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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 8 It’s an endless journey on bleeding feet, tiny grains of sand worming their way into my corrupted flesh. I recall the leather bound Hans Christian Anderson book of fairy tales my father gave me for my seventh birthday. The little mermaid who traded her voice for feet that were shredded by invisible glass with every step she took towards her love. His hand nestles at my elbow, guiding me, infinitely careful now, even as I shudder at the reminder of the puckered skin of his water-logged fingers. By the time we get to the door, I am shivering with the chill night air and the draft that sweeps across the dark corners of my soul. I scan my surroundings but find them free of would be rescuers. I think of the million ironic ways he could bring about my death and wonder at the indifference presented by my absent masters. It hurts, oh god how it hurts. And the worst part of the pain is the nagging voice that tells me I should have known. At the threshold he pauses, gracefully kneeling before me and pulling a silk kerchief from his pocket. His hand wraps around my ankle, and I wince as he lifts my foot. The pain subsides, replaced by an uneasy erotic tingle as he brushes the clinging grains of sand from my feet with the whisper of silk. Shaking of the offenders, he folds the bloody kerchief neatly, rising as he stows it close to his heart. I have expect to hear the clink of armour as he rises. He offers me his hand and I pause a moment before willingly crossing the threshold of his rented house. In the darkness I see a faint smile turning the corners of his lip, and I know the symbolism is not lost on him. He flicks a dimmer switch, bringing the light up several degrees. I would expect the welcoming light to warm me, but my shivering becomes more violent. His grip on my forearm tightens as he leads me down the dark wood-paneled hallway. “You’re teetering on the edge of shock. We need to raise your temperature.” On the lips of another man, I would have searched for a sinister meeting and intonation. Instead, I obediently follow where the twisted Shepard leads. He presses open a door, and we enter a sumptuously attired bathroom. The cool marble tiles bite at the savaged soles of my feet, and an Egyptian cotton robe hangs from a brass wall hook. The centerpiece of the room is a magnificent claw foot tub, a porcelain and brass monument to his luxurious tastes. Relinquishing his grasp on my arm, I watch him turn the handles, the spigot releasing a pure stream of gently steaming water. He rolls back his wet sleeve, turning up his wrist to the tap to test the water. Satisfied, he leaves the tub to fill, and returns his attention to me. I try to steady myself, but shivers rack my body as the last vestiges of my body heat flees. He reaches into his coat. I here a click, and see a flash of silver lightning. He folds his harpy and tucks it away as my slashed nightgown flutters to the green marble floor. I expect him to look at me, to leer or stare or slaver, but his eyes don’t drift below my collarbone. I raise my eyes to his, and I’m swept away, drowning again in a boiling crimson ocean. He takes my hand and leads me to the tub. Stepping inside, I know the water is luke- warm, but it sears my skin like acid. I sway and he lays his hand to my waist, steadying me. It’s mate caresses my shoulder and gently eases me into the bath. I gasp at the pain of the imagined heat, and he croons softly in my ear. “Slip into it, Clarice. Your body's in shock from such a loss of heat. As your temperature regulates, the pain will cease. You need it.” I lay down against the silk-smooth porcelain, my extremities screaming their objections to the heat they’ve forgotten so quickly. Like the gentle stroke of a finger through bars, there one moment, a fleeting dream the next. As he promised, the pain begins to retreat, and I sigh heavily as the shivers loose their hold on me. The blue tinge is chased away by a healthy pink glow, and I feel the blood moving once again in my veins. He pulls a small wooden stool aside the tub and perches on it’s edge. His eyes take in the planes of my neck and face, but travel no further. I have never been more naked, at yet my nudity does not seem to concern him. He smiles as he watches me think. “A naked mind can be far more intriguing than it’s physical counterpart, Clarice…” For the first time, his eyes drift through the glass-clear water and over the curves of my submerged flesh. Even though my chilled flesh has lowered the water temperature, it seems screaming hot again. “Though I must admit your figure is almost as exquisite as the dark corridors of your mind.” If I wasn’t just returning from the brink of hypothermic shock, My capillaries would be coloring me with a livid blush. Instead I lower my eyes from his, and I feel his low, guttural chuckle rippling the water of my bath. He stands, and draws open the mirrored cabinet above the sink. He removes a slender-necked glass bottle from the cabinet, and returns to my side. He uncaps the bottle and the heady fragrance of lavender and lanolin perfumes the steamy air. Sitting behind the bath, he deprives me of the chance to watch him. I can hear him rolling up his other sleeve, and then I feel his hands easing their way into the water at my shoulders. He grasps me there, softly by firmly, and runs his fingertips over my goose-pimpled skin A wave of shame courses through me as my peaked coral nipples tighten and perk, unbidden. He exerts a gentle pressure on my shoulders, sliding me forward. I placidly follow his lead, and my hair slips into the inviting warmth. I rise slightly and I nearly cry out in a mixture of surprise and delight as his fingers stroke my scalp. The fragrance of the shampoo saturates my nostrils as he washes my hair with aching reserve. “I’ve always wanted to feel your hair slippery and wet” His words kick in deep in the pit of my stomach, and I can feel my pulse thumping in my abdomen. My heart flutters, and I feel, for the first time tonight, faint. And then he leans in so close behind me that I can smell his delicious cologne. In a gesture so maddeningly erotic I‘m almost overcome, he inhales at the back of my neck. The hairs there rise, and his tongue flicks out to tease them. My fingertips dig in to the porcelain tub as I resolve to keep them as far away from my inner thighs as possible. He gently pushes my head under the water, rinsing me clean of the fragrant shampoo. And then, he’s up, leaving a cool breeze in his wake. I turn my head to see, and catch a glimpse of him taking the plush robe from it’s hook. “Can you stand?” “I think so.” He stands at the side of the tub, watching me as I tuck my feet below me and rise. As I step out onto the cool marble tiles, his arms encircle me, wrapping my tight in the warmth of his cotton-lined arms. I fight the urge to surrender to it, to go limp in his arms and let him hold me. He ties the belt around my waist, giving me a little squeeze before pulling away. I want to grab at his hands, or his arms, or throw myself at his feet and cry onto his expensive, ruined shoes. Instead, I smooth my hand over my immaculately clean hair. “You’ll find warm clothes laid out on the bed in the next room. Join me in the dining room when you’ve made yourself presentable.” And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me to drip tears of bathwater on the cold marble tiles. FIN Part 8 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |