Silence and the Word (24 page)

“Anyway, the one I’m thinking of is Johnny
Viaggi. Johnny Viaggi with the long black hair, that falls into his
face so cute—kinda like yours, kid. He smells clean, all the time;
clean as spring, with the smell of new bread hanging heavy over
him—that’s ’cause he works in the Cantalini’s bakery over on
Fourth.

“That Nina Cantalini! How that little shit
managed to snag Johnny Viaggi I’ll never know—oh, she’s all right
looking, I’ll give you that, with that tight ass, and those big
tits. But them Cantalini women are all drinkers, which is why the
men run the shop, and I swear that before she’s thirty that Nina
will be drinking up the profits and lettin’ her body go to hell.
She’s gonna swell up like a balloon and those big tits are gonna
droop over the big beer belly she’s gonna have. And that tight ass
is gonna loosen right up, and Johnny Viaggi is gonna be damn sorry
he married such a worthless drunken lump of a woman when he
could’ve had me.

“You’re wondering why I’m telling you all
this. See, when I’m getting off, I’m not alone. No, I close my
eyes, and Johnny Viaggi is right there next to me. It’s his big
thick hands that lift me up and move me to my bed, his hands that
unbutton my blouse and push it down my shoulders and off my arms.
Slender arms, and a slender body, and if my tits aren’t as big as
that damn Nina’s at least they’ll still be standing up straight in
ten years. I don’t fucking care if I’m only a 32A—my nipples are
sensitive as hell, and that’s what counts. That’s what Stepanino
says, anyway, and for once the scumbag is right.

“I’ve got great little tits, and when I
unhook the front of my cherry red bra and pull it off, that’s
Johnny’s fingers doing it, and his big hands cupping my tits so
that they disappear under his warm, rough touch. Then my nipples
stand up hard, so hard they poke out between his fingers, and he
starts playing with them, rolling them between two fingers,
squeezing and pulling a bit, all the while whispering words of
love, ‘mi amore, cara mia, darling Angie’. And I’m moaning under
Johnny’s touch, ’cause it is so good, and my nipples are so
sensitive, and his breath is soft against my ear, against my
neck—I’m almost ready to come right there, but he likes to take it
slow.

“Then his hands slide down my body, unzipping
my skirt and pushing it down, so he can see the red silk garter
belt and black stockings I wore just for him, just like he asked me
to. No panties, and Johnny’s fingers trail down and down, almost
tickling but not quite, sliding over my shaved pussy, until they’re
barely touching my clit. And he touches me then, and it is so
sweet, so fucking sweet that I moan Johnny’s name, oh yeah. I’m
lying in my bed with his body warm beside me and his mouth on my
nipple now and his fingers sliding into my pussy, warm and wet and
slick and hard, pumping harder and harder until I’m almost about to
come and it’s then, then that he whispers, ‘Angie, will you marry
me?’ and that’s when I scream ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ and I’m coming hard
and fast like you wouldn’t believe.

“
That’s
how I masturbate. You got all
that down, kid?” He’s staring at me with wide eyes, like he’d never
heard a woman come before. Maybe he hasn’t. And I’m standing up and
shaking the dust from my ass, and he comes alive quick and reaches
into his pocket, fumbling a little, and then counts out nine more
fives into my hand. He’s still not saying a word, so I smile at him
and turn away, walking down the empty street and not caring that my
feet still hurt ’cause I’ve got fifty dollars in my pocket and a
sopping wet pussy.

Take
that
, Nina-fucking-Cantalini.

‘…
a mythical creature of varied powers and
weaknesses. Peasant wisdom claims that garlic worn at the wrists
and neck and wreathed around doors and window frames will ward off
the monster, and that the touch of a cross or Christian holy water
will burn the undead skin, as acid would burn a human. They cannot
bear the light of the sun, and the merest touch of it will sear
them down to bone. Lastly, their only source of true nourishment is
fresh and bubbling blood, preferably human and healthy, though they
are inhuman, and cannot be infected by human ills. Among their
other compensations are extremely long, if not immortal, lifespans
and superhuman strength…’

“Peter?” The voice that echoed down the long
hall of the apartment trembled. The stocky figure bent over the
stack of heavy books lifted his fair head quickly.

“Yes, Ian? Do you need something?”

“No, I’m fine.” A pause, and the voice
continued, slightly weaker. “Are you coming to bed soon?” Peter’s
heart twisted in his chest at the high quaver in that once-solid
voice.

“A little longer, love. I’m going to do a bit
more reading, and then I thought I’d take a walk before turning in.
If you’d like to join me… .” Peter fell silent, knowing the answer.
In the last weeks, Ian had grown bitter at the need for the
wheelchair and seldom ventured beyond the bedroom, relying on Peter
for his food and medicines. He still managed to get to the shower,
but it was an arduous trek, and once there, his frail, sunken body
simply leaned against the wall while Peter washed him.

The voice whispered down the hallway, “No,
I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll just go to sleep. Wake me when you
come in.”

“Of course,” Peter promised, knowing that he
wouldn’t have the heart. The voice was silent, and Peter bent again
over his stack of musty books, dredged from used bookstores and
almost deserted libraries. He was no scholar—a carpenter who worked
more with his hands than his head, but his hands had been all but
useless for months now, good only for taking what care they could
of Ian’s swiftly decaying body. If the books could not help him,
Peter was lost, so he had strained his eyes for months, desperately
seeking the answers he hoped were hidden in the yellowed pages.

‘…
can often be found in cemeteries, for
they must sleep surrounded by their native earth, or they will not
rest…’

The moonlight was bright, and Peter’s blond
beauty shone in it as he walked, restlessly, in the shadows of
ancient mausoleums. Encased in a long coat too heavy for the warm
summer night, he strode back and forth, pausing occasionally to
poke at the weeds above a gravesite with a wooden cane, searching
for a break in the grass, a hint that the grave might contain more
than it seemed to. His search went unrewarded, and eventually he
sank to rest on a stone plaque that lay low to the ground and
buried his face in his hands.

“Why so sad, pretty boy?” A woman’s voice,
low and laughing. Peter’s head jerked up and there, kneeling before
him, was a pale young woman. Silver hair flowed smoothly down her
back and across one naked shoulder, and a silver ankh hung on a
chain around her bare neck. Black leggings and leather boots would
have completed the effect, were it not for the white crop tank she
wore, decorated with a bright yellow smiling face, and “Have a nice
day” inscribed below. Despite the incongruous top, Peter knew that
he’d found what he’d been seeking. He froze, knowing the urgency,
too frightened to speak.

“No answer? Of course not. Let us see what I
can deduce of you, my beauty, since I have robbed you of speech.
Why would an exceedingly handsome young man like yourself—so
strong, so muscular—be haunting my cemetery, for seven nights in a
row, with such a sad and sorrowful face?” She raised a slender hand
and reached out to run a black-nailed finger along the curve of
Peter’s cheek, stopping only briefly at the collar of the coat,
before reaching underneath to draw out what hung on a heavy chain
around his neck.

“Garlic and crosses, my sweet?” She laughed.
“I know a delectable recipe for garlic and rosemary chicken—not
very filling for me, of course, but the taste is sublime. The tales
of garlic’s power against my kind are just tales, I’m afraid. As
for the crosses—you don’t believe in their power, so I’m afraid
they have no power over me. So sorry. But I do appreciate your
doing your homework. It’s nice to have a client who really cares.
Now don’t worry—this won’t hurt at all…” She bent towards him,
crimson lips drawing back to reveal sharp teeth. Just as her tongue
licked out to taste the salt-skin above the pulsing artery of his
neck, Peter managed to whisper, “Wait… .”

She pulled back, frowning. “Now, you
shouldn’t have been able to do that, my pretty one. That’s what the
‘look’ is for, after all, to calm and freeze our clients. I won’t
kill you, you know, no matter what the stories say. Crude and
tasteless to treat a human so—only the very young are so
unrestrained, and I have not been young for millenia. So just
relax—you might even enjoy it, and you’ll have forgotten all about
it by tomorrow.” She bent forward again, but before she even
touched the skin, Peter was whispering, “Please…oh, please… .”

A look of frustration crossed her face, and
she stood up, her body a dark shaft in the pool of moonlight. The
night suddenly grew quieter around them, as the wind died down and
the small animal noises disappeared. “Don’t irritate me, lovely
boy. Even if I let you live, the blood-taking doesn’t have to be
pleasant… .” Peter was silent again, and the moment hung between
them, low and heavy. One, two, three, four seconds passed like
hours, and then she laughed again, her mood shimmering and shifting
like the moonlight.

“All right, talk! Whatever’s bothering you,
it must be tremendously strong for your emotions to overcome the
‘look’. But your story had best be a good one. And I’ll have to
take this…an ingenious version of a wooden stake, by the way.” She
reached out and pulled the cane from his hand, then settled onto
the grass, leaning against a nearby gravestone. Peter’s voice was
suddenly free again, and after a long breath the words spilled out,
stumbling over themselves in their anguished plea.

‘
avoid their haunts, for though they
possess a unearthly beauty, these undead monsters have no soul, and
therefore have nothing in them of human kindliness. There is no
warmth, no pity to them, and even the most impassioned of pleadings
will not sway them from their dark desires…’

She listened, and questioned, and responded
to Peter’s words, and when he had finished, she paused a long
moment before shrugging her response. “A very sad story, not
amusing at all. And so common nowadays…my little golden child, even
assuming that I do possess the happy ending you so greatly desire,
why should I give it to you? What can you offer me?” She tilted her
head, so that the light washed against the delicate planes of her
face, and waited for his answer.

Peter’s hands clenched at his sides as he
gave the ancient creature the answer he’d prepared. “Myself. It’s
all I have, all I can offer. My money, my home, my body, my life…my
service through the centuries to come. Make me one of you as well
and I will be your devoted slave, lady, if you will do this one
thing for me that you could do so easily.” He was trembling now,
breathless with his need.

“Ah, there you’re wrong.” She paused, and
what seemed to be, but could surely not be, fear crossed her narrow
face. A moment later she shrugged and continued. “Doing what you
ask would leave a horrible taste in my mouth for weeks…but you are
somewhat appealing. Perhaps a trial run, to see if you can please
me? The grass is soft, and the night is warm… .” She was laughing
now, a fine full laugh with head tilted back, as she watched Peter
struggle to step forward, to wrap her slender body in his strong
arms. He finally managed to overcome his distaste, and she
whispered softly, “See, women aren’t so scary. Just wait ’til you
see what you’ve been missing all these years… .”

She tore the chain from his throat, briefly
and terrifyingly reminding him of her unnatural strength. Then she
discarded the garlic and crosses, wrapped her arms tightly around
Peter, and pulled him down to the soft grass. She gently moved his
hands under her top to her white breasts. He shivered slightly, and
then bent to kiss her. The kiss—his first with a woman—was
surprisingly sweet, though her lips were shockingly cold. A current
ran between them, and without volition his hands closed on her
breasts, tighter and tighter as she sucked deeply on his lips and
tongue, careful not to even brush him with her teeth. She moaned
encouragingly, and Peter struggled to remember what his female
friends had told him—all the ways in which a man could do too much,
or too little. So much depended on his pleasing this creature
tonight—who was at least female, if not human.

He rubbed his rough fingers over her nipples,
tentatively at first. She twisted beneath him, and Peter almost
stopped…then he realized that she was arching up into his touch. He
rubbed harder, and she slid a thigh between his, wrapped her other
leg around his hips so that his left thigh pressed against the
curiously smooth intersection of her legs and hips. Peter kissed
down her face, along the line of neck and up to bite gently at her
earlobe, teasing it as he had teased Ian’s so many times. They slid
against each other, her hands on his buttocks urging him on, in a
motion that was not so different from ways in which he had moved
before. His own sweat was rank in the air, but from her came the
scent of sandalwood and soil, and while her flesh did not warm
beneath his touch, he could taste the femaleness of her, the sweet
musk permeating his skin.

Peter was curious now, and began to explore
her body, sliding the black leggings down to her knees and laying
bare the triangle of hairless flesh that lay between her thighs.
She arched blindly as he did so, seeking his touch, and he denied
her, amazed at his own temerity. Slow…slow was what women liked, or
so he’d been told, and now he staked his own life and that which
was so much more precious than his own life on the honesty of his
friends’ gossip. Slowly his fingers trailed over the sharp angles
that were her body—yet not so sharp as what had become of Ian’s
body, as the wasting took him, and the flesh melted away. Her skin
was chill, but firm, and as he curved his large hands around her
rounded buttocks a thrill of lust shot through Peter, shocking him
with its presence and intensity.