N.I.P.--Part
Four
Sara thought. She lay with her eyes closed, aware that she was on Grissom’s bed, in his house. If she concentrated, she could hear his lifebeat, faintly, in the other room, along with the minute sounds of the two clocks in the house, the hum of the appliances, and the tiny scurrying scamper of a single mouse somewhere behind the sheetrock of the walls. When she stopped focusing on the sounds they faded into the background of her thoughts, which at the moment were jumbled and slightly frightening.
She felt different, and no different at the same time; an ambiguity that vexed her even now. All her senses worked, her perceptions and memories and preferences were as they’d always been. The her of HER was still there, and yet now the intake of sensation was so very different. Overwhelming at times.
Sara wondered if she could handle it all.
The quilt around her held the scent of Grissom. She breathed in his soft body scent, the mix of musk, salt, soap and shampoo. The hint of semen, the faintest trace of tears, and the intimacy of knowing all those elements were here stunned her a little—
Like being wrapped in his hug.
She focused on her own body, trying to gauge the new sensations all through it. Her stomach was warm, from the blood, she knew, and the afterglow of drinking it down was still a pleasant, if somewhat twisted memory. It had tasted of rice and saffron, so richly, so sweetly infused that the after-flavor was still in her mouth even now. And the JOLT it had sent through her . . . orgasmic.
Oral sex, she snickered to herself, and immediately sobered at the memory of both Cassie and Grissom watching her. That was embarrassing—more so than dying in her underwear and waking up in a slip. Sara wondered which one of them had chosen the lingerie to lay her out in, and couldn’t help a little wish that it had been Grissom. She’d always wanted him to see that slip . . . albeit not quite in this context. She sighed.
She realized it was . . . a habit now. Was she even breathing? Sara concentrated and recognized no, she hadn’t drawn a breath in a while, hadn’t missed it. In a panicky gasp she inhaled, feeling the cool air move into her chest, expanding it uselessly. The air was there, but not moving, not heated or cool, and Sara realized she could hold it . . . forever. THAT was a vexing thought, although on the heels of it she understood she was now free of Breathalyzer tests forever. Slowly she exhaled and thought about swimming.
So. No breathing. She remembered the handbook mentioning the change of bodily functions as the most notable psychological hardship to mentally overcome. No more breathing. Very little sweating, and what would surface would be blood in faint traces. Urination would be greatly reduced, and elimination would cease. Menstruation also ceased, although sexual activity was possible, even desirable as a means to companionship and feeding. She understood the feeding part, but the other one; the companionship bit was still a little unclear.
Why would anyone want to sleep with a vampire? With someone who was . . . dead? Or Undead as the handbook kept insisting. Sara found it hard to figure out the true difference just yet and suspected it was just a matter of being politically correct. She didn’t FEEL dead—in fact, she’d never felt more in her life; all her senses seemed razor-sharp, almost to the point of pain.
There was too much to think about, and Sara let it go rather than lose rest over it. Focusing on a single distant sound, the steady, reassuring beat of Grissom’s heart, she let herself drift off into a blank darkness, cool and soothing.
***
*** ***
Grissom didn’t like the doctor; he was blue-eyed and intense, looking at Sara as if he had x-ray vision through that pellucid glance. It didn’t help that he was casually dressed, younger and fairly handsome in a quiet concentrated way, not smiling as he examined her carefully.
“So, been Undead long?”
“About a day—or night, I guess. My sense of time’s a little off.” Sara murmured, looking at Grissom for help. They were in the cramped back room of a personal trailer, and despite the medical accoutrements of the room it was crowded with the three of them in it. The doctor nodded, flicking on an otoscope and examining the inside of Sara’s left ear.
“Fledgling then. Who turned you?”
“I put it on the intake form--an asshole named Gomez—“ Sara growled. “Against my will.”
“A thousand pities cannot undo one thoughtless act.” The doctor murmured gently. ”You can file charges.” Grissom crossed his arms impatiently.
“Very pithy.” He commented. The doctor glanced up at Grissom and sized him up.
"Nothing is ever what it seems but everything is exactly what it is. Your ladyfriend here seems to be adapting pretty well so far and I don’t see problems. The NIP database will give us some idea of her inherited bloodline. But first, if you’ll just open your mouth and stick out your tongue—“ he told Sara. She did, feeling slightly silly. The doctor jabbed a lancet into his index finger and swiped the welling blood across her tongue. Sara flinched, but he merely smiled, his electric blue eyes bright.
“What did I have for lunch?”
“Avocado salad in strawberry vinaigrette, tofu seared in walnut oil and a bottle of Yoo Hoo.” Sara replied, blinking rapidly. Grissom’s eyebrows shot up. At that moment the door opened and a dark-haired lanky man dressed as a cowboy peered in.
“So, prognosis properly vampiric, Buckaroo?”
“Copacetically so, New Jersey. What bloodline is our patient?”
The cowboy smiled wryly. “Well according to the information on file, Gomez was a blend of Carpathian and Mongol. I know it doesn’t pay to make assumptions but I would have pegged him for Inca. Nevertheless the Nocturnal International Pact listing records him as a seventy-five to twenty-five blend.”
Buckaroo blinked thoughtfully and turned back to Sara. "Fascinating. We have good documentation on the Carpathian strain of vampirism. The Mongol one is still a bit of a mystery. And mystery is the source of all true art and science."
“Which means precisely what?” Grissom broke in, slightly exasperated. Sara herself looked a little askance at the doctor, who merely smiled enigmatically.
“Which means that Ms Sidle will have some interesting talents emerging within a year or so. Already her ability at blood analysis is ninety nine point four percent correct. Very Carpathian. In the next few months she’s going to be able to focus her glamour on individuals and groups, and might even be able to use it on lesser mammalian predators.”
Grissom looked slightly worried at this, and narrowed his eyes. Buckaroo elaborated.
“Coyotes. Wolves. Possibly bats and rats—depends on a lot of factors. In the meantime, she’s in pretty good condition. I’ll prescribe some lotion and sunscreen blended just for her over at Yoyodyne Laboratories, and some additives for her blood supplements to smooth over the transition.”
“Bats and rats?” Sara questioned, sliding off the exam table and working her jaw back and forth. “As in have them do my bidding? Great—I can be the Pied Piper of Vegas.”
Doctor Banzai gave a small shrug.
“Someone already is--ever wonder how Siegfried and Roy managed so many animals at a time?”
***
*** ***
October 27th
Back from what could only be properly called a nerve-wracking experience. I never fully appreciated that term before, not even through Paul Millander and later the horrific ordeals with Nick. But the term fits all too appropriately for the time Sara and I have spent getting her officially registered. I knew I recognized the address Cassie pushed into my hand, but I didn’t let it sink in until we were pulling up to those familiar iron gates. Sara sensed my aggravation but said nothing, and at that point I didn’t know what she knew about my ties to the Dominion.
Lady Heather—so much makes sense now, in the bittersweet filter of hindsight. I appreciate now how truly powerful she was, and how utterly susceptible I was years ago but time has changed me. I was able to look her in the eyes tonight, and watch her lower her glamour. Out of contempt in the beginning, I’m sure, but once she saw Sara her demeanor changed.
“A fledgling, Mr. Grissom?” Lilting curiosity in her tone.
“Turned against her will, Lady Heather.” I told her, and she shot Sara a compassionate glance before motioning us in.
Sara turned to look at me and I felt her read my face like a book. She pursed her mouth, then looked away; I have never felt the stab of a pain like that before—cold, deep and quick, like an icicle through my heart.
Lady Heather led us through her lobby to an alcove with a gated elevator. We descended past the sounds of flogging and low cries to a subterranean level that smelt of old velvet and wax--like a church. I had expected some sort of crypt atmosphere, but we stepped out into a small chamber lined with bookcases and decorated in the dry fashion of a lawyer’s office. The only macabre touches were the skulls along one shelf, and I knew enough to tell that they were real.
Our hostess had us sit in the two brocade chairs and went to the seat of the desk. I was struck by the fact that although she had a high tech computer, she reached first for a huge ledger book. As she opened it, page after page of handwritten names slid by, first in brown ink, then in blue and black. I noted quill strokes near the first pages and suspect that Ronnie would have a field day with the ledger.
“This is the official registry for Nocturnal International Pact for the states of Nevada and Arizona. A Book of the Undead, if you will. I am currently the Magistrate for both states.”
“How do you manage? That’s a lot of territory.” I remember Sara speaking up.
“I have several deputies scattered throughout—“ Lady Heather assured her, and cleared her throat. As she spoke to us about the registration, I watched both women carefully as they eyed one another other, and I confess, it was both fascinating and arousing to see them size each other up.
It wasn’t a matter of beauty—while Lady Heather has the lushness of her New Orleans blood and breeding, I far prefer Sara’s West Coast allure. From her smile to her confident stride, Sara draws me in, and this had been happening for years-- well before her Rising.
She makes me long to be a younger, better man than I am.
Lady Heather has a grace that I now see only comes after decades of existence, a preternatural stillness to her demeanor that I’m beginning to recognize as an outward sign of a vampire. Cassie has it; and I seem to recall both Señor Gomez and his sister did as well. Sara still retains the restlessness of life, and I wonder how long that will last before she begins to incorporate that grave economy to her movements.
“With your signature, Miss Sidle, your registration is complete. I have a temporary membership tag for you—your permanent one will come in the mail—and a packet of information and supplies that I hope will ease your transformation into this new phase of your life. I regret that you didn’t choose to Turn, but all in all you’re accepting the change with more graciousness than most and I commend you for that.” I remember her saying in that honeyed tone of hers. Sara took the little paper tag and tucked it in a pocket, not even looking at it as I recall.
Still with the impatience of the living.
I spoke. “And filing charges against Gomez?”
“The next step, of course.” Lady Heather assured us. Carefully, Sara and I reconstructed for her what had happened that night four days ago, and when we were done I could see a hint of distress on our hostess’s face. She turned her dark gaze to Sara.
“I’ll check the database for Cemetario Gomez’s record, but I have to tell you now that it will be a difficult case to prosecute. The truth, Ms. Sidle, is that YOU bit him—and while he was out of line in preying in a human work environment and without need, he didn’t Turn you intentionally.”
“He ATTACKED me!” Sara bristled. I remember watching her eyes flare red at the memory, and could see her little fangs slide down, gleaming in the light. Lady Heather nodded very slowly.
“Yes, he did, but he was within the established paradigm of vampire norms. We can make a case that he used excessive glamour, and put the vampire community at risk by feeding on you in a public place, but other than that—“ An elegant little shrug, tinged with empathy.
“Still—if we make the complaint on those lesser charges, what punishment would he receive?” I broke in at that point, not wanting that condescension to enflame Sara’s temper. Lady Heather turned to look at me and I saw something flicker in those dark, dark eyes.
“I could push for him to be banished from Las Vegas for a time; sentenced to a remote region for several years. It’s symbolic at best, but it’s better than nothing. And if he has any prior record or infractions of NIP law, the sentence would of course, be longer. Where there any other witnesses involved?”
“David,” Sara muttered, “One of the coroners.”
“The one who has already filed a complaint, I see—“ Heather had remarked, after turning the computer monitor towards Sara and myself. I mentally thanked our junior coroner for his promptness. Lady Heather caught my eye and managed a tiny smile; I suspect she got the info from Cassie as well.
“You’ll need an attorney familiar with NIP law—I know of several I can suggest. In the meantime, let us discuss your familiarities with the same, Miss Sidle.”
And on it went, a patient grilling about procedures and rules, and Sara rose to the occasion, making me quietly proud. She’d very nearly memorized the handbook, and seemed to relax as the discussion went on. I merely listened and watched. Finally Lady Heather gave a nod and rose, extending her hand to Sara, who took it after a moment, gently shaking it.
“And so Miss Sidle, I welcome you to this phase of your existence. I don’t pretend it will be easy or full of wonder, but I promise you it will be very—“ here she shot me a quick glance, “—very, interesting. If you would be so kind as to go with my secretary Lucy, we’ll take a vial of your own blood to add to our database and store here in case it’s needed.”
“Needed for?” Sara beat me to the question. Lady Heather smiled.
“For your loved ones. Minute amounts of your mutated ichor will heal them.”
Sara followed the petite secretary out and I could see she wanted to look back but didn’t. Once she was out of the room, Lady Heather turned her remorseless gaze on me, pinning me as I myself had often pinned butterflies.
“She’s . . . refreshing. I haven’t a doubt she keeps you on your toes.”
I said nothing, refusing to be drawn out by this woman, but she smiled, her dimples showing through, as she leaned forward across her desk.
“You both smell of desire and desperation, Mr. Grissom—an interesting turn of events to be sure. Does she know how you feel?”
The question stunned me a little with its soft sincerity, and more so with its direct insight. Carefully I met her gaze and my hesitation seemed answer enough; she tilted her head a very little, appraising me somehow.
“I see . . . still living with truths felt, but unspoken. Very well, Mr. Grissom, but I do have two pieces of advice for you, if you’re willing to listen to them.”
I nodded; for all her mystery and charm I had always found her to be a practical woman. She managed a smile on that courtesan mouth of hers.
“First of all, let her fail. This is her life, and she won’t succeed at everything. Tempting as it is to coddle her, you MUST let Ms. Sidle find her own way with things. She strikes me as the sort who will resent being rescued from everything.”
I nodded although part of me impatiently resented her words. I wasn’t coddling, merely . . . being cautious. My expression must have hinted at my inner thoughts, because Lady Heather nearly laughed. After a second she cleared her throat.
“The other is to be her first live feeding. The thought may frighten you, but believe me, that act will give her more comfort and courage than to prey on a stranger. The pain is minimal . . . as I’m sure you might remember.”
I blushed; I know I did, but kept my eyes on her. She gave a tiny sigh and pressed on.
“The wrist is best for a first feeding, or the crook of an elbow. When she’s more comfortable with the procedure, then perhaps the neck, and other . . . places.”
At that point I was at a loss—and then memory flared and I saw her recognize my epiphany. Lady Heather used one graceful hand to mime a stirring spoon.
“Our afternoon tea—laced with memory inhibitors each time. You’re law enforcement, Mr. Grissom and back then I refused to compromise what started as a potential relationship. As events unfolded it seems I was right to do so.”
“Lady Heather—“ I began, then stopped, unsure of what to say. She gracefully leaned back in her desk chair, posing regally.
“It’s in our past, Mr. Grissom. As I see it, you now have someone who needs you far more than I would, and like it or not, your head and heart are more attuned to Ms. Sidle than you care to admit.”
“Yes.” I stated. There was nothing else to say.
***
*** ***
David stood in the cool air under the streetlight, checking his watch and wondering exactly how much longer to wait. Overhead, moths flittered in and out of the sodium arc light, making soft smudges of shadow on the circle at his feet. He took a step forward, looking out into the neat rows of cars parked in the back lot of the lab and sighed.
A phone call; a familiar lilting voice in Spanish requesting a meeting—David felt foolish. Miss Gomez had charmed him, certainly, but it was getting colder, and he still had at least one more body to prep—
“Hola, Señor Phillips—“ came a soft voice. David spun to see Miss Gomez standing with one hand around the streetlight pole. Her loose blonde hair gleamed in the light, and she winked at him. With sensual familiarity, she undulated, swinging herself around the pole and rocking her hips up. The short flirty sundress she wore rode high on her thighs, and she batted her eyes at David, giggling.
He shifted with unease and crossed his arms protectively over his chest. “Um, good evening Miss Gomez.”
She wrapped a long stocking-covered leg around the streetlight and gave a practiced little grind against it worthy of any dancer at the French Palace; David swallowed hard. Miss Gomez languidly slid her arms up the pole and sighed.
“Me encanta bailar—“
“You seem . . . good at it. Listen, I know you understand English, Miss Gomez—do you . . . speak it?”
“Yesss,” she replied with a pout, “But ess not my favorite ting. But for chu, I weel do dis.”
“Oh good,” he sighed. Easier communication should have made him relax, but seeing the curvy vampire sensually shift to rub her perfectly rounded bottom against the pole had him definitely--alert. Years of living in Vegas still hadn’t inured him to showgirls, and David tried not to stare as she coochy coochied against the cold metal.
“Um, Miss Gomez—“ he tried, his voice going a little squeaky on her name. She smiled and reluctantly pushed herself off of the pole, stepping towards him with a little sigh.
“Sorry, hi jus--miss dancing, que si?” she dimpled at him. As she moved closer, David looked down, aware of how petite she was. She reached up and brushed his bangs back in a flirtatious manner.
“Hennyway, I come to tell chu dat my brother is on de lam. His not at hees crypto at de Tangiers, and not at Julio de Colmillo’s eeder.”
“Okay, but why tell ME this?” David asked softly, glancing around the parking lot. The wind carried the faint sounds of traffic and casinos through the air. For a moment she looked up at him, and her expression was both sad and serious.
“Becauss chu are a fren’ to the girl he turn—Saralita. Mi hermano is not a goot man, Senor Phillips. He hass a record. Since she ess a new dark bebe, he might try to—scare her, comprende? Make her not complain to La Magistrata. Cemetario ess stupid sometimes.”
“You’re saying he might try to intimidate Sara? Stop her from registering a complaint? Well it’s too late for that.” David murmured forthrightly.
“Aie,” Miss Gomez sighed. “He will try jus de same. I neet chu to warn la bebe and her man about my brother. I can tell they are goot people, and Cemetario es muy—“ she gave an exasperated sigh, which sounded like an odd lisp between her dainty fangs, “--ssstupido about hees machismo. Will you do theese for me, querido?”
“Why do you care?” David asked slowly. He cocked his head and waited for her answer even as one hand slid into his collar to touch the silver chain there. Miss Gomez looked up into the night sky.
“Becos I love my hermanito. I foolishly turned heem in nineteen forty seex, and ever since I haf been all he has as familia. Until he meets Veridad Morta, I mus watch over heem.” She sniffed a little, impatiently wiping a crimson drop away from the corner of her eye. Oddly moved, David gave a nod.
“I’ll warn them. But aren’t you in danger too? Won’t your brother be . . . angry?”
Miss Gomez gave a shrug, and smiled a weary grin.
“Si, but hee always forgif me. Hee knoss I always do de right theeng. So—“ She paused a little and smoothed her dress, lingering in the cool night. David watched her gestures. “I leave chu now. When dis ees over, maybe I cho you how to mambo, eh?”
She gave a saucy little set of steps, tossing her head back and laughing. David felt himself blush a little at the charming picture she made doing it.
“I . . . I don’t dance.” He blustered, but Miss Gomez reached out to take his hands, gently squeezing them.
“No, but chu would be a bery goot estudiant—“ she murmured sweetly. “Like Roberto O.”
“Robert O?”
“O-pen jimer. Bery smart!” Miss Gomez agreed.
David goggled at the thought of the father of the Atomic bomb doing the mambo with Señorita Gomez nearly sixty years ago; she let go of his hand and patted his cheek.
“I yam a leetle older dan I look. I mus go. Por favor, warn your amigos for me. Buenos noches, querida.”
Señorita Gomez smiled, and very softly, David realized she was fading away, starting at her legs and moving up her luscious body. Her corporeal form shifted, blurring in the streetlight into a column of soft black smoke, rising in a slow twirl of a last pirouette in the Nevada breeze.
***
*** ***
Sara blinked, ignoring Grissom. They were back at her apartment now, still not speaking. When they’d walked through the door, Cassie had sensed the discord and had wisely left, aware that it had nothing to do with being a vampire. Sara wished the woman hadn’t gone, leaving her to face what she wasn’t sure she wanted to face. So she stood in her kitchen, looking over the cupboards full of dishes and cups and a terrible sorrow hit her hard in the chest as she let her gaze slide around.
None of them were needed now. Not her mother’s heirloom china, not the funky coffee cups she’d bought for a song at the Farmer’s Market, not the creamer pitcher shaped like a cow, or the big pottery popcorn bowl, or the stupid fondue pot her brother had sent years ago as a gag gift.
She’d never eat again. Not off plates, or with spoons or chopsticks or fingers. Never chew, or savor or toss things in the air to try and catch them in her mouth—all gone. Memories from now on. A low sob caught in her throat as reality caught up with her. No Thanksgiving dinner, no last minute chocolates on Valentine’s Day. No more endless hardboiled eggs at Easter, or chilled watermelon on the Fourth—
“Sara?” Alarmed, Grissom moved towards her as she slowly reached into a cupboard and brought out a plate. She held it out, and dropped it; the thing smashed on the floor with a shockingly loud sound, the pieces ricocheting all over the floor. Grissom froze for a second, and she reached for another, moving as if she would repeat the process, but he snagged it out of her cool fingers. “Sara, stop it.”
“Why? It’s not like I’m going to NEED them, is it?” She snapped back, her voice husky with angry tears. “I’ll never use any of them, Grissom. From now on I get little bags of blood, and anything I taste will be at the mercy of whatever the donor ate last. So why should I keep dishes? Why should I keep up the pretense?”
“Sara, listen to me—yes, it’s hard, and you’re right, you won’t be eating off plates again. But you’re overreacting right now. Before you destroy things, give yourself time to think about what you’re doing.”
She turned on him, dark eyes boring through him hard.
“Did YOU think when you let that woman feed off of you?”
He paled, realizing the anguished depth of Sara’s pain, and how she’d shifted it to the unspoken matter that had been between them all the way home. Grissom carefully drew in a deep breath, and set the plate on the counter.
“No, I didn’t think. I was . . . intrigued and consenting, at the time. Afterwards I was drugged.”
She arched an eyebrow at him, and Grissom had the grace to flush a little and let his own glance drop to the floor.
“Drugged?” she repeated in an unbelieving tone. Grissom pursed his mouth and wished his shoulders would unclench. He nodded.
“Yes. Something in the tea, afterwards—not quite as civilized a pastime as I’d believed. It doesn’t matter.”
Sara swiftly reached for the plate, moving at frightening speed; she slammed the plate down to the floor and the gunshot crack of it was loud in the tiny kitchen. “Bullshit, Grissom! It matters to ME!”
“Sara!” he grabbed her shoulders, yanking her to him, fatigue and frustration making him rougher than he intended. Sara lunged towards him; somehow unplanned and full of heat and anger they suddenly were kissing, hard. Grissom gripped her tightly, molding her kitten lightness against himself, losing control at the feel of her in his arms, the scent, flavor of her on his mouth. Sara kissed recklessly, opening her lips to his tongue, gasping at the desperate thrust of it over her teeth. It was dizzying and delicious, and mingled with the hot silvery taste of their eager lips and tongues was a copper tang too. Sara moaned, hearing an answering one rumbling up from Grissom but they didn’t stop kissing, clinging tighter to one another as they stood amid the broken plates.
More kisses melting into each other; Grissom drew in quick breaths; Sara closed her eyes and lapped at his teeth, dueled with his tongue, feeling the copper flavor pulse against her lips. She finally drew back, licking. Grissom grinned a quick almost boyish flash, touching his bottom lip.
“You nicked me—“ he observed. Sara noted the tiny holes welling with blood, and on seeing them, a hot surge rose through her body, strong enough to make her shiver uncontrollably.
“Oooh---“ she gulped. Grissom leaned his face down, pressing his lip against her mouth. Ever so gently he moved his head, smearing the blood there.
“Taste me, Sara. It’s for you, it’s all right.” He whispered hoarsely.
She bent and lightly suckled. Grissom moaned. The sound rose up, deep and hungry, and his big body pinned hers against the counter. Sara sucked harder, the pinpoint sweetness tasting so good—peppermint and coffee mostly. Her hips pressed against him, finding him hard, and her hands slid down his broad back, pulling him closer.
It was maddeningly delightful. Not enough to sate either of her appetites, but Sara luxuriated in many tastes of Grissom, blissfully enjoying him. She heard his heartbeat, loud and strong, felt his body eagerly pushing against hers and the blood, oh the hot droplets trickling across her waiting tongue, each one better than the last, rich and delicious. Her fangs lightly raked his lip, not deep enough to cut, merely to tease. Grissom gasped, and his hips thrust forward; Sara felt a warmth seeping against her thigh, and realized what had happened. She tightened her arms around him.
“God—“ came his low whisper of acute embarrassment. Sara hushed him with a kiss to the ear.
“It’s okay. It’s a rush for me too. And--I have a washer and dryer.”
His shoulders shuddered, and she realized he was laughing silently. Turning, he looked at her; Sara had never seen Grissom’s eyes so richly blue, his face so full of wonder.
“Are you hungry, Sara?”
And his words made her smile.
