I felt different from the moment of first memory. I was aware of my sexuality the minute I held that comforter blanket between my legs. Must have been four or five, behind a couch. Barely over sucking my thumb, yet enjoying the lascivious pressure of softness, arousal and completion; primal but natural. Guilt free. Sex was the driver, always the driver. From 12 years of age, I was the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Innocent as a lamb until she shines.
The taste for flesh? That came young as well. A grandfather serving rare steak. A disgust for the overcooked. The curious touch of a bloodied finger to the lips, sucked and sending sensation to the synapses -ambrosia. But blood without substance is hollow. I was a ‘biter’ as a child, I if it drew blood, all the more satisfying. But it's the flavour of the flesh that makes me strong. The sex before, that provides total gratification.
My name is Ciara, I’m 27 years old but I carry ancient genes. Don’t define me by my occupations, they have been a necessity. From meat packer to mortuary assistant, they’ve served my purpose. Sated fleshlust but not entirely. I’ve worked the system. Two months here, three months there. I never linger. It isn’t safe to linger. Someone’s always watching and they are always chasing. Most times I can control it. Most times I can work it to my advantage but, those blue moons, those triumphant twins are my undoing. It’s then I need fresh meat not the tasteless sustenance of a cadaver. The difference between me and legend? I’m willing. Oh so willing. I love the tease, the torture and the tearing in all its carnal delights and disgusting digestion. No self-restraint. No ghoulish remorse. No desire to be confined when she shines her pools of light.
Transformation in these times is subtle. My kind have long divested the telltale coat and morphing on all fours. The feeling? How could you ever understand the sudden rush of corpuscles when that pearlescent satellite of love rises; tingling and erotic? I can hear my pulse, feel rivers coursing through every vein and artery. The tinnitus in my ears so distracting, I almost lose purpose. Note I say almost; I never do. I feel incredible. Skin tightens and crawls. Libido out of control. Senses reach an unbelievable acuity. I hear everything, amplified and without static; thoughts and whispers, conversations across the room. I can smell his cologne, his skin, his sex, before he walks through the door. Incisors extend, irises yellow and pupils distend, and if he’s worthy, there is the occasional howl at the point of attack. The only one who hears it, dispatched before he can raise a frown. They die happy. I feast to heart's content.
“Hi!" He introduces himself as I’m leaning on the bar, pretending to enjoy a Bloody Mary.
The days between the wax and wane spent waiting. Tomato juice has colour but no thrill. It’s a normal enough introduction. He’s small-framed but well built and I’m hoping well hung. I like a little fun before feasting. Despite good looks, he cares little about his appearance. Jeans, T-shirt, hair that looks like he’s had a wrestling match in his sleep. He’s cute. Intriguing. Pale and interesting as he sidles next to me and perches on a bar stool. His scent is strong.
“…and you are?”
“Ciara… you planning on buying me a drink?"
I rather like the look of him. I mean I really like the look of him. Men have been, shall we say, ‘problematic’ in the past. A date turns into a kiss, a kiss into a fondle, a fondle into a fuck and once I’ve fucked them...well, the appetite rules. Regular preying mantis I am. I stare into his sweet brown eyes and he submits.
“Sure, what’ll you have?"
I order another Bloody Mary with a double vodka hit. He, a Tom Collins. We chink glasses and drain both in seconds.
The conversation begins with pleasantries but soon, he’s telling me he’s just split with his girlfriend and back on the horse, so to speak. I tell him I’m lousy at long-term relationships, a 'man-eater'. The truth taken with disbelief. Three, four, maybe five more drinks and we’re slurring and giggling. His hand is on my thigh, a familiarity I rarely allow but he has nice hands; soft, soothing. I slightly part my thighs in a sign of acquiescence. A tantalising peek at what potential lies a their vortex. It’s a moonless night. He’s safe…for now.
“Shall we go? You could come back to mine?"
His invitation accepted. I'm intrigued, I feel myself smiling and giving a sly nod. He takes my hand and we walk beneath a blackened sky.
Shame to ruffle that gorgeous linen but we did, and how. He’s a little on the aggressive side. Thrusts a little too hard and puts his hands a little to forcefully around my neck, which I found strangely arousing. Then I like to bite, but gently this time. The shard of moonlight spilling onto the floor, not enough to spoil the moment. I'll play with this one for a while. He seems to like the game.
We picnic in the hills overlooking the glistening lights of the city. The moon only now just peeking above the horizon. It’s quiet. Safe. Well safe for me. Perhaps not so for him. We're in total seclusion shaded by he leaves of gently fluttering oaks. It’s balmy, midsummer, as he slips the strap of my sundress from my shoulder and kisses my left nipple. That's the sensitive one, made more so by the night. I respond by assisting in the removal of his T shirt. I’m a little surprised by the marks on his chest and trace the claw like scars with a finger.
He looks down, both palms spread across the scars, “Oh... motor bike accident. Does it worry you? I can keep my shirt on.”
No need, as I move my mouth towards his chest, my hands up to his shoulders and he reclines. He runs his fingers through my mass of brown curls, thumbs gently rubbing the tops of my ears as I unzip his jeans and my tongue traces the shape of the scars. I always liked someone touching my ears, a genetic predisposition perhaps. Raw nature takes its course and I can feel my skin crawl, my blood pressure rises, my veins carrying effervescence. His own excitement resulting in a hard-on that needs to be sated before I pounce. Lips move south, mouth embraces as he moans and the massaging continues. His hips gently rising to my rhythm. Got him…I’m in control. My hands cascade across his chest as he sinks into oblivious lust. I rise forward, breasts moving across his scars, and straddle. He’s off with the fairies, eyes closed, lips apart as tongues connect. Now we’re talking. I’m feeling it too, the lyconthropic transformation begins. Beneath the rhythm of our bodies, hands on skin he barely notices the change under the rising de la lune.
I can feel a tightness in my mouth as I withdraw the kiss. Incisors. Their protrusion through gums sharp, almost painful. He doesn't notice but my eyes are yellowing, pupils lengthening. I lean back, head towards the sky and howl at the moon as our copulation reaches its zenith.
There was no trace, no evidence of the attack other than the gashes on my chest, now bound and stapled as I lie in recovery. I can’t offer them an explanation. A white coat towers over me.
“How are you feeling Marc, is the pain manageable?"
I nod drowsily as he explains how to use self-administering morphine.
“What happened? These look like animal wounds?" He's inquisitive but I'm in no mood to explain the inexplicable.
I pull the ‘I don’t remember’ card. Like the victim of an auto accident, able to black out the trauma. He thinks I’ve been messing with PCP and did it to myself.
That was the last time I let my guard down. The scars a constant reminder to be vigilant. To pay attention. To develop split second timing. To kill or be killed.
My name is Marcus Younis. By day, I'm an accountant. Complete with three piece suit and a pocketful of pens. My career does not define me. I have a mission. Like my father before me, his father before him, we are Enforcers. We've known about them ad-infinitum. But now they're slick, in our midst, crafty and less obvious than in times past.
The lunatics have left the asylum Ever wondered about high crime rates during the full moon? Put two moons in a month and we're drowning in lunacy. Over the past few months, three bodies torn, tortured, mutilated. All left with a smile on their faces. Whatever happened before their demise was definitely enjoyed the point of ecstasy outweighing the agony of having their entrails gorged.
I remember the brutal shooting of my neighbour's dogs as a child. Their limp and bloodied carcasses laid prone on the nature strip. I was horrified and asked one of the Police why the dogs had taken a bullet.
"Killing cows up the back," he'd said without compassion, "Son... you didn't see what they did to that cow. Disembowelled. Not like cats who go for the jugular, or latch tight onto nostrils to numb their victim. These three just attacked from behind. The poor thing was alive while they ate its intestines."
I never looked at dogs the same way after. Recent murders in which I'd taken an interest looked like the work of dogs. Big dogs. Sharp teeth. Powerful jaws. Crushed bone and careful removal of the fleshiest parts. Same intestinal pattern. These attackers liked the soft bits. And jewellery. I still ‘finger’ the earring found at one of the sites, kept as a talisman, in my pocket.
Call it a sixth sense. Call it intuition. Call it a terrible gift. It is my purpose. To seek them out and eradicate. Killing them isn’t difficult. Getting there before they kill me is the trick. Don’t believe what you watch on the silver screen or read between the printed page. Tales of self-restraint and misappropriated love - post violence guilt of the lupine. They feel none of it. They are remorseless, gorging devils and it is my destiny to see them perish.
It takes a moment if you’re quick. A syringe, a sliver of silver, direct hit to an artery. Undetectable, untraceable. Nowhere near as obvious as a sniper’s weapon or a swordsman’s blade. Poisoning doesn't work. Only silver does, in all its incarnations. The devil is in the detail; getting close, really close is the trick.
I’ve let my guard down this month. Delaying the inevitable. We’ve reached those heady peaks a few times now. She’s incredible and I’ve delayed action in the interest of lust. She presents no threat until the second moon of the month. Her body warm, soft, pulsating. Her mouth generous in its giving. Yes we've had our lascivious fun but the time's drawing close to end it all.
This time, is different. This time will be deadly. Despite my fear I let her go down on me, paying close attention to the movement of her mouth, her tongue. I let her ride me. She thinks I’m at the vinegar stroke, oblivious, unaware of her intention. She thinks I’m vulnerable. But I’m prepared, alert, in control. Sure my heart’s racing. Fear is a great leveler and the fear courses as my pulse pounds, Blood rushes to vital organs and my fingertips upon her breasts feel cold. She is oblivious in her lust and transformation. She doesn’t see my hand slide beneath the picnic rug, the weapon already charged and drawn. Her head's thrown back, gazing upon the moon, She's focusing on her own agenda. I have to keep my thoughts to myself, keep my mind blank. Her incisors are visible, the colour of her eyes is changing; pupils lengthening. She’s sweating. Her neck exposed she howls with the sweet combination of climax and morphology as I plunge the syringe into her jugular and discharge its narcoleptic draught.
I’m pierced by her gaze as she’s pierced by the poison of a thousand tiny silver flakes. Her look incredulous, my fear palpable as she collapses. I disengage, arms pulling me from beneath her, scrambling backwards with speed, widening the gap between once entwined bodies. She writhes and gnashes in front of me. Her screams unearthly. The body so often close to mine now disintegrating with speed into a fetid pool, as she dissolves and howls for the last time.
She sees it all that satellite of lust. As she waxes and wanes across the globe to become another moon so blue. Silent witness to the carnage caused by monsters of myth, the slayers and enforcers - ever vigilant beneath her tranquil pools of light.
Published for the Tenth Daughter of Memory "Beneath the Pools of Another Moon"