. You are on edge. It is late in the day, some time after noon. Outside, the cruel sun burns. In the house, everything is dark. Heavy curtains keep out Death. You have slept until late in the guest room, woken by the nagging alarm clock. Such an unholy hour!

  It takes ten seconds. You cannot hear him. The door is soundproof, like the rest of The Room.

  Psshh. The door opens. He stands in the opening.

  Playboy millionaire; gray, wise Daddy; evil, arrogant Master. All clichés, none of them applicable. At first glance, he looks completely ordinary, a bit ugly even, but my god, he has presence. He radiates power without trying at all. He is a natural Dom. He is your Dom.

  Why isn’t he one of the People—a vampire? He would have ruled them all. But he is only mortal.

  Still he rules you. You are a degenerate.

  Sssh! Nobody knows!

  Well, you yourself know. And so does he. It is your dirty secret. Shame! Shame!

  You don’t feel shame. Not when he looks at you, when he inspects you from top to toe. Anxiety, pride, submission. All that and more. Not shame. Never.

  Finally, he nods.

  A hot wave of relief. You have passed his test. You are worthy.

  Relief is followed by nervousness for
what is waiting in The Room. You know what is in there. This isn’t your first time. But every time, you are nervous. Afraid even.

  Without words, he turns around and you follow.

  Psshh. The door closes behind you.

  Now you’re naked. He watched you undress. He loves that.

  He doesn’t want a show, but you try to be as elegant as possible. Carefully, you fold your clothes and put them in a neat stack on the designated spot.

  He gets out the chains and manacles. He locks your wrists and ankles in thick steel cuffs made especially for you. You have such thin wrists. And you are so strong.

  Click and click and click and click. You’re standing with arms high, legs wide apart. They are chained to a rectangular steel frame. Whatever you try, you won't get loose. No matter how afraid, how angry, how desperate you become. You tried in the past. You tried and tried and always failed.

  That knowledge should give you comfort, but it quite the opposite. All your instincts shout: No! No! Flee! Fight! You can’t do this!

  In other words, you’re damned jittery.

  Of course, he notices your discomfort. He looks you in the eyes. “Blindfold, sweet?”

  You want to say no, to be strong, to not need the darkness to flee into. You really want him to be proud of you. Really.

  But deep down you know all that is nonsense. He doesn't think you’re weak. He has told you time after time. But you feel the weakness in yourself. I am strong. I don't need a blindfold. Not this time.

  Little liar you are. Bad girl.

  He reads the answer in your eyes. Gently he puts the blindfold over your face. It is a sleeping mask and it covers everything.

  Darkness. Sweet darkness. Dear friend.

  The frame rests on little wheels but is steady as a house. If he wants, he can move you back and forth or turn you around, and you can do nothing.

  Your human Master—O, you pervert!—isn't finished with you. The little metal clasps jingle when he picks up the gag. You smell the fresh rubber and the leather.

  “Please open your mouth.”

  He always is polite. You had to get used to that. Why does he ask? Why doesn’t he demand?

  “I use force when I need to use force,” was his reply.

  It took a while before you understood. Power isn’t equal to using force. Real power is getting things done without resorting to force.

  Funny, even after one hundred twenty years, you learn things. From a mortal, no less.

  You are strange. A disgrace to your species.

  Like you care.

  He pops the rubber ball in your mouth and fastens the straps behind your head. His touch is electric; his skin smells so good. Do you hear his heart beating? No, but you imagine you do. Even with all your nervousness, a little excitement creeps in.

  Prey, your instincts whisper. Deep down The Hunger slumbers.

  Sex, other instincts whisper. Down there you feel the slightest trace of lust.

  Now you are an object—chained, without eyes, without voice. He checks the gag carefully. It is for his protection, not yours. Every time, you need a new gag. The old ones are totally pierced by your fangs.

  A blind little kitten smells the hand that pats her and rubs her head against her owner’s skin.

  Meow. You are a little kitten.

  He allows it. He pats you. You feel love-weak, and The Hunger has gone back to sleep. You are his. He can do with you whatever he wants.

  One hand caresses your back. “Are you ready?”

  “Ynng!” You nod, blind and dumb. He wants a clear answer.

  “Good. Do you trust me?” It is a ritual. A checklist and a way to mark the beginning of play. Say yes, and there will be no turning back.

  “Ynng!” You make sure you are very clear. Once, in the beginning, when this was all new to you, you decided to challenge him. Was it the third time he played with you? He asked if you trusted him, just like now. With an evil grin, gag and all, you shook your head. Of course, you trusted him but you wanted his reaction. You wanted to be punished. Brat.

  He punished you. He took off your blindfold and gag, he unchained you, and he sent you to bed without… without anything!

  You cried all day.

  You never challenged him again.

  Bastard human.

  His footsteps recede toward the curtained windows you know hang in the back of the room.

  Suddenly, your whole body is rigid. The windows are facing south. Behind the heavy cloth roars the sun. That terrible burning eye. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. If he pulls open the curtains, you will bath in the sun's light. You would burn—for how long? As long as he wants. The light would scorch your pale skin, set it afire, eat away your muscles and flesh. You would cook and char. It would be an endless agony.

  Sometimes you dream about it.

  You always wake up wet and flustered. How would it be to…?

  Girl, you are strange.

  He doesn't open the curtains. Instead, his footsteps stop. He must be next to the projector.

  The projector, ah, that needs a bit of explaining. It’s a wooden box full of mirrors and lenses. The back is open on the other side of the curtains, sucking in sunlight. Mirrors and lenses bundle the evil rays to concentrate it into a beam of sunlight, which comes out the lens on the front of the projector.

  He built it himself. He’s very handy in such things. He can use a filter to weaken the beam, and he can turn something to disperse or focus the beam. The lens is flexible, so he can point it anywhere he wants to, like a death ray or a fucking torture ray. Pure sunlight.

  You remember the question and answer game.

  You like pain, little girl?

  Demurely: Yes.

  You like to feel helpless, to be forced to undergo evil things?

  Shamefully: Yes.

  You like to feel the fear of death?

  Breathless: Please…

  You like to be prey?

  Silent: …

  Well?

  Whispering: I am yours.

  Although you are with your back to him and blindfolded, you know what comes next. He showed you the first time. As he blocks the beam of sunlight with his hand, the cap of the lens clicks as he takes it off. No, it doesn't hurt him, human. Not him.

  Silently, he removes his hand.

  The beam touches your skin somewhere under your shoulders. It is filtered, weak. Nonetheless, it is sunlight. Instinctively, your body rocks wildly, confined by the cuffs and chains. Fangs emerge; claws grow. Flee or fight.

  You can't do either.

  “Easy, sweet,” you hear him say through a red killing haze. He applies a heavier filter. The slight pain—that was all it was—subsides to a tickle.

  You grapple with yourself, for your breath, for your mind. Control, control.

  It takes a dozen of his heartbeats, a hundred of yours.

  Your fangs are stuck in the rubber ball. That always happens and you hate it. It’s such a bother to pull them lose afterwards. Some drool escapes from the corner of your mouth.

  When you are calm, in control again, he applies the beam once more, a quick sharp lash over your buttocks.

  I can do this. I can do this. Icandothis!

  You can. He knows you can, otherwise he wouldn’t subject you to the light. Why do you doubt him? Trust him. Trust your Master, the human with pain and death in his hand.

  New lashes, pinpricks, all on your bottom. He draws dark stripes on your skin. Sunlight.

  You have liked pain as long as you can remember. The first time you burned yourself with a candle was in the servant's quarters. They need light to find their way in the dark—poor, weak creatures. Oh, how fascinated you were by the little flame and the stinging feeling it caused!

  Even then, you knew it was wrong. You hid the burnt finger until your next feeding, and afterwards, the dark scar was gone.

  So you did it again. Many times.

  The sun… Now, that was really tempting. Endure the sun and die in ago
ny.

  How would that feel?

  You played games with the sun. “I dare to face you.”

  The sun always won. You hid inside the moment the blazing eye peeped over the horizon.

  Bastard sun. He was always stronger than you.

  He was your first Master.

  One day, you couldn't sleep. You found a curtain that wasn't closed properly upstairs in one of the rooms that was rarely used. One ray of sunlight invaded the house: a golden beam of death.

  It was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

  You studied it for hours, seeing it move over the boards.

  Finally, you accepted its challenge. You touched it. Very quickly.

  Pain! A hundred times more intense than the flame of a candle. Quickening, intimate.

  You fled, confused, angry, afraid. Nothing should provoke such feelings.

  The next day, you were back. It was a cloudy day, and hardly any sunlight came through the window. You did it again. It still hurt.

  Ecstasy.

  You kept your perversion hidden from your parents. This was not something The People did. You grew up and left home when you married. Your husband found out, of course, and told you to stop. You couldn't. In the end, you ran away.

  Wandering, for decades. You had lovers, humans and People. Some accepted your needs but none could help you. Until one day, you met him. Your Master.

  The smell of burning flesh fills your nose, but you hardly register it anymore. Your buttocks are a crisscross of black scars. You drown in pain but still struggle.

  Let go, you beg your body, but it refuses. No surrender.

  He puts the cap on the lens and walks up to you. Dazed, you hear him come. Your torturer.

  Without saying a word, he releases the brake of the little wheels of the frame. He turns the whole contraption one hundred eighty degrees. You are now facing the curtains and the projector.

  He applies the brake. His footsteps recede to his chair.