An update, and a clarification

The previous entry requires clarification—an update even, so herein lies that proposition.

One: It hails from End of the Warm Season, my second book.

Two: Yes, I’ve decided on that title as opposed to the other two options.  At least for now.

Three: There are two antagonists in the story.  This introduces one of them.

Four: I realize I said it was about a tree.  It is.  There are two villains, the main being… Well, let’s just say this is the minor bad guy as opposed to the main bad guy, but the two of them are equally… um… bad.  One is independent of the other, but this one—Sergejs—needs the first one, the one I’m not telling you about.  And yes, as I said, the story’s about a tree.  Just because you can’t figure it out from this or previous mentions doesn’t mean I’ve lost my mind.  Hell, I’ve lost my mind, but what does that have to do with this story?  Nothing!

Five: This is a complete rewrite of the previous excerpt.

Six: It’s probable the entire second book will be written in this style as opposed to that used for Dreamdarkers.  Then again, maybe not.  What say you?

Seven: Yes, Paul’s name was changed to Sergejs.  That accommodates his ethnicity (from Latvia) and history (dating from the thirteenth century near the Baltic Sea).

Eight: This rewrite was performed in haste.  Don’t badger me too much, but do point out typos or grammatical mistakes if you run across any.  I’m never shy about accepting pointers from an extra pair of eyes (or many pairs, as the case may be).

Nine: No, it’s not an erotic tale.  That said, I’m pondering a more sensual feel along the lines of fleshly language.  Don’t get your hopes up about love scenes, gay or straight, although Sergejs has lived long enough to care nothing about gender.

Ten: I did not betray work on Dreamdarkers to focus on this one.  What I did do was answer inspiration’s call.

Eleven: No, it ain’t done yet.  Much work is needed on this tidbit.  Nevertheless, I wanted to toss it out there for general consumption.

“God damn it!” the vagrant yelled as he threw the bottle across the room.  Lacking interference, he knew his sober aim would land the jug centered in the man’s face.  Only three feet separated the two and it seemed impossible that he would miss.  Yet he did.  In a movement too quick to see, the skeletal apparition shifted easily to one side in a move both unnatural and enviable.  After passing close enough to the stranger’s head to cast a breeze upon his cheek, the glass container shattered against the wall spraying cheap whiskey over the cracked paint and cigarette-reeking drapes.

His eyes narrowed to angry slits as he added, “Shit!  Now you done gone and made me waste my drink.”  He slammed his empty hand down on the bed where he lay.  It occurred to him he might likewise heave any number of objects at the foreigner staring back from within arm’s reach, but he recognized futility when it presented itself.  If the bottle could not impact something so close, what hope did he have that anything else might accomplish that which appeared impossible.

The target for whom the bottle was meant looked at him for but a moment before turning his attention to the broken flagon and its ordure left bespattered near the door.  A momentary sniff of the air, a brief softening of his visage, an upward movement of his head as he took in the sight, and the gaunt specter likened the long, quiet streams running down the wall to dirty water dripping from a muddy child sprayed with a hose.  Contrary to his own will, that analogy immediately gave rise to bedeviling memories.  If one were to consider his own past, what he saw reminded him of a muddy child doused with buckets of icy water drawn from a stone well.  The few dozen residents of a tiny village tucked quietly into the countryside of Northern Europe shared in the disgrace of that little boy.  They took turns pulling water from the ground and thrusting it upon a youth standing naked in the dead of winter, a ten-year-old male coated in drying filth and shivering violently while enduring the shame of his punishment.  He did not understand why they treated him so.  Their screeching accusations and taunts proclaimed he had committed a crime, yet he understood no such thing to be true.  Having witnessed funerals before, he thought it customary to excavate a hole and bury the dead under mounds of dirt.  Only days later would he come to realize the burial had not upset the villagers.  It was the killing that made them angry, the spilling of blood that made them lash out at the orphaned youngster—orphaned at his own hands, no less.  He had been that cold, dirty boy, yet his memories of those events had faded with the passage of many centuries.  It never occurred to him he might seek respite in a soiled hotel room nearly a millennium removed from that day only to be reminded of it by the spilling of alcohol.

With sunken eyes shadowed deep within a pallid complexion, he watched as the firewater made its way to the floor, a slow parade of squandered drunk that never could be recovered… and his fascination grew.  The sight of it streaking down the wall and puddling on the floor made him wonder if the man’s blood would look the same should it be wasted in a similar, unfortunate incident.  Part of him wanted to find out.  Part of him wanted to lash out in vengeance to prove again the timeless strength he possessed.  But instead he denied the impulse and said, “One cannot blame the savior for the follower’s sin.  Lest your anger cause you to stumble, might I suggest accepting that to which you have already committed.  A gentleman’s agreement we have, and both we, you and I, shall honor that accord, shall we not?”

“You don’t make no sense.”

“How untrue, my young friend.  Contemptible though it might seem to one like yourself, I offer civilized discourse for the discerning ear.  Yet let us not be delayed by semantic disagreements.”  The slender man stood and bowed courteously as he added, “I am Sergejs.  Such is my name and so I shall be called.  And by what appellation should you be known to these lips?”

“Huh?”

“I offer my humblest apologies, kind sir, but must admit I do not know your name.  What would you have me call you?”

“Hugo,” the man offered defiantly.

“Ah, Hugo…  So it is then.  Or so it was when you were but a child christened by that soothsaying witch doctor.  Regardless, and as you wish, we shall use your Christian name.  I see no reason to pander to confusion, would you not agree, Hugo?”

The man stared without responding as Sergejs again nodded respectfully before sitting in the chair before which he stood.  Positioned near the bed where Hugo reclined against the headboard, a lanky, tall, thin man who already appeared dead quietly nestled into a tawdry seat undoubtedly procured as second-hand merchandise already decades old before it found its way to the cheap hotel wherein the two men gathered.  Its upholstered surface offered gashes and tears, its stuffing protruding in several places, and its finish long before rubbed off by use or force.  In either case, Sergejs’ six-foot stature settled uncomfortably into its embrace with nary a sign of distress, and then he turned his attention back to Hugo.

Pale, milky eyes locked onto those of the dashing male lounged atop the filthy bedspread.  Sergejs blinked only once as he focused on Hugo’s strong face.  He took in the vagabond’s square jaw and strong features.  An attractive man he was, a handsome man hardened by time in the sun and backbreaking work.  Hair as black as midnight framed a countenance worthy of lusty respect, and he saw in the man a sensuality accented by Latin features: full, soft lips with luxuriant crimson hues beckoning to be kissed; taut skin pulled comfortably over healthy muscles and almost-effeminate cheekbones; ebony eyebrows lush and drawing attention to rich, copious eyelashes splayed outward in unspoken propositions; and skin brushed with feathery dusts of brown summons eager to be caressed.  Even as Hugo’s face pulled taut in a challenging grimace, Sergejs pondered the immediacy of his need compared to the intensity of his passion.  Need he take the man’s life before taking his body, he wondered.  Were his need not so immediate, he doubted his will and its ability to restrain the inner voluptuary.  Indulging hedonistic wants could divert him for weeks even when taken by force.  He could sustain a human far longer when needed—or desired.

His eyes slowly drifted from Hugo’s face to his bare chest.  Dressed only in ragged denim jeans, his shirt having been cast off as his drinking commenced, Sergejs allowed his lascivious gaze to caress the man’s body from afar.  He cared not for discomfort or unease for he knew the sultry essence of his prey held no promise save that of sustenance for the predator.  Nevertheless, he feasted his eyes upon the smooth skin racing toward the top of the man’s pants.  Hairless except for a modicum of gentle curls marching a path from navel to waistline, an ageless hunter fed upon the fledgling’s erotic presentation borne of innocence and youth.  He could smell the testosterone pouring through the man’s veins.  His finely muscled body summoned the devil within to savor a nibble of the meal to come, yet Sergejs refrained from closing the distance betwixt the two despite his wanton desires.  He dreamt of nothing more than stroking with timeless fingers Hugo’s strapping physique, to touch with ached craving that which he would soon devour.

Irrespective of the overwhelming thirst for carnal fulfillment, he stayed his ground and looked carefully.  His eyes wandered the object of his longing until they came upon Hugo’s eyes.  Bloodshot with rivers of red streaming in haphazard directions, they appeared full of crimson tributaries meandering from nowhere to nowhere.  If a pattern could be found in those inflamed capillaries, it remained invisible even to the slayer.  The sinsemilla his meal had smoked when first they entered the small compartment undoubtedly caused at least some of the inflammation.  Despite the truth of that realization, Sergejs wondered how much of it grew from a life of angst, a hard existence punctuated with endless hardship brought forth by a driven call to provide for family.  Those loved ones will soon find need to support themselves, he thought, for Hugo, despite his charm and primitive allure, stands abreast his destiny at the threshold of living death.  Quite soon, I fear fate will befall him.  It awaits him even now and will not suffer delay.

But he could see the vagabond’s tempting skin punctuated with lines and wrinkles given form by position but not age.  They were drawn upon a canvas too brown to be genetic.  He recognized it as quarry too often in the sun.  While Sergejs knew his game would not survive the night, similarly he recognized longevity would bring to Hugo the painful suffering of men cursed by daylight.  Whether or not he felt responsible for ending this child’s life, nothing held power to convince him he had spared the young man from the ravages of mortality.  He had seen it all too often.  In fact, the taking of lives already doomed was something with which he was quite familiar.  He would feed upon Hugo, and Hugo would be the better for it.  Sergejs had enough experience to know the truth in that.  It remained doubtful blood would be spilled as it was unnecessary, yet despite the stench of mold and stale cigarette smoke, the air tasted of death, the gift he offered magnanimously to all those willing to take what he proffered.

Hugo stared at the ghost.  Something in the face drawn of skin pulled tightly over bone heralded wicked relief.  Had weak light not befallen the demonic face looking back at him, and had he not filled his vision with the wretched body vexed of assumed disease, he pondered the bizarre attraction he felt toward this otherworldly fiend.  A monster he might be, yet equally he imbued the space they shared with fleshly charm similar to unyielding covetousness.  The attraction pulled him toward the chair in which the spirit sat.  Thinking back to the bottle thrown earlier, Hugo relinquished himself to the vision of the thing moving too quickly to see, but equally moving too quickly to be hit.  Whatever this Sergejs might be, he—it was beautiful in the most horrifying ways.

Having come to the room beguiled by devilish offers to see the end of suffering, he looked on as the creature regarded him from a few feet away.  Something in the way its eyes crept across his flesh both enticed and startled.  Were it not up and moving, one might consider it the living dead, a walking, breathing, talking thing.  Yet the monster equally charmed and fascinated, its emaciated form a disgusting spell cast upon all those who set eyes upon it.  Half naked already, his body set on the bed in an attractively defensive post, Hugo wished as much to cover his own figure in fear as he did to strip nude and offer himself as a sacrifice to the captivating siren bedeviling him with tempting speech and something else that remained unidentifiable.  It could not be refused, whatever this thing was, but more disturbing, it reached into the soul and pulled out the most desirous nature of humanity.

He knew he had offered his life to Sergejs without consideration.  Upon a cobbled walkway, he had stumbled and fallen into the arms of this night creature, their faces meeting in the darkness so near he could smell its sweet breath.  A pocket full of marijuana and a bottle of spirits begging to be consumed made the encounter less frightening.  Hugo wanted company.  Whether it be a man or a woman, a hard day’s labor and the promise of enjoyment at rest made him wish for companionship.  The man who caught him in that alleyway offered inducement to select that which could not be seen but reeked of temptation sated.

“Let me be with you,” he had said.

“I don’t know whatcha mean.”

“Come, let us not mislead one another.  Your want drips from you like nectar.  Let us covet in private.  I hold a room in the hotel across the way.  Shall we not enjoy a bit of the drink and smoke you carry, and in that also shall we not enjoy a bit of each other?”

“I was headin’ home.”

“Of course you were.  Before returning to that which you deplore, offer yourself to me and I shall do the same to you.  Give yourself freely and without reservation.  Let me savor your essence and I shall equally provide you with eternal life.  You can live on forever, for all eternity.  Let your flesh be your guide in this matter.  What you are could live as the gods do, in endless redress for the pains of the world, in recompense for needs unanswered and desires unsatisfied.  Tell me you want me.  Tell me you offer yourself to me without proviso.  Give yourself to me willingly and I shall provide you a night unlike any you have ever experienced before.”

So he had said, and so Hugo had believed.  In shadows deep and concealing, he found the man’s words stimulating, electrifying even, and nothing could have prevented him from giving in to such wiles.  Had he known then what he knew prostrate in that room, he would have fled as though hungry wolves pursued him.  Unfortunately, the deal was made in haste.  Realizing the scope of the transaction did not deter him from seeing it through, and that despite his angry resistance.  As much as he knew the devil himself had called upon him, the raw attraction hindered opposition.  He needed what the dead man could give him.  He wanted it no matter how much he hated the idea.

With barely enough volume to be heard over the black-and-white television screaming from the corner of the room, Sergejs asked, “Do we not have a covenant, Hugo?  Call it a gentleman’s agreement if you wish, but I would consider it rude were you to ponder breaching our contract.”

“Fuck you!” he spit belligerently.

“I do so appreciate the kind offer, but I did not seek you out this night to indulge my inner sybarite.  Do not confuse my hesitancy with aversion.  I assure you such a thing is quite untrue.  You appeal to me like the irresistible harlot cast in substance too inviting to ignore.  What my tongue would not do for…  Ah, but perhaps under different circumstances…”

“Shut up!”

“Silence rests in the purview of my abilities.  You will find it imperative to consider that such a thing would hasten the conclusion of our deal.”  Sergejs slowly licked his lips to drive home the point.  Though intended for Hugo’s benefit, he could taste the man’s flesh in the air and hungered for the warmth of his life to flow like honey into his mouth and down his throat.  The thought of it nearly made him leap onto the bed.  He wanted his prize, the promised gift from a simpleton.  But he felt it imperative to remain calm.  Ending the life before him would require he hunt yet again.  Although capable of such an act, he did not wish to do so.  Instead, he wished to savor the moment.  He needed energy tendered by free will.  To take it forcefully could only satisfy a craving, not a need.

“Grant me audience that I might also reveal in you the hidden desire you wish to deny.  Your voice speaks that which your flesh refutes.  You call to me, Hugo.  You wish for me to take from you that which you offer silently but hopefully.”  He supped of the air between them with blatant longing, a stuttering intake of breath akin to the starving homeless standing nigh a board filled with scrumptious dishes prepared for kings, and he added, “Let not your physical wishes belie the tales falsely proclaimed by your wagging tongue.  Say what you will, but deny not your longing.  One or both of us shall enjoy this night.  Let it not be only the salivating maw of the predator that satiates gross desires in this place.”

Hugo crossed his arms and hugged himself tightly.  Anyone could recognize it as a defensive posture.  He pulled himself more upright against the old wooden bedrail.  An agreement made in error did not a contract make, he figured.  Meant to indicate he no longer felt obligated to the villain, he further constricted his mass against the wall and pulled his legs up tight to his abdomen.

“The deal’s off.”

“Ah, words are such clumsy constructs, are they not?  Why utilize them when actions speak volumes…”

Hugo turned toward him then, finally looking at him directly, and yelled, “I ain’t impressed with your fancy talk.  ‘Sides, it don’t make no sense no how.  You didn’t tell me the truth ’bout none of this.  We’s not goin’ through with it, y’understand me?”

“Beseeched of need and defiant unto the end, let a man’s word stand for his honor.  While I cannot take by force that which sustains me, once promised, the possession is mine alone.  You committed by word the granting of deed.  Lest you suffer endless sorrow for your insolence, might I suggest you submit?  Pain or pleasure befalls you at my hands before the sun rises.  Dare you command the former rather than the latter?”

Leave a Reply