On A Tuesday Evening

He’d kissed her goodbye in the elevator, taking a double-handful of flame red hair and bending her head back so that his mouth could crush to hers, smearing blood across her lips remorselessly, letting her drain him, take from him, until he was skating the thin edge of hunger, the Beast razor-bright in his belly, howling against its cage. He’d watched her go and made himself stand there, stock still, until the elevator was gone; then he’d called in a few favors with an unsavory hanger-on, a minor member of the Movement all too happy to rack up some goodwill with the Praxis, and within an hour there were two warm girls at his apartment, blood-dolls both, gasping at the view, running eager hands over his possessions, offering themselves to his fangs and his hunger. He’d demanded two, because he knew that if only one was sent, he’d be sending her back out in a body bag, and that was a loss of control he couldn’t allow.

Usually, he liked to flirt a little first, open a bottle of wine, make a game of feeding, but not this time, not with the redhead’s scent still filling his bedroom, her blood smeared on his sheets; everywhere he turned was a reminder of her and how they’d spent their night together, and none of it made him feel gentle. He took both girls as close together as he could, as if having both of them at once could wash some of the immediacy from his memories, but all they did was sate his hunger before passing out, making his Beast grow quiescent in its cage of Will. He left them passed out in the guest bedroom, a tangle of bodies laid out on the queen size bed, and, pulling his shirt back on, he padded into the living room, bare feet silent on the rug, staring out at the nighttime skyline, the lights of the bridges, the stadiums burning like distant suns, lit up even when there’s no game in town.

Where the hell did I put my phone? He glanced around, sighing, trying to cast his mind back through the red haze of lust and lacrima that smeared Monday night into half-oblivion, then smiling as a buried memory stirs, sending him between the couch cushions – a momentary search turns up his Blackberry, and he dials the number from memory.

“Morrie. It’s Joe DiStefano.” A pause, listening to the excitable voice on the other end babbling, complaining about the market and stomach ulcers one moment, bragging about children and grandchildren the next. After a suitably polite pause, rolling his eyes, Joe cuts in.

“Morrie. MORRIE. Quiet down. I’m not making a social call.” That shuts the party on the other end up – when Joe calls for business, it means money or favors are changing hands, sometimes both – and it’s always a lot of money, or favors from on high. Joe just smiles, and though he can’t see his reflection in the window, he’s sure the smile is a chilly one, the sight of a social predator sitting down to a feast.

“I need you to find me a house. Yes, another one.” A pause, then, “No. Society Hill, this time. Something with an attached garage, no smaller than the place on Mollbore Terrace – right. About that size exactly.” Another pause, listening, and he shrugs, then realizes that the other man can’t see him. “No, that’s not going to be a problem. I just need it fast. How fast?” He checks his watch, doing some quick mental calculations. “I need the keys and a preliminary agreement in place by Sunday night. Yes, I said Sunday, Morrie. As in four days from now. Well, five if you get started right away. There’s a bonus if you get it right. And… well. Get it right, Morrie.” And he hangs up, tossing the phone back onto the couch without looking, his dark blue eyes out on the city, studying his Domain.

I’ll have to get one of those little boxes jewelry comes in. And gift-wrap, of course. He grins, the quick flash of a crooked smile. But it’ll be worth the look on her face. Worth it and more.