Escaping Solitude Page 7

  “Good,” Edmund says. “They seemed an efficient crew.”

  Michelle spares him a look. “How do you know? You were on your back the entire time.”

  He leans against me. “I didn’t know she made jokes.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she says.

  Felipe stands. “Me too.”

  Before Edmund can say anything, I cover his mouth with my hand. “I need a moment alone with Michelle please.”

  He pulls my hand away gently, eyes darting back and forth between me and the woman who forced a four-year exile on my person. “Felipe, want to watch me eat too many beignets in the kitchen?”

  “Very much so.”

  Edmund presses a single kiss to the corner of my mouth before leaving, a bedraggled Felipe in tow. Michelle won’t look at me. She stares at the map as though hungry for it.

  “Why would you want to come with us?” I ask. “Felipe, I understand. The man just wants to be near Edmund, but you… You have changed since I went away. You’re different. You and Felipe are different, not as close. Now, you would volunteer for this mad voyage with us—you who has only ever traveled out of necessity. Or to chastise me.” I think of her annual trips to the island. “Why do you care if we find an Elder? You do not love Edmund or me that much, to dote over our happiness.”

  “It’s not always about you, Andrew, or your sweet Edmund.” She wraps her dressing gown tighter around her waist. “I fell in love while you were away, to a human who got sick and died. Yes, Felipe was furious that I might love someone else—truly love them—and perhaps he has not forgiven me for that. But I loved…” She holds her chin high. “I had to watch him die, and it wasn’t the first time. When I was younger, I fell in love with a man who knew what I was, and I watched him grow old and waste away. Our time together was but a blink.” Her voice turns icy. “So don’t you dare think you are the only one who has sought an Elder. I had given up until Edmund, and now, he has found one.”

  “We haven’t found anything yet.”

  “Well, I want to be there when you do.” She tries to step past me, but I hold tight to her arm. I don’t say a word, but she glares up at me, eyes sharp. Any sign of her earlier exhaustion has disappeared. “I know you think me callous,” she says, “for what I did to you. For punishing you, making an example of you, but think upon this, dear Andrew: if I had not sent you away, you never would have found him.”

  She rips her arm from my grasp and leaves the library. I stare at the map, surrounded by the lingering scent of my lover and dry, dusty books.

  OF COURSE, HE wants to go out that night. Of course, he does—my brash young love. He wants to see Danys and Gabriel and May to tell them we’ll be traveling soon. He wants to say goodbye just in case we leave suddenly—just in case we can’t get back to them.

  His affection is palpable as we walk into the brothel. He embraces May and moves her in a quick waltz. She laughs at his attentions, revealing a mouth of smoke-stained teeth. Danys is otherwise engaged, but Gabriel, dressed as a woman, accepts Edmund’s advances daintily, a fan half covering his painted face.

  As Edmund drags Gabriel to the bar, careful not to step on his skirts, May lays her hand on my shoulder. “What’s gotten into him? He’s bright as a star.”

  “A bit of good news is all.” I lean in and kiss her cheek.

  “Would you like a private room this evening?”

  I glance at Edmund who is avidly engaged in conversation with half the room. “Not tonight, thank you.” I have something particular to show my sailor, and it cannot be found in the back room of a Gallatin Street whorehouse.

  While Edmund consumes rum and has a heated discussion with what appears to be a bearded man of the sea, Gabriel pets his hair, his cheek, and his chest like he’s a thoroughbred horse. Midsentence, Edmund clasps Gabriel’s gloved hand in his and kisses it. His gaze—and probably his mind—bounces about the room. In his current state of excitement, I think he could run for miles and not be spent.

  Gabriel steps away from Edmund and wraps me in an embrace when I approach. I kiss behind his ear. His long, blond hair tickles my nose. “Has he told you we’re going on a journey?”

  The red-stained edges of Gabriel’s mouth turn down. “No! You mustn’t.” He bats me in the shoulder with his fan. The man missed his calling as a stage actor. “You must take up residence in my bed and never leave, the two of you.”

  I smile and rub my nose up the side of his neck. He smells of flowers and sweat.

  “Edmund,” Gabriel croons. “Andrew said you are leaving. Ce n’est pas vrai.”

  My beloved glances at me. “Well, not just yet, but soon—which is why we’re here tonight. I couldn’t very well set off without seeing you.”

  Gabriel bats his eyelashes. “Mon chat noir…”

  It isn’t long before Danys joins our petit party, wrapped in nothing but a long piece of dyed silk. He attaches himself to Edmund’s back like a very large, affectionate leech and only intensifies the image when his mouth latches onto Edmund’s skin.

  At the unexpected assault, my beloved’s lips part. His eyes slip shut. Danys sucks his earlobe and whispers something that makes Edmund laugh. I’m tempted to ask how Jimmy Fitz fared after Edmund cut him open with his own knife, but I’d rather not remember the night I was so violently reminded of my darling’s mortality.

  Although Danys begs me to get a private room, I turn him down.

  Edmund studies me silently before tilting his head.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I don’t think I want to fuck anyone but you anymore.”

  The idea of him forsaking all others makes something big and warm blossom in my long-dead chest. I hug him to me and consider the idea of just us…for eternity…before he pushes me away, smiling, rushing off to find more rum.

  It is a peaceful respite, our time in the brothel. I mostly lounge with Gabriel. We talk quietly of New Orleans and share gentle kisses but nothing more. Danys drags Edmund around, introducing him to everyone, telling the story about the card game. Occasionally, Danys and Edmund whisper together. Their body language is less that of lovers and more of friends.

  When I announce we must leave, we are showered in hugs and shouts of “Don’t go!” Danys does plant a lingering kiss on Edmund’s forehead. He holds him close, hand in Edmund’s dark curls, and says something that looks serious. Edmund nods in reply before accepting a few caresses from Gabriel.

  May waits by the door. “Will I see you again in another four years?”

  I kiss her cheek. “Sooner perhaps.”

  She grabs Edmund by the chin and stares up into his face. “Never change, you beautiful thing.”

  We step out into a night warm and welcoming. Since it is still early, voices shout from the street. The sound of celebration shudders like a storm up the alley, but before we emerge back into reality, Edmund gives me a single abrupt shove that plants my back against the wall. He kisses me, hot and hard, tongues dueling, breaths panting. I lean down to intensify the kiss. I bite his bottom lip and whisper his name.

  “What did Danys say to you back there?” I ask.

  He smiles against my mouth. “He told me to take care of you. Where now?”

  “Just a short walk.”

  As two men, we’re required to place a respectable distance between us as we rejoin the chaos of humanity. No matter how much I would love to link arms with Edmund, I walk with my hands in my pockets and guide him away from the drunken screams and whistles. As always, his eyes, as though starving, take it all in.

  It’s not long before we reach our destination, but I pause prior to entering the alley of my memory. I haven’t been here since…

  “Andrew?”

  I had picked up the young whore on a darkened corner, mostly because he was smaller than the others and had a lovely mouth. I hadn’t planned on killing him, but I had enjoyed it. I’d loved it, in fact.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nod and set foot into the scene
of my crime. Things are the same but different, foreign but familiar. We are near a street that becomes a market come day. I smell fish and rotten fruit—and Edmund, of course. That night four years ago, I had smelled nothing but my young prostitute and his fear.

  “This is where I did it,” I whisper.

  Edmund steps up to my side. Quarters are close since the darkened alley is lined with barrels. “Where you did what?”

  “I killed a young man. His name was Azrael. It was my final sin before being sent away. He was the last corpse I left before Michelle exiled me to that island.”

  Edmund studies the area. He glances back toward the street. “You enjoyed killing him.”

  “Oh, yes.” I could still hear the panicked little noises he made. “He was a gentle whore, small, much smaller than you. I wanted to taste his soul—the innocence of it. I left his body here, never knowing that one bit of mess would send me away four long years.”

  Edmund moves so close I have to move back. Still, he keeps moving until the backs of my thighs press against a barrel. Filled with what smells of ale, it does not move beneath my weight.

  “My marvelous murderer,” he says.

  I pull back to understand the expression he wears, but he hides his face against my neck.

  “Do you not see? But you must.” His nose tickles my cheek. “If you hadn’t killed that boy, you wouldn’t have been there to save a lost sailor on your island. You wouldn’t have me.”

  “You sound like Michelle.”

  “We have much to thank her for.” He takes my hands and places them on his ass. He grinds against me, cock hard as stone.

  “Edmund…”

  “Did you fuck that boy before you killed him?”

  I nod against his forehead and knead firm muscle.

  “Then, you’ll fuck me here. Reclaim this place as ours.” His tongue touches the side of my jaw, followed soon after by his lips. “An offering to the gods to celebrate your return.”

  I press my cock firmly against his, and he chokes on a breath. “You would be my sacrificial lamb?”

  “Yes. God, yes.” He surges forward and attacks my mouth.

  Sadly, we must part in order to unhook trousers. The barrel of ale turns out to be the perfect height for Edmund to bend over. He does so willingly and parts his legs for me, as far as he can with his pants around his ankles. I use my fingers to work him open. He is warm and tight as always. The light from the street is just bright enough to cast him in grayish shadow. His fingers curl, and his mouth drops wide in a silent scream as I add more fingers, more pressure.

  I tease him a little. He’s plenty prepared for me, but I keep going, keep fucking him with nothing but fingers until he gasps and whimpers, “Andrew…for fuck’s sake…”

  I chuckle before replacing fingers with cock. Edmund’s whole body tenses, so I still. I know I can sometimes feel like too much for him, even after all our time together. Of course, it does not help that we have no oil—but neither did we on the island. Edmund is a man who likes his pain with his pleasure.

  He reaches blindly back, and we clench fists. I move a little, in and out. He relaxes some and pushes back against me. My sailor is ready now.

  It’s not frantic or forceful. It’s deep and slow and saturated with his sighs. Edmund is no whore. He’s not a nameless meal. He is everything I want in the world, and I show him with the movement of my hips.

  He is the one who eventually says, “Harder.” He plants both his hands on the wall to steady himself before I thrust in earnest, threatening to knock us both to the ground. He can barely contain his moans, and God, I can barely stay on my feet.

  Suddenly, he’s coming, his fingertips scraping against brick. It’s so rare that he comes without me touching him. The shock of his body clenching gives me pause—but merely pause before I drive into him another dozen times. His pale fingertips shudder and shake against the wall until I take pity, accept my own release, and rest my chest against his back.

  He’s barely coherent on the carriage ride back to the coven, leaning against me. If he were a cat, he would have purred. Sated as he is, I do as instinct bids. I unbutton the top of his shirt and feed, careful not to spill a drop. He accepts my teeth in his neck with a soft hum and holds tight to my shoulders until I’ve had enough.

  In the privacy of our room, we wash and slide beneath the covers. I expect him to cling to me as he so often does after a night of pleasure, but he remains on his back, bright eyes on the ceiling.

  “What on earth can you be thinking about right now?”

  He smiles without showing his teeth. “Did becoming a vampire change you?”

  “Well, I suppose. I never hungered for human blood before my rebirth.”

  He sighs. “No, I mean the person you were. You were a Viking soldier in life, so killing was part of it, but do you enjoy killing more as a vampire?”

  I take a few moments to think before replying. “Perhaps becoming a vampire simply amplifies what you already are. As a human, I enjoyed sex and…” I clear my throat. “Carnage. I enjoy both more as an immortal.”

  “Not carnage anymore, though.”

  I lean up on my elbow to better see him. “No.”

  “How did it happen, anyway? How exactly does one become a vampire?”

  I run my fingers through the tangled curls at his forehead. “I don’t know exactly. I was dead when it happened.”

  He lowers his eyebrows. “I’d forgotten that part. I have to die.”

  “Yes.”

  He closes his eyes as I continue petting him. “Will you do it, when the time comes? Will you kill me? I’d rather it not be anyone else.”

  I think of the way his soul will taste, his blood pulsing down my throat, and immediately agree.

  Chapter Ten

  ON MANY LEVELS, Edmund and I are similar creatures. In the practice of patience, we are not, although some of that might have to do with our immense difference in age. Whereas I am content to sit and ponder—a practice perfected alone on a tropical island—Edmund is more of a constant wanderer. He needs something to do, which I expect will be something of a challenge once he begins to understand immortality. For now, he leaves me at home with my newspapers or books and walks New Orleans.

  Oh, and this morning, he boxes, because he is apparently “getting soft.”

  I don’t only sit on my hide. I do walk the city, too, mostly worrying that Edmund will get in another knife fight, brutal boxing match, carriage accident…the list of my anxieties is endless now that his immortality is in sight. He seems so fragile to me suddenly—although, Lord knows, he is not. So I walk and worry over silly things.

  Today, I take my worry to the harbor to check in with the harbormaster. Michelle’s vampire crew should return any day. Hopefully. It’s been a thick and heavy fortnight since Edmund pinpointed the Elder’s location, and every day we wait, he grows more agitated.

  Visiting the tailor Peters was a welcome distraction earlier in the week as it allowed Edmund to wrap his great mind around something of personal interest: the art of style. Unlike our first jaunt to the talented old man, though, this was functional. We needed clothes for travel, so instead of delicate silks, Edmund forced us to buy heavy breeches—he claimed trousers were no good on a ship—coats made of leather, and leather gloves. When I asked about shoes, he smiled and said it was better to go barefoot, which explains a lot about Edmund’s lack of footwear on the island, but I refuse to go barefoot anywhere but the boudoir.

  I have a very distinct memory of peeling several items of soaking wet clothing from his unconscious person back on the island when he first washed to shore. The leather gloves give me an unexpected thrill, although I’m not sure why. I adore the feel of his hands, so why would I want them covered—but maybe that’s just it. There’s something Puritanical about covering so much flesh, which makes it all the more enjoyable when that flesh is exposed.

  There is also the matter of letters. Edmund has been waiting to hear from his
trading company—the owners of his sunken ship—as well as from his mother, who I should think would be overjoyed to hear he lives. He’s not so sure, considering he’s caused her nothing but worry since the day he sprung forth glowing and filled with intention. I don’t know why he hopes so heartily for word from the woman who has done nothing but hold his head under metaphorical water for twenty-eight years. But I do not remember my mother, so perhaps that is why I cannot understand his devotion to a woman who resents the very thing he is.

  In the matter of the returned ship, I have no news. In the matter of letters, well…

  The gym reeks of filthy men, but it doesn’t take long for me to scent Edmund among them, especially since his fragrance is now home to me. I walk among them in my fancy suit, and no one pays me any mind, too busy are they grunting and groaning over heavy weights. Two behemoths battle upon a raised square, tossing occasional punches but mostly just tossing salt water. It tumbles down their chiseled faces and flicks from the edges of their hair.

  In the far back, I see Edmund’s scar. He’s shirtless and faced away from me in nothing but breeches, pounding away at a punching bag. I enjoy the waves of tensing, rippling muscle that cascade across his back and shoulders as he throws another punch and another. The entire bag shakes beneath his onslaught as I am reminded, again, that my Edmund may be pretty, but his punches rattle skulls—even immortal ones.

  I step up to the side of the bag, and he pauses. “Andrew.” His fists are wrapped in some sort of white fabric. I know nothing of modern boxing. In my day, throwing punches was not an art form but a battle tactic. He pushes sweaty hair off his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Are you trying to break it?” I gesture to the bag. It heaves to and fro like the bow of a ship.

  He smiles, out of breath, and puts his hands on his hips. Being in public, I try to ignore the sweat that drips down the center of his chest. It would not do to lick it away.

  “I have something for you.”

  “Is it a ship?”

  I pull the letters from the pocket of my jacket.