Cherry Bomb_ A Siobhan Quinn Novel - Caitlin R. Kiernan Page 0,13
dizzy. And no point denying the fact that I was horny as hell.
“Take it or leave it,” she said, all self-satisfied and shit. “No one’s holding a gun to your head.”
Probably, there are vamps out there with the sort of discipline I’d have needed to get to my feet, unlock the door, and leave her bleeding on the sofa. I’m not one of them. I’m not especially ashamed to admit that.
So, like I said, that was the first night I drank from her, the first night I tasted her. I carried her to the bedroom, ordered her to take her clothes off. She did, quick like a bunny, and I started with that gash in her palm, then punched a couple of holes of my own in her throat, near the carotid. It actually could have gone bad, that night. The heady mix of anger and sexual tension, there’s a recipe for getting lost in the moment and going too far. I thought, another two or three weeks, the ugly beige comforter would be so bloodstained we’d have to get a new one, but that Wednesday night it was still immaculate when I started. I clearly remember, when I was done with her hand and had not yet moved on to her neck, watching crimson drops soaking into the fabric. I was high as a kite on her, tripping balls, and it was like watching stars being born.
Just before I bit her, she had the cojones to whisper, “I’m scared, Quinn.” I saw there were tears streaking her cheeks, but she was also smiling. Her sapphire eyes were two balls of blue fire. Way to go, mixed signals. We have already established how I’m not a nice person, so when I say I wanted to hit her, right there, in that moment, you don’t have a whole lot of excuse to be shocked.
“I am,” she said. “Really. But . . . damn I wish I had teeth like those.”
What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? I had no idea. I lay her bleeding left hand between her thighs, slipping the index finger inside her, and suggested an activity that might take her mind off the pain. She was immediately responsive to the suggestion. As I learned that night, Selwyn was as much a pain whore as she was sadistic. And it was a balance I found very attractive, something that had been missing in the CPA. Selwyn never, ever felt like a victim, regardless of her ability to play the role when the mood struck her.
Fade to black.
Next day, she had a package to deliver to a guy down in the Meatpacking District. Not a part of town I was terribly familiar with. She asked me to go along, said I might get a kick outta him—some dude she called Skunk Ape. I asked right off what the fuck kind of nasty winds up with a moniker like that, and she replied no sort she was aware of, that Skunk Ape was just a guy, mortal as anyone.
Oh, and it turns out she had a house safe, which was parked between one edge of the bed and another overflowing bookshelf. I hadn’t even noticed it, as it was also buried beneath a stack of books. The morning we went to see Skunk Ape, Thursday morning, she opened it and took out a wooden box. It was obviously old, made of some dark varnished wood with the finish all scuffed up, a latch on the front, hinges on the back. There was a keyhole in the latch. The thing was about big enough to hold a cantaloupe. I inquired what was inside, but she just said, “You’ll see.”
Fine. I’d see. Be that way.
Later, I learned that Skunk Ape’s real, legal name was Rudyard, and I had to admit that Skunk Ape was an improvement. He ran a weird little shop near the corner of Ninth and Washington, place called the Walrus and the Carpenter that specialized in animal skulls and mounted skeletons, “rogue” taxidermy, and fossils. But, truth was, the W&C was actually nothing but a front for an operation that was his actual bread and butter. Guy was a dealer in the remains of cryptozoological and mythical creatures—which, of course, encompassed a range of nasties, vampires and loups included—as well as endangered species and specimens stolen from museums. Pretty much whatever the more discerning and unscrupulous collector was after, I was told, Mr. Skunk Ape could lay