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Siren Sweet & Harpy Shrill copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter Disclaimer:
These characters were created by Thomas
Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of
admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no
profit, of any kind, is made by the creator, maintainer or contributors to this
site.
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6 of 12 PART 5 My first instinct is to throw back the covers and run for my life. Fast on it’s heels, only a moment later, is the gut wrenching conclusion that to do so would be disaster. If I run, he will chase me. If he chases me, he will take me down. If he takes me down, I’m lost in more ways than one. The scenario plays out in my mind, and I marvel at the dark, ermine shiver it sends up the length of my spine. I squeeze my eyelids shut as I hear the coffin lid thump of footsteps in my bedroom. I can sense his movements, tense and controlled, as he breaches my threshold. He is inside. He’s always been inside. I school my breathing, emulating the shallow rasp of a sleeping maiden. I can feel the air chill as he moves closer to me, casting his shadow across my supine form. And then a drop of sweet metallic warmth falls from his hand and splatters on my cheek. I know that smell. I’d know it anywhere. And I wonder which surveillance man made the donation. I never bothered to learn their names, like so many carnival goldfish destined for a burial at sea. I struggle to keep my eyes shut but he draws them open by the force of his will. We’re eye to eye and I’ve never seen him more alive. His hands are black in the shafts of moonlight. A twin-hued smudge dances like war paint on his right cheek. If I dared to look any closer, I’d see it was a fingerprint. In a gesture so maddeningly obscene that I have to quell my desire to vomit along with my own hand creeping between my legs, he lowers his tongue to my cheek and licks off his handiwork. I gasp as I remember to breathe, his voice rumbling low in my ear. “Good Evening, Clarice” “There are two surveillance men keeping a perimeter around this house.” “Not anymore.” The dead leaf echo casts me back across the years as my stomach performs the same mourning tango that I danced for Miggs. His raven-wing shadow is as paralyzing as a curare dart, but he sees my secret pain etched over the planes of my face. “Survival of the fittest, Clarice. If their demise still pains you, perhaps you can take solace in the fact that while somewhat painful, their end at least came very very quickly.” If remorse has a place in his heart it is hidden even from himself. Like a wolf standing over a fresh kill; the lambs interest him only as long as they take to digest. And I never even bothered to learn their names. Because I knew. My eyes dart to the top drawer of my dresser, but he cuts me off at the pass. “Come now, Clarice. It’s much too far to risk it, don’t you think? Although…” The grin that twists those thin cruel lips sends agonizing shivers up the length of my spine. He gingerly slips his fingers into his pocket, mindful of their still-sticky red coating, producing six gems of gleaming silver. “I doubt it would be very helpful to you, without these.” The bullets hit the hard wood floor with a clatter, and roll away to dark corners and the under caves of furniture. My mind races back over the last few days, screeching to a halt three days earlier. I knew I hadn’t left the door ajar to my room, but shrugged off my instincts. Fatal. His smile widens as he savors the realization forcing my shamed blush. “I contemplated leaving Calla Lilies, but it just seemed too cliché.” The flush in my cheeks burns hot as he looks at me. Anger rears up, railing against that implacable smile that taunts me with it’s smug superiority. “Why are you here, Dr. Lecter?” “Your owners went through such elaborate preparations to welcome me, Clarice. It would have been unspeakably rude to eschew putting in an appearance, brief though it may be.” “It can’t be long until they know you’re here, Dr. Lecter. They may know already. It’s not safe for you. Leave now, and I‘ll give you a head‘s start.” The words that fall from my lips are at once familiar and strange. He purses his lips and studies my night-gown clad form. Another blush, hotter, sweeter, lower, stains my flesh the color of fresh-shed blood. “No.” One syllable. No argument. No explanation. Just one concrete syllable hammering in my ears. “What do you want?” “I want a lot of things, Clarice. But at this very moment, the one thing I want most in the world is to sit down with you and have a long, leisurely chat.” “Dr. Lecter, we don’t have the time.” He cocks his head, and looks at me with an absence of emotion that makes me feel as transparent as glass. “My time does not concern you, Clarice. And I’d say you have as much time as I care to extend to you.” I choke down the lump forming in my throat. He extends his hand to me, and I hesitate a moment before laying my own inside his grasp. Flakes of dark dried blood fall from his skin to dust my own. I shudder as he squeezes my fingers, pulling me up from the bed. For a moment I think he is going to pull me into his iron embrace, but the distance he maintains between us is stately enough for even the most rigid Victorian. I gaze into those knowing eyes, and think I can detect a subtle hint of amusement. “I’m going to take a moment to freshen up, Clarice. I’d appreciate it if you’d put a pot on to boil.” FIN Part 5 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |