Dining at the Devil's Backbone

His hands clamped on my upper arms so hard I found bruises later. His gaze tunneled through me and I remembered the fear I'd felt that very first night, on the road.

"What do you think you're asking?" he said, his voice choked and almost impossibly low.

"I'm asking to become a vampire. To be made strong. To be able to stay with you forever."

He let go of me, pushing away hard enough that I fell back on the bed.

"You're a child. You know nothing." In a heartbeat he'd gotten out of the bed, dressed himself and stood next to me. "This isn't a game. It's not life and death. It's just death."

He left. I sat on the bed in stunned silence for an hour before I managed to make myself get dressed. The whole week I was nervous and scared, sure that he wouldn't come back. Then sure that he would. I trusted that primal connection we had, that ineffable something in my blood that matched his.

I called the numbers he'd given me. I left voice mails trying to explain myself without actually telling him the truth. Asking for a chance to see him. Plaintively begging for one last chance, if only to end things on a better note. He never called back. The weekend came and went; he didn't show up.

The next week was worse. I was so distracted I got reprimanded at work. I stopped calling him. I ached all over, not just heartache, but a real physical pain like some kind of withdrawal. I barely ate. I laid in what I'd come to think of as 'our' bed, tossing and turning and berating myself for my foolishness. By the time Friday arrived, I dreaded the weekend. It suddenly seemed like an eternity to be in that apartment without him.

Friday evening, I sat on the couch, angry at myself for not broaching the subject of transition more carefully, for missing the sign that Vlad might not want that for me. Then I felt him; I ran to the door and threw it open just as he'd raised his hand to knock.

I flung my arms around him, then dragged him into the apartment. I was babbling apologizes, and he stopped me with a kiss. I saw galaxies again, felt the universe unspooling beneath me, collapsed into his arms. He carried me to bed. He didn't taste me, was careful, so careful to avoid even an accidental drop of my blood. He was exquisite, he was masterful, and we created oceans of pleasure in each other. I was drunk on his presence, soaring and floating, surrounded by his smell, the sound of his voice, the echoes of his touch on my skin.

When we'd satisfied each other until neither of us could move, we laid together, our arms and legs entwined and foreheads touching.

When I could breath again, I started to apologize. He pressed his finger to my lips.

"Sshh, Vivian," he whispered. "Let me say something."

I closed my mouth and nodded slowly.

"I know what you want," he said. "I know why you want it. You think it's better, to be like I am. That it's easier, maybe. Or at least safer. It seems romantic. But it's not. It's lonely. It's dangerous. I kill people."

He shifted away slightly, so he could look in my eyes. "You hear me? I kill people. I wanted to kill you. And to change you, I'd have to kill you. That's how it starts. I kill you, then catch you at the last heartbeat, and hope that you have enough strength to swallow enough of me to bring you back."

He took my hand and placed it over his heart that only occasionally beat. "I stop your heart. And if you live? It's not pretty. It's not romance. Why would I do that to you? I love you."

He shifted again, wrapping me in his arms and kissing the top of my head. "Don't ask that of me, please."

I nodded, determined to drop the subject.

*~~*

But I didn't. I couldn't. Every time I was with him, my desire to be with him forever grew. My fear of staying human grew. My fear of growing old and frail while he stayed young and vital. My fear of illness, of the diseases that ravage people, some that I'd known too well already. Almost every time he visited, I'd hint at what I wanted. Or I would ask outright. We fought over it. We wore out the arguments we made, trod over the same positions again and again. He seemed immovable on the subject, but I believed I could wear him down, erode his resistance. He kept coming back, as insatiable for me as I was for him. We kept making love, or screwing, or whatever term was applicable. We argued, we reconciled, we fought, we fucked, we ignored the subject, and then I'd bring it up again.

One night he tried a different tactic to dissuade me. He told me the story of how he was made, that he hadn't had a choice in the matter, but had been attacked one night. That one vampire had killed him, and that it was only happenstance that the second decided to revive him. He told me that Vlad wasn't the name his parents gave him, and that he was so old he couldn't remember what they had named him.

He told me of his inability to recall anything from his human life, that all he knew was afterward. That months after he'd been changed, a woman with a young boy ran to him as though she knew him, but he had no idea who she was. She flung her arms around his neck, babbling incoherently about how she thought he was dead. He said that she claimed to be his wife, that the child was his son, that she was pregnant with another. He told me that he'd pushed her away, snarling, and that only the firm hand of the vampire who made him prevented him from killing that woman and that child.

He told me of all the people he'd known who'd died and in what horrific ways. He told me that even the vampire who created him had been killed. He told me of being hunted, being frightened, the loneliness of seeing the world change so much, and of not really being a part of it.

We were standing in the kitchen. He watched me making soup. I listened intently, I absorbed the lesson he imparted, and it changed nothing in my mind.

I turned to him and asked one simple question, "Would you change it?"

"What?"

"All this you've told me. Would you change it? Would you choose not to be what you are, if you could?"

He stepped close to me, angry again, and underneath that feeling, I sensed he was unnerved. "You weren't listening. I didn't have a choice. I wasn't given that luxury."

"I know." I looked at him, meeting his gaze with one I hoped looked steady. "You didn't have a choice then. But if you had, if you could undo it. Would you?"

He shook, not just his head. His whole body shook. Then he disappeared.

I know, he didn't literally disappear. He just moved so fast it seemed that way. The front door slammed shut. I waited. This time I knew he would come back. I don't know how I knew it; I just did. I was certain.

I waited two days. I woke up in the middle of the night and he was sitting on the bed next to me. He reeked of blood. I sat up and he turned on the lamp on the nightstand. I expected him to be covered in fluid, from the smell. He wasn't. There were a few drips at the corners of his mouth, one small smear on a cheek. But the odor was coming off of him, leaking out of his pores, coloring his eyes, and making his skin ruddy.

He smiled, a rictus of death that should have frozen me in fear. Instead I sat up, leaned over and licked the blood off his cheek. He jumped, gasping, as I moved and licked the corner of his mouth. I slid over closer to him, aligning my hips with his, easing myself to straddle him. He was too startled to move. But when I licked across his lips, when I pushed my tongue between them to get at his teeth, he launched himself at me. He pinned me down, hovering over me for a second, then pressing himself down onto me. Our mouths mashed together, and my tongue found its prize in his mouth. He opened wide, and gave into me, letting me clean off every drip I could get to.

He moved and suddenly he was naked. I had already been nude. He mounted me, shoving his prick home in my pussy all the way to his balls. I wrapped my legs around his waist, clinging to him as he pounded into me and I finished consuming the last drops of blood from his face.

As soon as I was done, he bent his head and bit my neck. He sucked, hard, and I felt a joyous release, and a searing pleasure roiled through me. His cock pistoned into me, and I wrapped my arms around his back, one hand on his head. I couldn't think, or process all the sensations that coursed through me. I hallucinated flashes of his memories as our bodies seemed to merge completely. He kept drinking, far more of me than he ever had.

I felt myself weakening, starting to drift off. I smiled, blissful, overjoyed at the prospect of dying in his arms. I didn't care whether he intended to bring me back or not. I think he realized that, because no sooner did the thought form than he shoved himself away from me.

I tried to cry out, to cling to him again. But he had backed off the bed to the door. In one last glimpse before I passed out, I saw a look of horror and shame on his face. Then he was gone, and I collapsed on the bed. I slept for a long time. More than a day, I think. When I woke up there were increasingly angry voice mails from my boss. The last one said not to bother to come to work because I was fired.

I didn't care. I'd worry about working and money later. I wanted Vlad back. I needed him. I felt elated, but also weak. I tried calling him, but the numbers listed were no longer in service. I emailed and that got returned too.

Over the next week, I realized I was sick. At first I thought it was just a late summer cold. I was tired, easily fatigued, headachy, and my bones sore. When it didn't go away after a week and I found an inexplicable bruise, I went to see my doctor. Who told me to call my oncologist. I made the appointment, already sure what the news was going to be.

Oddly, I didn't feel the same sense of desperation that I'd felt after our first big argument. I missed him terribly, but never doubted that he would return to me. I trusted that connection in our blood to draw him back to me when the time was right. I wrote long emails explaining myself, or at least partially explaining myself. I wrote emails exonerating his behavior and articulating my feelings for him despite how he needed to act to survive. I sent them, and even though all of them were returned as undeliverable, I was certain he read them.

Three weeks later at the beginning of October, I'd just had a follow up visit with my oncologist. I curled up on my couch and tried to consider my options. The cat coiled herself neatly at my stomach. I felt Vlad approaching and didn't sense his usual confidence and happiness. He felt sad and weary. So did I. I didn't have the energy to greet him. He knocked, and before I could tell him to come in, he opened the door. He stopped just inside the living room.

"You're sick." He said it, not as a question.

"Yes."

"Really sick." He walked around to the couch, kneeling down near my face, making eye contact.

"Yes. Really sick."

He sniffed, and it should have been annoying or seemed demeaning, but I was so used to him knowing me by my smell that it didn't bother me.

He stood up, lifting my shoulder so he could sit on the couch with my head in his lap. It was the most palliative thing anyone could have done. I rolled onto my back and looked at him. He brushed his fingers through my hair, and laid his other hand on my chest just below my heart.

I knew he knew what was happening, but he just looked at me, one eyebrow raised. He wanted me to say it out loud.

"Leukemia," I said. "I was in remission when we met. It came back. I just found out."

"It came back after. The last time I was here. After I?"

"Get over yourself, Vlad. You didn't cause this. You drinking more than a drop of me didn't bring this back."

I sat up, leaning on the back of the couch. I took his hand in mine. "But," I said slowly, "you could fix it."

He nodded slowly in turn. When he spoke, his face was still, his voice gruff. He looked sideways at me, and spoke slowly. "Is this why? Why you kept asking me to?"

I shook my head, then tilted it. "No," I said firmly. "No, this illness isn't the reason I want to." I paused, realizing I had to be completely honest with him for once. "Not entirely. Not even mostly. I did think about it though. I thought about what it might feel like to never have to worry about it again. But, no, I just want to be with you. To be able to stay with you forever."

"You say that now. But that myth about vampires mating forever isn't true. We get annoyed with each other, we argue, you could get tired of me. And you'd be a different person after. You'd see me differently."

"Ok."

"And you'd forget this whole life, forget you even had it."

I laughed. "I'm ok with that, too."

"What about your family? Your parents?"

"My parents?" I snorted. "My parents. Vlad, the man who my mother exclusively referred to as 'that sperm donor' has been in prison since before I was born. I doubt he knows I exist. My mother? She kicked me out when I was sixteen because her boyfriend told her I was coming on to him. I haven't talked to her since. Hell, I don't even know if she's alive."

I jabbed a finger in his direction. "You are the only person who actually cares if I'm alive or dead."

He sat back on the couch, regarding me. I got the sense that he was making up his mind about something. Suddenly, I wanted him with a fever and determination that wouldn't be denied. I leaned over and kissed him, hard, wrapping myself around him and then sliding off the couch.

I pulled on his hands, and he stood up with me. I led him to the bedroom, drawing him to me, even as I pulled of my clothes and undid his belt.

"Don't say anything," I said to him. "Don't decide anything. Just get in this bed with me and make love to me until we can't move."

He did just that. He touched me and kissed me so tenderly that I thought I might crack open. We undressed and laid down on the bed. He covered my body in caresses and kissed every inch of me. He drew me to him, and I felt my insides liquefy and open for him. His erection was thick and heavy on my thigh, his mouth surrounded my breast, his hands exploring every part of my skin. I did the same to him, kissing him, sucking on his nipples, filling my mouth with his soft, cool, skin and tasting him. I reached down and wrapped my hand around his rod, stroking him and guiding him to enter me. He moved so slowly, so gently that I began to tremble. I held his head in my other hand, while spreading my legs so he could lay between them.

He licked my nipples, first one breast, then the other, sucking them deep into his mouth. I grabbed at his backside, urging him up, yearning to feel his thick shaft filling me. Somehow I knew this would be the last time we made love like this. I wanted him immediately and for it to last forever.

I moaned and pleaded silently, beyond words, using my hands and my body to communicate my need. He listened, easing himself into me, moving deliberately, allowing me to feel every inch of his length as he pushed inside. As he stretched me and took up his place we started moving together, undulating against each other, sealing our connection.

He looked in my eyes, and showed me the weariness of his life. He let me see under the mask that was his unnatural youth. He let me see the damage of the ages, the grief, the loss, his own loneliness and fear. I drank in his look; I'd never seen him more handsome, more beautiful, more desirable than in that moment.

My pleasure rose up and bubbled over both of us. These were not the crashing, shattering orgasms that he usually elicited from me. They were more like a waterfall inexorably filling me, trying to quench an eternal fire. He pumped in me, his every retreat causing a hollow yearning that only subsided when I felt his tip touch my cervix once again. He slowed his movement, pausing at his greatest depth in me, and I responded by clenching myself around him, holding him to me with all my muscles.

After one long thrust he stopped, settling in me and resting his weight on his elbows and my hips. I opened my eyes, lost again in his grey and crimson gaze. He brushed hair off my face, away from my neck, and traced his fingers down my shoulder. He kissed me, and then bent his head hovering near my neck.

"May I taste you?" he asked in a voice that once again echoed inside my head. The question that sealed my fate to his, and the only answer possible.

"Yes. Please," I whispered.

He sank his fangs into my neck, the pain a momentary heat quickly overwhelmed by a cascade of pleasure as he drew in his first mouthful of my blood. He drew on me slowly still, gently, somehow. His whole body motionless except for his lips and throat. His cock rested deep inside me, and I clung to him with hands made into claws and heels bent to grappling hooks. He took more than his usual tablespoon, but far less than he had the last time we were together.

I felt every corpuscle as it left me, as it entered him. I felt a connection strengthening and changing, made deeper, even more fundamental than it had been. I felt his decision to let go before he moved his mouth away. I turned my head to meet his mouth, and when he kissed me the galaxies I saw unfolded in slow motion. Stars burst into supernovae and collapsed into black holes and all I wanted was to draw him deeper into my body and never let him go.

He was moving again, thrusting in me in short but furious pulses that I somehow managed to match. When he erupted, I felt his seed coating me again, claiming me again. He broke our kiss, looked at me and climaxed again. My vagina spasmed, clenching around him, milking every last drop of semen from him, draining him completely. We had barely moved once we laid down, but I might as well have run a marathon.

He settled on his elbows, pressing our foreheads together. He stayed hard inside me for a long time, longer than should have been possible. I was lost, floating in a haze, aware only of his weight on top of me, cooling and comforting me. At some point, I fell asleep. When I woke he had rolled onto his back, and I laid on him, my head on his chest, arms around his waist, legs tangled together.

His arm was wrapped around my waist, and his other held the arm I had encircling him. I stayed like that, unmoving for as long as I could. He stroked my back and my arm, as though he was trying to catalog the sensation of my skin. I thought he was saying goodbye.

I pushed myself off of him and sat up. He followed me, stroking my cheek, then turning my head so he could see the spot on my neck. As usual, his bite had sealed itself, leaving two tiny dots of slightly discolored skin, but no scab, and no further bleeding.

Then he did something I didn't expect. He bit his left wrist, waited for his blood to well up, and then used two fingers from his other hand to collect the blood. He held his hand out to me, giving me those fingers to suckle. I raised an eyebrow, surprised, but the smell of his blood was intoxicating, and I didn't hesitate to lick him clean. At the first drop going in my mouth I moaned. He looked solemnly at me, and offered me a few more drops.

I started to ask a question, but he shook his head. For a moment he was gone, then he came back, sitting on the bed next to me, fully dressed.

"I have you leave you, Vivian," he said cupping my cheek and brushing his thumb over it.

I started to protest, but he shook his head again.

"Almost a year ago we met. I was going to kill you, use you to feed myself. Now you think you want to become what I am. Find me, on the anniversary of our first meeting. Find me, and if you still want what you think you want, I'll do it. Find me. Tell me your answer. If you can't find me, then..." He shrugged.

I knew. If I couldn't find him then, I'd never see him again.

"Ok," I found the strength to say. "I will find you."