He pulls the deepest memories to the surface. Memories that I know I shouldn't have. Memories so distant they date back, not years, but centuries. Jonah is more than the bad boy he's pretending to be. And he teases that I'm definitely more than just a girl waiting tables. But can I believe it? I'm learning that vampires are real and most people should tip better because waitresses can be immortal Queens. My name is Zara and I have lived a thousand lives. Lives I can't even begin to remember but I've only had one love, one love that I can't seem to forget. My blood is ancient and bonded with fire. It's an aphrodisiac of the underworld and everyone's dying for a taste.
He moved like mists cutting through the darkness, sliding in and out of the shadows, so quiet that my assailant did not notice him. I watched, mindful of the knife pressed to my throat, the hand pressed painfully against my breast, my torn clothing, and the rancid smell of my attacker’s breath as he whispered profanities against my exposed skin. There seemed to be no life beyond the alleyway. The street was muted, the lights gleaming beneath the last summer rain. A car sped past. All oblivious to the crime taking place just beneath the radar, and though I was the victim, it was surreal, and my eyes were drawn again to him, the wraith figure in the shadows. There was something familiar about the motion of his body, the grace in his steps, the fall of his hair. I could barely see the color or shape of his eyes in the shade of the alley. The knife of my attacker nicked my throat for the second time, in his excitement to remove my bra. I hissed, remembering where I was and what was happening to me. “Please, stop!” I screamed, and a dirty hand came up covering my mouth. His fingers smelled of gasoline and the stench made my eyes water. He lifted his wild gaze to mine and gritting his teeth, he spoke. “Scream again and I’ll slit your throat and fuck your corpse.” He lowered the knife and placed his hand around my neck, knowing I would not make a sound. The knife disappeared into the pocket of his long black coat. His mouth was against my ear, as he ground his hips into mine. “But keep begging. I love to hear a woman beg.” The hand at my throat squeezed, and I could not inhale, spots formed in front of my eyes. Black and white circles twirling and blossoming into gray. My body convulsed as I tried to get his hand off my throat. He loosened his grip just enough for me to inhale; I dragged air into my lungs. His hand made a rough descent into the front of my jeans. “I wanna hear you to beg for your life.” I looked over his shoulder; the man in the shadows was standing directly behind him now, my eyes must have bulged out of my head. I thought perhaps that he was a ghost, that I was imagining him. My attacker holding me against the wall was completely unaware of his presence. The silent apparition reached a pale hand forward and placed it on the rapist’s shoulder. The stranger’s face was smooth and expressionless. R. Tezak 2 His eyes were black, and so murky I saw no pupils. His skin was ivory and such a contrast to the surrounding shadows he seemed to glow. Yet, despite the frightful way he moved, the predatory nature of his eyes, I thought he was stunning. GQ and Playgirl rolled into one beautiful package. This man was so striking that my mind wandered away from the assault taking place. Instead, I thought of his full red mouth turned up at the corners, in a smirk. I focused on the way the wind caressed his hair, relished the slope of his nose, and imagined running my finger down it, over his lips, his chin, and down his chest. The smirk on his mouth turned into a full grin. He jerked his hand backwards, pulling my attacker away. The would-be rapist slammed into the alley wall. Released, I slouched down to my hands and knees, throwing up on the pavement. I gulped down air like a drowning victim. Attempting to make myself invisible, I slid my back against the wall and watched. “Shit!” my assailant yelled. The stranger was still, watching as the other man climbed to his feet. “Look, man,” he groaned. “I have no beef with you. I was just having a little fun with her.” “A little fun?” The pale stranger asked, his voice filled with menace. “She wanted it. They always do in the end. You should have seen the way she squirmed, like a bitch in heat,” my attacker drawled, it was the first time I had noticed his heavy southern accent. “Why don’t you and I have a little fun?” My savior stepped towards the other man. “Been to prison and you’re still not my type,” he laughed, shaking his head as he backed away. The pale stranger sniffed the air then moved towards him with slow purpose. “Oh, but you’re just my type. Shall I tell you a bit about yourself, James? No, you prefer Jimmy. It’s what your mother always called you, what your first girlfriend called you. The name she screamed when you fucked her. Oh, Jimmy.” “Shut the hell up,” Jimmy whispered, backing away from him. Jimmy pulled the knife free of his pocket. It flashed in the streetlight, dangerous. My stranger smiled and placed a cigarette in his mouth, lighting it he continued to speak. “Jimmy, you’ve been very bad, you’ve hurt a lot of women, even killed one or two…” “How—how would you know that?” He said, recoiling, fumbling over his own feet. “Told you to stay back!” Jimmy’s hand shot out with the knife but came back empty. I watched as Jimmy’s face went from shock, to fear, and finally pain, as he realized one of his fingers was broken. Completely dislocated, it hung at an awkward angle against his A Taste of Fire 3 palm. The knife fell between them. “You should really be more careful with your knife, Jimmy. Now, as I was saying, you’ve done a lot of bad things.” He inhaled from his cigarette and blew the smoke out in slow rings. “But that’s all over now, because tonight, Jimmy, you walked down the wrong alley. Tonight, you picked the wrong victim. And now, your card is up. So,” the stranger dropped his cigarette and smashed it with the toe of his shoe, “let me hear you beg for your life.” He glided forward in a movement so swift, and dance-like that Jimmy did not see the threat and had no way of escape. He was still one moment, and in the next he held Jimmy by the throat. I was in shock. Any words of protest were stuck in my throat. I was immobilized, frozen to the cool pavement I squatted on. Jimmy screamed. It was a loud, awful sound ripped from his throat; a sound I would not forget. I was still astonished by my inability to react, and so shocked that I could not look away. Not when the wraith seemed to be biting Jimmy’s throat out. Not when Jimmy fought, slamming his fists into the other man’s head and chest, but it was like he was hitting concrete and every time he struck my savior, Jimmy’s hands crumpled, and he howled in pain. I stared even as he released Jimmy, and he stood zombie-like, wobbling back and forth. His eyes were dull, staring straight ahead into nothing. I heard him whisper to Jimmy that he needed more practice with the knife, and that he should start with himself. I looked away as Jimmy thrust the knife repeatedly and with a great deal of zeal into his own abdomen; it was silent except for the wet sound of self-mutilation. Yes, I must have been in shock because I sat still as the pale stranger moved towards me, still as he kneeled down and whispered, “Are you alright?” His voice was soft now, lacking the menace of only moments before. “Better,” I said, my voice shaking. “Can you stand up?” His voice rumbled in his chest, it was soothing and sexy all at the same time. I hesitated, flinching as he reached out to help me. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.” I looked down at my damaged clothing and my damaged body. I could still feel his hands all over me. “What about him?” I asked, a shiver going through me. “Don’t worry about him.” “How did you know his name? Do you know him?” I stood slowly. “I know that he intended to rape and murder you,” he said rather gravely. He had saved my life. I looked up into his eyes. They had R. Tezak 4 changed color, no longer black, but jade; long-lashed, almond-shaped eyes. I bit my lip. I could not think clearly, his beauty smothered my ability to speak. My vision blurred and tears took a slow course down my cheek. He reached into the pocket of the army green jacket he wore and pulled out an embroidered handkerchief. He wiped away the tears streaming down my cheeks, and then handed it to me. The gesture made me cry even more. It was so chivalrous, so old-fashioned. How many men still carried a handkerchief? “What’s your name?” He asked. “Zara.” “Zara, how well can you keep a secret?” I looked beyond him at the man now lying in a bloody heap. “I won’t tell a soul.” “May I hail you a cab so that you can go home? You look so tired; you’re barely keeping your eyes open,” he whispered, taking my hand, and I felt exhausted. My muscles ached and my limbs felt weighed down like bags of wet sand. He took his jacket off and slid it over my shoulders; it was warm and stopped my teeth from chattering. “God, who are you… how can I thank you?” I stepped closer to him, into his personal space and placed my head on his chest, his heartbeat was so slow I could barely hear it. He hesitated, then put his hands on my shoulders and slid his arms around me so that we embraced. He was warm, firm, and felt so familiar that I did not want him to let me go. I could feel his lean muscles beneath the sweater he wore. He pulled me tight into his arms and it was only then that I realized my bra had been destroyed. I could feel the soft down of his sweater against my sensitive skin. I heard him sigh, a frustrated sound, then he chuckled, and his laughter stirred something deep within me. The wind blew around us, his hair fanned out brushing my cheek, soft, smelling of coffee and vanilla. It smelled edible. “Zara, did he hurt you?” he asked, his lips moving against my hair. “I’m bruised, but I’m okay, you were here just in time,” I said, feeling the tears start again. “Shall I take you to a hospital?” “No,” I said, as a wave of nausea washed over me. “Is he dead?” “No, he’s still breathing.” I wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he said it with such confidence that I believed him, not willing to think anything else. “I don’t understand what happened, I …” “There is a cab waiting in the street for you, Zara. Take it home. Sleep well.” He held me tighter then turned me in the direction of the A Taste of Fire 5 street. I stumbled to the cab. The driver looked horrified by me and continued to ask me if I was all right until the lull of the ride put me to sleep. I awoke sometime later, lying on the enclosed porch behind my apartment. I could feel the heavy quiet that came with early morning as though a blanket lay on the earth. I sat up curling my legs beneath me and snuggling closer into the army jacket I still wore. If not for the jacket I would have thought it was all a dream. I reached into one of the inside pockets and found a pack of cigarettes and a heavy, expensive antique lighter. I used it to light one of the cigarettes; it tasted slightly of vanilla. I looked up into the sky feeling the rush of nicotine squeeze my head as I found yet another pocket to invade. Reaching inside I found a flyer for an all-night coffeehouse. I smiled. The coffee house was called Un Goût de Minuit. I pressed the flyer to my nose and inhaled, it smelled of rich overtones of various coffee beans. It smelled like his hair. That was the way August ended, and my fall began.