sanguineangels (32 page)

Gillian stared around the room nervously, her eyes everywhere as she sized up her host. Was there any sign of psychosis? That he was a rapist who was going to rip her body to shreds and leave parts of it marinating in his fridge for tomorrow’s dinner? Not that she was in much position to care—she’d wanted to die, right? His house was a proper Charleston townhouse, speaking to the fortune he must have hidden away someplace. The ceilings were vaulted and stylishly cracked. The building was obviously old, given the uneven polished wood under her feet and the ivy crawling along the outside walls. “Your place…it’s very nice.”

“Thank you,” he replied casually, coming up behind her so fast that she gasped when feeling his hands on her shoulders. “It was built in 1753 by an old Charleston doctor.” He took her coat from around her, pulling almost forcefully to free her from the bonds of the leather. “His grandson was a Civil War surgeon who lost his mind after it was all over. He hung himself in the attic,” he said matter-of-factly, hanging her coat by the door. “Sit anywhere you like.” He turned, leaving her alone in the room.

As soon as he was gone, she exhaled with a kind of relief. His presence was intense, a bit overpowering—she wasn’t sure she liked it. She stepped back, her legs banging against the leather sofa behind her. She sat down, sinking into the depths of the cushions. Suddenly, it was as if a blanket of warm relaxation settled over her, and she leaned back into the blissful softness. “What am I doing here?” she whispered to herself.

“Careful, that couch is lethal.” Gillian’s eyes shot open to see the man standing over her with a full wine glass perched precariously between his long fingers. “You’ll be asleep in no time.”

Reaching out, she took the glass and sipped at the dark Merlot. The flavor was strong, and at first, she shuddered with its bitterness, but the sensation of the warm liquid sliding down her throat was so pleasant, and it emanated from her middle, relaxing her further. “Thank you.” She sighed, clutching the glass tightly against her chest. “I must have needed that drink.”

“I am quite certain that there are many things you need, Miss…?” He stared down at her questioningly.

“Thompson. Gillian Thompson,” she replied with a hint of a quiver still obvious in her voice.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Gillian Thompson,” he said, offering his hand. She took it and he grasped tightly, sinking to the place beside her. She watched as he arranged the cushions on the corner of the couch, making himself a place to sit. Everything about him was dark and angular except for his eyes. Their slight almond shape was unusual and the golden green fire in them was unsettling, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away. “I’m Seth,” he said, and she was mesmerized watching his full lips form the words in his strange Southern brogue. He started to speak again when a large, white and gray spotted cat leaped onto the couch between them, startling Gillian so badly that she nearly spilled the remainder of her wine in her lap. Seth chuckled softly, rubbing the cat between its unusually large ears. “And this is Sefu.”

“Hello,” Gillian stammered, pulling back from the cat. She’d never liked cats very much. They always seemed to be able to see straight into her soul with those big green eyes. It was creepy.

“Are you afraid of cats, Gillian?” he asked, pulling the cat into his arms and letting her rub her face against the rough edge of his jaw.

“Perhaps a little. They just seem a bit…”

“Creepy? All-knowing?”

“Yes.” She sighed, relaxing again. “They never seemed to like me much, either. It’s like they don’t trust me.”

“Perhaps you just never met the right one.” He still held her hand and gently placed it on the cat’s head. “Sefu likes everyone.” He guided her hand to stroke the animal gently over its head and down its back. His hands were rough, the pads of his fingertips calloused like a musician’s, yet beautiful with the sinews and tendons that stood out in harsh relief against his dark skin. They seemed cool, but she didn’t mind as she rather liked the feeling of electric friction between them. “So, Gillian…” he began, leaning back against the pillows he’d arranged so carefully and throwing his leg up on the coffee table in front of them. “When are you going to tell my why you were trying to kill yourself?”

She blushed as if suddenly hearing about her behavior out loud made it seem trite and overdramatic. “I… I’m not sure.”

He smiled with a smug arc of his eyebrow. “You certainly seemed sure before, darlin’. I think you’re quite sure. You just don’t want to tell me.”

“Why should I? I don’t even know you…”

“That’s why. Besides, I want to help you.”

“No one can help me.” When she said this, her voice broke and the tears rushed to the surface again. She cursed herself, not wanting to waste one more tear on fucking Jackson. But it was too late, and before she knew it, she was sobbing into her hands, trying to hide her face from the stranger on the couch beside her. “I’m lost, Seth. And there’s no one left to find me.”

****

Seth watched with interest as she sat there on the couch, sobbing into her hands.
Humans are such curious creatures
, he thought.
Their heads a swirl of emotion and illogical notions that propelled them through their short lives at an astonishing rate.
It was fascinating and pathetic. All of the pleasures of the world around her and all she could do was lament the betrayal of a lover. He supposed he couldn’t blame her, he’d come to his circumstances in much the same way. He should just put her out of her misery now while she was already in such pain. She would welcome her death and praise him as her savior as the light faded from behind those stormy blue eyes. If only she weren’t such a curious creature. For some reason, something inside her spoke to that shred of humanity that still clung after all the long years. It was a rare thing. Most humans were simply food. Or a means to an end that could be thrown aside at the first twinge of boredom. “There now, he’s really not worth all this, is he?”

Gillian sat up, narrowing her eyes at him. “How did you know—”

“You think very loud. Besides, I’ve seen many others in your position, love. All the signs are there.” With a mischievous smirk, he slid closer to her and boldly put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close, much to the dismay of Sefu who hissed and ran off. She tensed at first, but one whiff of his scent put her at ease, and she relaxed into the embrace, wetting the shoulder of his sweater with her tears. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any good to feed you some line about fish in the sea.”

She ignored his weak attempt at humor and sniffled. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe it was my fault.”

“Somehow I find that highly doubtful. It’s been my experience that most humans are just as selfish and horrible as I think they are. I’m a fairly good judge, and you don’t seem to be a complete waste. Otherwise I’d have just let you do it.”
Or have killed you myself.

Gillian looked up at him through bleary eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Being so nice to me?”

He grinned and used his fingertips to brush a lock of her hair away from her forehead. “Why shouldn’t I be?” She didn’t say anything and he searched her mind, trying to see what she was thinking, but somehow the colors were blurred together, her emotions rolling over on themselves as she searched for words to verbalize an answer. “Your sadness is so beautiful, Gillian,” he whispered, the tip of his finger sliding down the slope of her cheek.

“I’m not beautiful,” she sniffled, turning away from him. “You don’t need to flatter me.”

“I’m not flattering you. It’s true.” And it was. Her pale skin was smooth and her tears glistened in the soft light given off by the lamp at their side, giving her an ethereal glow. The reddish waves of her hair fell around her face, framing its expression of despair in a way that no artist could reproduce. “If only you could see it for yourself,” he whispered.

“Then you’re trying to seduce me.”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe a little.” She blushed fully, the crimson stain of embarrassment lighting her cheeks as she inched away from him slightly. She gripped the glass of wine so tightly that for a moment he feared that she would shatter it in her fist, but instead she brought it to her lips and drained it in a single gulp. He watched as the muscles of her throat flexed and contracted as she took the liquid into her and then at the thick blue vein that vibrated with the racing of her heart. He could almost taste her blood. His mouth was watering and the edge of his fangs pricked the inside of his lip.
Not yet.
Something told him to wait. To kill her now would be a waste. Better to wait until he could figure out why she was so captivating.

Seth rose quickly, his grace almost betraying him as he stumbled over the edge of the couch in his haste. “Your glass is empty,” he said, his voice taking on a sharp edge.

His tone had changed so fast that Gillian was startled, and she didn’t respond until he reached forward and took the glass from her grasp. “Oh…so it is,” she murmured. “But it’s alright. I shouldn’t drink anymore. I’ve always been a lightweight—”

“Of course you should,” he replied, disappearing before she could respond. He walked into the kitchen and pressed himself against the empty refrigerator. “What’s wrong with you, Seth?” he scolded himself in a whisper. “Just eat her and get it over with.” But he couldn’t. There was something about her that he just couldn’t let go of. Her sadness, perhaps. Or maybe the scent of unrequited vengeance that lingered in her blood. It was almost as if she weren’t really a human, but a creature like him—only denied of her birthright. He pushed his long, black hair away from his face, combing his fingers through it roughly before grabbing the open bottle of Merlot on the counter and pouring another glass.

When he returned, Gillian was standing in front of the bookcase running her fingertips along the smooth leather spines. He made a small noise and she turned, a guilty grin on her face. “You uhm… have a lot of books.” She chuckled softly.

“I’m a bit of a collector,” he replied, casually holding the wineglass out to her.

“Some of them are very old,” she said, taking it. “This Lepsius translation alone is worth several thousands—”

“Hundreds of thousands. It’s an original printing.”

Her eyes grew wide and her mouth hung agape in a shocked expression. “You can’t be serious…there are only a few original prints of the
Egyptian Book of the Dead
…”

“Fifty in the first printing.” Seth smiled as she slid her fingers across the leather covering, caressing it like the skin of a lover. “I’m a bit fanatical about my Egyptian collection.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her how he’d acquired the book, but he thought better of it. Not just yet. She wouldn’t believe him.

“Obviously.”

He took her elbow gently in his hand, leading her back to the couch. “How did you recognize it? Lepsius isn’t exactly common reading.”

“I used to work in a museum. We had some reproductions. I’ve always been interested in the Ancient Egyptians.” She sank back down onto the couch beside him. “Probably their preoccupation with death.”

He smirked. “They weren’t preoccupied with death. They believed that there was no death, only transition. This life was merely a trial on the path to paradise.”

Gillian stared up at him.. “And what do you believe?” she croaked.

He grinned, running his thumb along the tiny bones of her wrist, feeling the blood pumping hard in her veins but trying to ignore it. “I think we make our own paradise.” He could smell the lust rising in her blood, and he inhaled it deeply. It would be so sweet and warm, flowing over his lips and rolling down his chin in exquisite molten death. Once started, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. “I feel sorry for you, Gillian,” he rasped, edging closer to her warmth.

“I don’t need your pity.” She sighed, her body tense as he came closer. But he could see it in her eyes—she could smell him. She wanted him, though she didn’t understand why. Already she was imagining his body pressed against her, driving her into his bed with the violent impetus of his thrusts. She could almost feel the bruises around her wrists when he held her down. Her mouth was dry and she kept chewing on her lip, all thoughts of her former lover clouded with the miasma of his masculinity.

“I offer no pity,” he said, brushing her hair away from her throat. “And no mercy.” He kissed her neck, just under her ear and let his lips linger there, brushing the soft skin with them. He wanted to relish every layer of her flavor, from the salty sweetness of her skin to the spicy bitterness of her sex. Only when she was at the peak of arousal would he allow himself to submit to his hunger.