Immortal Pleasures, page 3
“Well, I am honored you chose me for the pleasure.” His eyes are still large with excitement. There is an innocence in them I find very attractive. He’s playful.
The rigors of sex must have worn off as his body shivers from the cold in this uninsulated old building that would probably cost a small fortune to repair because of its age. He rubs his forearms, then mine. “Aren’t you cold?”
I smile to avoid the question and try to think what a human woman might say. “Got anything to drink?”
“Sorry! How rude of me. I didn’t offer you anything.” He walks to the other side of the desk, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and a T-shirt from a drawer. There are mismatched frames with pictures of people who somewhat resemble him. His family, I am assuming. There is a silver one with Best Uncle engraved on the bottom. A small boy hugs him tightly in the photo. I want to leave, but not be in such a rush as to appear rude. At least I tell myself I want to leave.
Because I like this man. He’s into books—he’s a writer, of all things—charming, and with looks as rugged as the landscape. The idea of us exploring each other more excites me.
But as he stretches his neck while pulling on the T-shirt, I find myself listening to his pulse. His heartbeat sounds louder now that my sexual need for him has been quelled. I realize I can’t relax here much longer, because there’s something else, a nagging need crawling beneath my skin. I’m hungry. The siren is awake, and she calls to be fed. If I wait too long, he will become my meal. “Thanks for everything tonight. Good luck with your book.”
I start to walk toward the door to retrieve my jacket and go in search of fresh blood. His steps are quick against the hardwood floor as he follows me. Then I feel his hand gently touch the back of my right arm.
“Wait. I don’t know anything about you. And what about a drink? What just happened was fantastic. How about dinner tomorrow? Meet at the pub around seven p.m.? The food there is surprisingly good.”
His charm is irresistible, for a human. Maybe it’s how sexy he looks in the moonlight or the way he asks, but my mouth says “Maybe” before my brain can tell it to say no because I am due to leave. I’d make an exception and stay.
I stop before I walk out the door. The rest of the night will be quiet for me, considering I don’t sleep in the human sense. And I still want to know more about this man, even if I can’t spend more time with him right then. My heart wants to open, feel a slice of sunlight. “Hey, can I have one of your books?”
“Hell yes. Writers are always eager to give out their books.” He reaches into the box he carried previously. “Here you go. Hope you like it.” One hand offers me the book while the other is a feather’s touch against my thigh until my ass is in his palm. It takes every ounce of self-control not to devour him with my body and mouth. There is something about his touch that makes me feel alive. It amazes me that I didn’t even know he existed two hours ago. He growls in my ear with his lips barely brushing against my cheek.
“I hope you like blood.”
Once again, he reads my mind. He has no idea.
The moon is high in the sky. Its gray halo calms me because we are old friends—at one time one of my only friends. The softness of the light feels like rabbit fur, and it’s just as gentle. So many things have come and gone in my life, but the moon and sun have always been steady companions that show up without fail. They look down on me without judgment for my past, or at what I am today. The heavens, and my faith in their unwavering power to shine, are my guides. I take no shelter in the opinions of others.
My name is Malinalli; however, I was also once known as La Malinche, or later Doña Marina, after I was forced into Christianity and, eventually, to act as its mouthpiece as I wandered through Mexico with Hernán Cortés. Some called me a traitor during the Spanish invasion, because so many of Cortés’s translations were done by me.
But I was not a traitor. I was coerced to use my voice and words as a weapon. It was the world I lived in that traded me. My own mother was the first. I didn’t have much time to be a child. My father was a lord who died when I was just a girl. My mother remarried; it wasn’t long before she found herself another man and bore him a child, thinking, like so many women in history, it might be a sure way to secure herself to him. But it is the weakest of chains, and they cost too much for both the child and the parent. As soon as I looked at her sweaty face and into weary black eyes after hours of labor with my new sibling, I knew my fate. She didn’t smile at me when it was announced as a boy. We exchanged no words in that room saturated with the smell of blood and body odor. It smelled like a battlefield. A light scent of copal moved around with the presence of our unseen gods.
In my mind I could hear what her eyes wanted to say, What will I do with you now? That was it for me. My usefulness was gone in a single moment. There was a proper male heir to my father’s position. So at twelve years old I was sold to another tribe, where I learned Mayan until I was bartered again at the age of sixteen to the people of Tabasco. To this day I can’t sniff the stuff people put on tacos and eggs because for me Tabasco was just another betrayal, another place I had to go to without any say or control. I stayed there until the Tabascans gave me to Cortés. By that time, I had been a mistress to many.
But now I am far from Tabasco, living a completely different life in a different era. How could I have ever predicted wandering to a place called Dublin across a great body of water? The thought makes me chuckle, and I feel grateful that I can laugh at life; if I hadn’t found a way to laugh again, I might be dead—or there would be far more corpses trailing behind me.
I walk through an area of Dublin known for its women of the night. I’ll fit right in with the sex workers here, having spent centuries also living on the margins of society. Tonight, I want to find someone without a pimp who’s working for herself. Whenever I can help a sister out, I do. Anyone can fall on hard times; no one is immune to life pulling the gravity from beneath your feet, leaving you at the mercy of powers beyond your control. I should know: I too was sold at a young age.
A young woman emerges from the shadows. “Hey, sexy, want to walk on the other side of the street for a change?” She looks me up and down. “Love your shoes.”
She doesn’t appear strung out or drunk. In any event, even if she had been, it is not my place to judge others’ choices. Not with what I have witnessed or have done to survive. We are all made from equal measures of the stars. And so, while hard drugs are a no for me, I leave people alone to do whatever they want.
“Come closer. Let me see your arms, your eyes. Are you with anyone?”
She looks slightly put off and confused by my questions. “No. I’m on my own. My body, my cash. All of it. And I don’t use. I smoke pot if it’s offered. I drink occasionally.”
“Honey, I’ve got cash, but I don’t want your body; I want your blood. I’ll pay you double and no sex involved. I promise there will be no lasting harm to you. I’ve even got a topical anesthetic to numb the pain of my bite.”
She furrows her exaggerated drawn-on eyebrows. It’s obvious she has no idea what I’m talking about. Her eyes scan me from head to toe again, probably using her extensive knowledge of people to suss me out. From my clothing and shoes she knows I have money.
“My blood? You want my blood, but you won’t hurt me?”
I touch her arm to put her at ease. “Cross my heart. You can search me for anything sharp.”
She looks me up and down again. “Triple for the kinky shit, and I want the money up front.”
I give her a sincere smile of gratitude. God, I’m starving. “Deal. You don’t need to tell me how much—this should cover it.” I count out four hundred euros and hand it to her. Her grin tells me she is satisfied with the amount. We wander into a nearby park where we sit on a bench dark enough to hide us from a passerby. She must know this spot from her previous business dealings. The bench has one of those small metal plaques dedicated to someone who has passed: She was a devoted sister, wife, and mother. I can’t help but snigger. Devotion is one of the most expensive things I know in existence. Especially when it is to the wrong people or things.
I wipe the numbing cream I carry in my bag on her outstretched wrist. She watches me with curiosity.
“Close your eyes and listen to music on your phone. I have earbuds if you need them,” I tell her. She shrugs and obeys, pulling out her own AirPods. Her wrist is soft. It feels like thick cream in my hand. I bring it to my lips like a priest with a chalice filled with wine, then bite with just enough pressure to puncture the flesh and release her bloody gift to me. Her muscles tense for a moment before relaxing again. I glance at her face. Her eyes are shut tight, her fake eyelashes loose at the corners. I can feel her confusion. Her blood fills my mouth with the freshness of a bouquet of roses. I place one hand on her shoulder to reassure her again that I mean no harm. I allow her to feel, in this instance, that I am harmless and grateful for her blood. I know she receives this message, because a small smile appears on her lips. Feeding on her blood takes ten minutes. Before she has a chance to open her eyes, I rest her hand on her lap and rush into the darkness of the park.
When I reach the end of the leafy grounds according to the GPS on my phone, I stop to wait for my Uber on a desolate sidewalk. A fog has slowly descended, filling the atmosphere with a haze that glows slightly yellow from the streetlamps. I can tell the fog will soon blanket everything. It makes me want to shiver despite not feeling cold.
But there is something else in the atmosphere. My ears pick up movement nearby.
I look back to see if it is another sex worker. Couldn’t be, because I would have detected a human scent, maybe perfume, or shampoo. This is different. It’s as if whoever it is has deliberately masked their scent artificially. That is the only way I can explain it.
The sound draws near in the line of trees closest to me, where a public bus stops beneath a single streetlamp. Five people slowly file out of the bus. My Uber pulls to the curb behind it. I jog to my waiting ride. Before opening the door, I look back. Just as I hop into the back seat of the car, the bus screeches away.
I look around, swearing I can hear a scream.
For days in Ireland, he had stalked Malinalli.
As soon as he first glimpsed her in the flesh in Dublin, his memories of her came flooding back, and he couldn’t look away. She moved like a big sleek cat. Those paws, so soft to the touch, but that hid lethal claws. She radiated confidence and raw sensuality—she was still stunning, a beautiful and rare creature he would love to stuff and keep on a mantle. But creatures like her were all beautiful, until they have their fangs and claws in you, bleeding your humanity dry.
Many times, back when they had both been human, he had had to hold himself back from smothering her in her sleep. In bed he often had to look away from her because of the burning hate in her eyes. She used this hate to cling to survival through the war. But he also had to keep her around to ensure his own survival and victory. She was nothing—and yet she was also everything when it came to his success. If there was one thing this woman had, it was the ability to make men do what she wanted even when she was technically their property.
And now, centuries later, he watched her from the shadows. He couldn’t help his curiosity. Watching his victims aroused him. It felt like all the power he lost at the end of his human life was restored. Modern living in the twenty-first century was so complicated in some respects. And these days his true identity could not be discovered for any reason.
No one would believe he was the Hernán Cortés from the history books. The man who changed history and yet people hated today: In recent years he had sunk into a dark depression, as he saw the statues of his peers vandalized and their names given no respect. And so he went by Martin, his son’s name…her son’s name. As Martin Ruiz to the human world, he was adored as a savvy businessman who looked good for a man of sixty-two—the age when he had become a vampire and faked his human death.
When human, he had given Malinalli away to another man, along with a token grant of land, knowing she would die sooner rather than later in the hands of Juan Jarmillo. Juan promised him a constant supply of fresh slaves in exchange for Malinalli. Since she meant nothing to either of them, it was a fair deal.
And now Malinalli had to die…again.
Malinalli had been impeding his relic-trading business for years without his knowing who she was. John Hawkins, his business partner and fellow immortal, had his human lover, George, looking for the anonymous rival who worked so swiftly to undermine their business. When the email popped into his inbox, he felt overwhelming relief at the mystery finally being solved. But when he opened the email, his entire body shook: The black hair. The strong angles of her bronzed face. Those black cenotes for eyes that blazed with hate and strength. He had never loved her, nor valued her as a human, but he did respect her ability to survive. He could only stare at her photo, taken in New York City, where she stood alongside a broker named Horatio. That sixth sense possessed by vampires who cared to develop it swelled in his mind: He could tell she had strong blood. The word Cuauhtémoc whispered in his ears. John entered his office with a large smile. “Did you see the good news?”
Hernán couldn’t tear his widened eyes from the screen. His hands hovered over the keyboard like claws about to attack. The longer he stared at her image, the longer his nails grew to sharper points.
“Hernán, I thought you would be pleased. Do you know who she is? Her name is Mali.
“Do you sense something about her? What is it? This isn’t like you.”
“Malinalli. Her full name is Malinalli, but she is called many things. She was with me during the conquest. And here we are again. What does fate want with us?”
John’s smile dropped. “Nothing. We stick with the plan. It is a two-for-one deal. We get rid of her and then sell her piece by piece. Plus, I don’t want to put George in any more unnecessary danger. He is still human, after all.”
Hernán closed his laptop. “You are right about her. We still continue to disagree about your…attachment to a human. I have no business with her but for her to be gone.”
Since that day he could not stop thinking about her. She was alive, she was his rival in business, and she was a vampire. It was a strange coincidence, because he didn’t just trade in antique objects.
As a mortal, John Hawkins had been the Englishman who created a slave route from Africa to the islands off the coast of America. Hernán knew of him from his exploits. They both changed history through torture and flesh during their human lifetimes. And now they sold the body parts of other vampires, from which they created Immortalis, their anti-aging beauty line for humans, along with other serums they were dabbling in for future product lines. Together Hernán and John had made a new fortune in stolen treasure and vampire bodies.
As a vampire in 1595, Hernán stumbled upon John Hawkins in San Juan. Hernán had been there looking for new business opportunities, and to create loyal vampires for his expeditions. The desperate ones made the most ferocious of servants. It was at an inn serving criminals and those down on their luck that he heard the name John Hawkins being discussed by a table of drunks looking for an easy means of making money. Hawkins was dying of dysentery in a cramped room on the top floor. Hernán had to see this fellow man of the sea for himself. When he walked through the doorless room, he covered his nose. The stench overwhelmed his acute senses. People were sleeping like rats on top of each other in filth.
“John Hawkins!” bellowed Hernán. A frail man lying on a stained straw mattress turned in slow, weak movements toward the voice. Hernán looked at him in disgust. This could not have been the same man who changed the way humans were bought and sold. Hernán walked to the dying man and leaned close, ignoring the stench of sweat, shit, and death.
John barely blinked. “I have nothing to steal or give you. Can’t you see I am dying?”
Hernán flashed the sharp points of his teeth. “I do not come here to take anything but this miserable experience from you. I only ask one thing.”
John’s eyes rolled to the back of his head on the border of delirium. “What?” he asked in a shallow whisper.
Hernán slapped him hard across the face. “Your loyalty and your expertise. And your ruthlessness.”
John nodded and licked his dry lips. “Anything to make the pain go away.”
Hernán ripped into John’s wrist and drank with greed. Just as the dying man was about to slip away, Hernán sliced his own wrist with a pointed thumbnail and poured his blood into John’s gaping mouth. John sputtered and coughed the blood back onto his face. A loud gasp fled from his lips before his body convulsed. Hernán stepped back to wait for the old John Hawkins to be reborn as a vampire in service to him.
Since 1595 they had been partners in crime. But Hernán held no deep affection for John, nor for anyone at any time. Sometimes he wondered if he had always been meant to be a vampire because his blood had always run ice-cold. The slightest betrayal and Hernán would dispose of John. But John didn’t know this. He thought they were blood brothers.
And he had no love for Malinalli either: Until he saw that photo, Hernán had never even thought about seeing her again.
However, here she was. His breathing quickened. The wetness of the night filled his nostrils. He stood behind the trees, imagining what her bare skin smelled like up close. Did the painful memories from her past still seep from her pores? Would he be able to inhale her pain? He imagined gazing at the reflection of himself in her eyes as life left her body. Then he would peel her skin delicately from her muscles, and remove her skeleton from her corpse. With every bone removed, he would then begin the painstaking process of extracting as much of her vampire essence as possible—it would linger in her blood, tissue, and fat. Once extracted from her corpse, that essence could be consumed by humans in small doses to slow down aging and improve their health without any vampire side effects. Because of her age, and who he suspected was her creator, she would have enough essence to set him and Immortalis up for at least one lifetime.
