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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 12 His bedroom is warm and dark, sleek and stylish, much like the man himself. Setting foot inside seems oddly familiar, like returning to one’s childhood home long after leaving childhood behind. He stands across from me, his crimson eyes refracting the low light back like two dying embers caught in a crackling flame. And then he’s down on one knee before me, and for just a moment I’m struck with the strangeness of the situation. I wonder just what he’s doing down there on the ground, but he utters a single word to counter the confused expression on my face. “Shoes.” Silently, I step out of one shoe, then the other, my ravaged feet sinking into the soft plush of the exquisite carpeting. He rises, setting aside the Gucci heels, and returns his attention to me. In the back of my head, in the far reaches of my mind, there is a niggling voice coughing and sputtering in righteous indignation. I had a chance to leave, and yet, barefoot and dressed in silk finery, I stand before the man who both terrifies and soothes me. I’d love to be able to rationalize it, but know that ultimately, I have to trust my instincts. I’ve been surrounded by death of one kind or another, closing in around me on all sides, since I joined the bureau. The people I’ve killed, the people who’ve killed, the people who have been trying to kill me. Has he caught up with my total, after adding the two surveillance men his evening? I’ve racked up more in the last ten years than he has. It’s an odd twist of fate that I’d be allowed to walk free, while he’d be thrown in a cage, or worse. How fortunate that I’ve been labeled an avenging angel while he’d been labeled a serial killer. Like those two words could some him up just as well as “Special Agent” defined my world. But not anymore. He takes my hand again, and I’m cut to the quick by the tenderness present in his exquisitely expressive eyes. I can sense conflict in him, but resignation too. Like a man who’s decided to do the right thing, even though it might cost him everything. For a moment, a wave of anxious dread sweeps through me as I wonder if he’s changed his mind. If he’s decided that, like a pup who just won’t heel, that I’m not worth the trouble. “Clarice…I’d like nothing more than the time to break you in slowly, over the course of days, and weeks, and months. I’d relish the time to ease you in, to painstakingly gently expose you, fragment by fragment, to the person I am. But to do so, Clarice would be to do you a disservice.” I can’t say that I was aware of him moving, but he’s closer now, just a few inches of super-charged air, hovering between us. I can feel the tingling moisture of his breath on my face. “After tonight, Clarice, you can never go back. They’ll find those two bodies, and they’ll find you gone. You can’t change your mind six months down the road and decide to go back. They’ll hang you for it, Clarice. They’ll tear you limb from limb. On the other hand, I can leave you tied on the beach, with several superficial injuries, and make my way quickly out of the country. You’ll be able to step right back into the undertow of your former life.” I almost cry out as he gently smoothes the back of his knuckles across my cheek bone. I close my eyes, and let everything he is telling me sink in. “I will be brutally honest with you tonight, Clarice. I promise you a full measure of both tenderness and pain, affection and affliction. I can’t say if you’ll enjoy it, or if you’ll choose to stay, but at least you won’t be laboring under any illusions.” He looks to me to acknowledge his words, and I slowly nod as they register. And I’m suddenly aware of the tremendous gift he has laid at my feet. Total disclosure. The kind of honesty that’s painful to both give and receive. He’s presenting me with the whole of himself, with the full awareness that it may lead to rejection. It’s almost too much, too overwhelming, to be confronted with such a window into his soul. What happens if I stare into the abyss and find even more disturbing terrors hidden below? My mind wheels, my hands shake, and then, grabbing caution by the neck and shoving it’s ugly head below the waves, I lean forward and press my lips to his. The feeling is intoxicating. His lips are soft and smooth, and I can feel him shaking ever so slightly. It’s an interesting feeling, one I can’t quite place. And then I can. It’s the same shiver I get right before I squeeze the trigger. It’s just a split second before I snap. He sinks his teeth, hard into my lip, and I taste blood. He pulls back and the look on his face is positively feral. His lip is painted with a trickle of my blood. And then the look in his eyes retreats a bit, replaced by one slightly saner, quieter. He looks at me, and waits, with eerie stillness for my reaction. Slowly, hesitantly, I reach out, and lay my hands aside his face. And then, the hesitancy leaves me. I take the snake to my breast and he sinks in his fangs. And when the venom hits, I can feel my former life locked in it’s death throes, thrashing about, drowning in a cold sea of agony, while my new life swims for the surface. ************************************************************************ We thrash on the bed for what seems like decades. My body is a mottled battlefield. Bruises of purple, and scarlet, an blue bloom on my skin in gardens of scratches and nicks. The sheets, fine Egyptian cotton, are stained with the remnants of our union, blood and cum, sweat and tears, agony and ecstasy. The corner of my lip is cracked, and I’ve ripped the nail of my left index finger down to the nail bed. My hair, like the sheet, is in tangles. I have a nagging suspicion that one of my toes is broken. There is pain when I move my right arm. My eyes are red rimmed and sore. Inside and out I’ve been used and enjoyed, kissed and scratched, held and held down. Nearly spent, covered in a sheen of well earned sweat, he hovers over me. There is blood on his elegant skin, under his nails, and on his face. He is shaking with exertion, and the gleam in his eyes is almost like a glare. He seems steeled. Hardened. Like he’s waiting for a blow. Like he’s waiting for an axe to fall. Like he fears it could go either way. I’m flat on my back, and It hurts to raises my head. He creeps closer, closer, until his face hovers inches above mine. When he speaks, his voice is cruel, the same mocking tone leaching back from Baltimore and Memphis. He spit’s the words out like poison, and droplets of angry spittle spray my cheek. “Can you possibly stay, now that you truly know who I am?” An eternity passes in the span of a heartbeat. I can hear his thundering away in his chest, feel the sweat dripping off him, the salt seeping in and stinging my wounds. “Yes.” The cold light in his eyes warms, and I can see the anger retreating from his features. It will never truly leave him, that cold, slithering presence. But it does retreat. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, he lowers his forehead to mine. With infinite care, he wraps his arms around my wilted frame, and holds me close, rocking me gently back and forth like a nurse maid. I feel something crumble in him, a twisting and breaking of the hinges of some hidden door. I cannot, just now, fully understand the significance, but one thing is clear. He too has come home. His lips whispers softly in my ear. “Clarice…Clarice…” We stay like that, for eons, and he rocks me to sleep. ************************************************************************ It’s just like he said. I wake hours later, shivering, locked in the ice cold grip of panic. Sensing it, he stirs, and turns to me, looking down at me and appraising. “Second Thoughts?” My wounds have been cleaned and dressed. The sheets have been stripped and replaced. I can feel his heartbeat next to mine. “No.” What I am coming to recognize as his smile plays across his lips in relief. He strokes my hair with his fingers. “Shhh…It will pass.” He wraps the blankets tighter about me, and lays my head across the valley of his chest. And he’s right. As the warmth of his arms chases away the chills of the ocean, it does pass. FIN Part 12 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |