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DARK LOVE
By
Stephanie Bedwell-Grime
© copyright by Stephanie Bedwell-Grime, July 2008
Cover Art by Kat Richards, July 2008
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Rain gnashed against the old windows, rattling them in their frames. Branches scraped against the roof. A disconcerting thump made Carena Wilder sit up in bed. Maybe spending the first night alone in her new house wasn’t such a good idea, she thought? When she’d picked up the keys to the property in the full glare of the afternoon sun, the house had looked friendly and inviting--if she overlooked the grass that hadn’t been weeded or mown for months or the picket fence that desperately needed a coat of paint. Besides, she’d spent her last penny on the place, so it wasn’t like she could afford a hotel. Whatever this old place held in store for her, she was committed.
“It’s just a storm,” she muttered to herself, sliding back down under the covers. A storm with the kind of ferocity only the dissipating heat of a summer day could summon.
Lightning threw the room into stark shadow. She caught a glimpse of the old bureau against the far wall. For an instant she thought she saw something sinister hiding in its shadow and she cowered beneath the covers just like she had when she was a child. Thunder rumbled overhead. She yelped in surprise. Then, her rational adult mind gained control once again and she peered above the blanket. Rain still drummed against the old roof. She desperately hoped it didn’t leak. The last thing she wanted to do was to have to explore the musty basement looking for a pail. But other than the persistent beat of the rain and the scrape of the decrepit tree outside, the room was quiet. The bureau was just a bureau, she told herself. The house was just a house in need of a coat of paint and few minor repairs, but other than that, she had gotten herself a great deal on the power of sale. She was now fully grown up, a homeowner, a responsible adult. With that thought in mind, she lay back down against the mound of pillows and closed her eyes.
That’s when she heard the nearby staircase creak.
With a squeal Carena sat up. “It’s just the house settling,” she said aloud. For a moment thunder drowned out all other sound.
Then the creaking continued down the stairs and across the kitchen floor. She swore she heard the refrigerator door open. Leaping out of bed, she threw on her terrycloth robe. She cast around the room, looking for a weapon and found … nothing.
Another creak sent her reaching for one of her wooden sandals lying by the bureau. Carena peered out into the hallway.
* * * *
Hunger, keen and all-encompassing. Like nothing he’d ever felt before. Kalan Marx lurched from the old library. The hidden room had been built by his grandfather, the home’s previous owner. Why, he’d never been able to figure out. But what he was doing there in the middle of a thunderstorm on a steaming summer night, he couldn’t fathom.
Thirst burned in his throat, the kind of parched, scalding longing only someone who’d spent days in the desert sun could imagine. Only he hadn’t been in the desert. He hadn’t been anywhere lately except… He stopped, one hand on the kitchen doorframe. Actually, he couldn’t remember where exactly he’d been. He couldn’t remember much at all. His stomach clenched painfully. He felt like rats had nested there and were now trying to claw their way out. He felt …. there wasn’t really a name for the feeling. It was something between intense hunger and all-consuming thirst, and every bone in his body ached.
Kalan lurched across the floor toward the old wheezing refrigerator. It hummed and rumbled in the way it always had. Grabbing the handle, he yanked it open. There should be some orange juice in there. He usually kept orange juice in the house. Juice usually past its best-before date, but, hey, it hadn’t killed him yet, had it? He was feeling awfully bad.
Sure enough there was a carton of orange juice on the first shelf. Some strange organic brand. He examined it in the light from the refrigerator. When had he bought this? His gaze strayed to the collection of lettuce, carrots, and some vegetables he didn’t remember purchasing on the next shelf down. Being a meat and potatoes kind of guy who rarely ate anything good for him, he loathed vegetables.
His stomach cramped again. He had to put something in his belly to ease the ache. He opened the orange juice container, tipped it upright and drank most of it down in one giant gulp. Thunder rumbled again, menacingly. The refrigerator light flickered and then went out. In the darkness he heard its motor wind down into silence.
Still slugging back what was left of the orange juice, which wasn’t doing much to ease his thirst after all, he fumbled in the drawer beside the refrigerator for the flashlight he kept there. His fingers closed around its smooth metal barrel. Yep, still there, hopefully the batteries were still good.
He set the carton of orange juice down on the counter and tried the flashlight. Still working, though by the weak circle of light it shone, he could tell the batteries were nearly dead. Behind him he heard the floor creak, and then a high-pitched, very female gasp. He swung the flashlight in the direction of the sound.
Its wan beam illuminated a tiny wisp of a woman who stood in his kitchen wearing a ratty bathrobe. He had a fraction of a second to wonder what she was doing there and if he’d invited her, but like everything else on this strange evening he couldn’t remember. Catching sight of him, she screamed. The sound pierced his head like a knife. Something sailed through the air. He felt its momentum before the impact.
Pain radiated through his forehead, setting loose another wave of emotion he couldn’t quite name. Fury and hunger battled within him. He glanced down at the wooden sandal lying at his feet, then back at the woman still screaming at him to get out of her kitchen. He opened his mouth to protest that this was his kitchen and it was all a huge mistake.
Opening his mouth turned out to be an error in judgment. His gums split as razor-sharp incisors descended. The sound of the woman’s heartbeat seemed to overpower the room. All of a sudden he thought he remembered what he’d been doing in the hidden library on a stifling summer’s night. And how he came to be there.
* * * *
Flattening herself against the wall, Carena inched along the hallway. In the kitchen she heard a loud creak. She peered around the corner into the kitchen. Lightning flashed again. A shadow moved between the cupboards and the refrigerator. She heard the fridge door open and wan light spilled out into the kitchen. Something man-sized stood between her and the light ... and it was raiding her kitchen! She had a second to feel outraged about that, then she screamed at him to get out of her kitchen and the hell out of her house. Thunder rumbled again followed swiftly by another flash of lightning. The light from the refrigerator flickered and then went out, plunging the room into darkness.
She heard a drawer open, then someone pointed the weak beam of a flashlight at her. She screamed. Realizing belatedly that she was still clutching her wooden sandal in one hand, she let it fly. It hit its target with a meaty thump. The flashlight fell to the floor and went out.
In the darkness, she heard something breathing. She opened her mouth to scream again.
Around her the air moved. A pair of arms seized her and she was squashed against a chest that felt like it was made of steel. Air whooshed out of her lungs.
Hot breath sizzled down her neck, damp in the muggy air. She uttered a muffled moan of protest.
Teeth pierced her neck. She felt the stinging pressure and then a brief jolt of pain. Crushed against the kitchen cabinets, she fought to free herself and failed.
A hot wave of pleasure followed quickly after the pain. She moaned again in spite of herself. Carried along on that tide, it became hard to think. Consciousness drifted away from her, until there was only the sound of her beating heart loud in her ears. As she was dragged down into darkness, she felt his heart stir and begin to beat.
* * * *
Oh no, this wasn't good.
Kalan looked at the woman lying on his couch. A thin line of blood ran down the side of her neck, dripping even now onto the cushions of his new leather sofa. The power was still out and the room still cloaked in darkness, but for some reason he found he could see just fine. See well enough to pick out the crimson shade of her blood against the black leather couch he'd bought for the secret library room. It seemed wrong to put her on the unfamiliar floral couch in the living room. How it came to be there, he had no idea.
It was his house all right. Half his furniture seemed to still be there, the flashlight had still been where he remembered in the kitchen drawer. But everything had been rearranged and new things added. Like the mysterious new couch.
He'd worry about that after he decided what to do about the woman whose blood he'd just drunk. That thought rolled around in his mind, making him gag. No, he hadn't imagined that part. He'd sucked back quite a few mouthfuls of her precious bodily fluids before he found the strength to stop. The worst part of it was that he badly wanted another taste. His body all but demanded it.
And that really, really wasn't good.
What on earth was he going to tell her? His mind raced. Maybe she wouldn't remember. Maybe he could take her somewhere, get her some help and then disappear. But most of his stuff was still in the house she considered hers, and there was the small matter of the blood on the leather cushions and the trail of it across the kitchen floor and down the hall.
Sitting down beside her on the couch, he contemplated his dilemma.
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