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Chapter 8
QuebecWill had been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes when he finally gave up. He hit 'save' and closed the computer. It was glaringly obvious that he wasn't going to get any more work done tonight.
He closed his eyes, and was assailed by visions of Anne; her sparkling hazel eyes, strong, yet adorable, nose, eminently kissable lips . . . Her laughs; she definitely had more than one laugh. There was 'startled', 'joyous', 'embarrassed' and 'girlish-giggle'—just to name the four he had heard this afternoon. He felt a burning desire to hear all the laughs she had in her repertoire.
Will ran his hands through his hair and pushed away from the desk. He felt a sudden need to pace.
He had felt an instantaneous connection to Anne. As if he'd known and loved her before . . . How was that possible? Maybe there was something to all that New Age shite about past lives, after all. Good God, he needed a drink! Harriet looked like the kind of woman who would occasionally imbibe—there might be a nice brandy about . . . he'd even settle for Scotch . . . whiskey . . . vodka . . . Where the bloody hell does the bint keep her booze?
The built-in bookshelves on the east wall looked like the most likely bet. He opened the lower cupboard doors. Success! He bypassed the gin and vodka, and was reaching for the cognac when his fingers closed around the bottle of whiskey instead. He poured a shot and threw it back, then poured another. He had a sudden craving for a cigarette—and he had never smoked in his life!
The warmth of the whiskey spread from his stomach to his brain and he felt calmer. He sipped the second shot. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he gone completely sack and hammers? He was drinking, wanting to smoke, and having lustful thought about a bleedin' nun! Hold on. Maybe she wasn't a nun; maybe she was just a pre-nun that hadn't actually made a decision yet? It was possible.
This whole experience was just becoming too . . . weird. Maybe he was coming down with something? He felt his forehead. Did it feel hot? He couldn't tell. Can one really check oneself for a fever? He must be sick. How else to explain this aberrant behavior and bad language?
He swallowed two Excedrin with his last sip of whiskey and went to bed.
**********
Will's dreams were chaotic. Not what he had come to think of as 'muse' dreams at all. Maybe it was the unaccustomed whiskey . . . or the fever?
He tossed and turned restlessly; the sweat-soaked sheet bunched around his legs trapping him—holding him down. He tried to run, kicking out in his sleep.
Death and blood and fire . . . Blood and fire and heat . . . large feather bed with crimson hangings—the color of blood. The scent of blood was in his nose and the taste of blood in his mouth. Deirdre was laughing; sprawled across the feather bed. She bent her knees and slowly raised her skirt, revealing ankles . . . knees . . . thighs. Her thighs were as white as porcelain.
Deirdre grabbed his head, her sharp nails digging into his scalp and the fresh scent of his own blood filled his nostrils, trickling down his cheeks like tears. His tongue crept out and licked a droplet and it tasted . . . oh god; it tasted like ambrosia. Deirdre was pulling his head toward her . . . his body was bent over the bed and her female scent mingled with the smell of blood and in that instant, he wanted her. He knew he would pay dearly for this momentary flush of desire, but that would be later. This was now, and his cock hardened as he grasped her thighs and buried his face between her legs.
The scent of her was enveloping him and he needed to taste her. He ran his tongue over that moist cleft, separating her folds. He licked and sucked and she moaned, gripping his head with both her hands and thighs. He felt a flash of panic; he couldn't breathe—didn't need to breathe. She arched her back and as he thrust his tongue deep inside her, large, strong hands grasped his ass and a slick, hard cock entered him. Deirdre cried out again and he raked his teeth over her clit as he thrust his tongue harder, matching the rhythm of the cock slamming into him from behind.
“Dar”—ling? He cried out and felt a vicious tug on his hair, forcing his head up and back, exposing his throat. Dar—Deirdre sat up and sank her fangs into his throat and he came with a rush, staining her skirt. Deirdre threw back her head and laughed and he was shoved roughly to the side as Azreal grabbed Deirdre's hips, spreading her thighs as he thrust into her . . .
Will thrashed, finally disentangling the covers and abruptly woke; shaking and shivering as the night air chilled the dampness of his sweat-soaked body. What the fuck was that all about? Shaking with cold, he made his way to the bathroom, turning on the space heater before shedding his clammy pajamas.
He twisted the shower knobs, turning the water as hot as he could stand it, and stood under the spray, head bowed, hands braced against the wall, as the water pounded down on him.
What was wrong with him? He must be losing his mind. First, lustful fantasies about a possible nun and then erotic nightmares featuring imaginary vampires! What the fuck was in that bottle—absinthe? He tried to remember his undergraduate research on Lord Byron—drinking absinthe could drive you insane and wasn't there something about hallucinations? Something about wormwood?
Don't be a stupid git! You know bloody well that was whiskey. Alright. Now he was talking to himself—in the third person, no less. In a semi-North London accent.
Will dried off, and wrapping a towel around himself, dashed into the bedroom, where he hurriedly dressed in a sweat suit and thick socks.
He added kindling and built up the fire in the main room. He wouldn't sleep further tonight. First thing on the agenda for tomorrow was a trip to the laundromat in the village. The thought of those covers touching his body made his skin crawl.
He threw an afghan over him and settled back to watch the fire and wait for morning.
**********
Will pocketed his keys after hoisting his garbage bags full of clean laundry into the back of his rented Ford Explorer. It was only a few blocks to the cafe and he decided to walk. He was still feeling the effects of his disturbing dream and wanted the air.
By the time he arrived at Margaret's cafe, he was feeling more human and had even rediscovered his appetite. He ordered the day's special—pork chops, fried potatoes, green beans and applesauce—and took his usual table. He asked for coffee, to which he liberally added cream and sugar.
“And don't you look like death warmed over,” Margaret opined as she brought his meal and refilled his coffee. “Rough night?”
“I didn't get much sleep,” Will admitted.
Margaret made sympathetic clucking noises. “Try some warm milk before you go to bed tonight. Works like a charm for me.”
Will smiled his thanks. He cut into his pork chop and was chewing his first bite when Anne entered the cafe. He gulped and swallowed the half-chewed bit of meat and began coughing and choking.
Anne rushed over to his table and pounded him on the back. He ejected the bite into his napkin and wondered if his back was broken.
“Are you alright?” she asked anxiously, handing him a glass of water.
His eyes were watering and he was gasping for breath. After managing to drink half the water, he wiped his eyes and stared at the table. Bloody hell! Why did she always have to see him at his worst?
“I-I-I'm fine, thank you.”
Her index finger touched his chin, raising his face to look at her. She wasn't laughing at him; she was looking at him with . . . friendly concern?
“Good. I'm glad. I was hoping I'd see you today. Um. Do you mind if I sit down?”
He leapt to his feet, pulling out the chair opposite his for her. “Please do.”
When he had seated her and returned to his own chair, he had no idea what to say to her. Apparently, she wasn't much for the conversation either, because for a long moment, they simply sat smiling at each other. Will took a deep breath and blurted the thought uppermost in his mind.
“Are you a nun?”
Anne laughed. Laugh number 5—mischievous.
“Nope. I'm just staying at the convent on sort of a . . . retreat. I mean, the Sisters are wonderful. I'm happier there than I think I've been in a long time, but to actually join up? I don't think that's my calling. Besides, I . . . don't look good in a wimple and I get the feeling I wouldn't be very good with the . . . abjuring and all.”
“Thank God!” Will burst out. “I . . . I've been thinking . . . since I met you, I've . . . been having . . .”
“Wrong, lusty thoughts?”
Will blushed furiously and looked away, unable to meet her eyes.
Anne laughed again. Number 6—flirtatious. She reached over and touched his hands, which were clasped so tightly the knuckles were white, with one of her own small hands.
Startled, he glanced up to meet her sparkling eyes.
“Me, too,” she whispered.
All the air left his lungs in a rush and he felt faint. He was drowning in those eyes. Where on earth are all these violent emotions coming from? Up until yesterday, he had led a rather placid life. Now he was . . . a whirlwind inside. All of these feelings were alien—larger than life—yet somehow felt familiar at the same time. That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger. If he managed to survive this emotional assault, he certainly hoped he'd be stronger; he had a feeling that his life had irrevocably changed.
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