Flores Vitae: The Flower of Life

Chapter 7: Wild Nights

Rose

Matthias escorted me back to my rooms. Were they "my" rooms, or "his" rooms? I wasn't exactly sure. It was a good thing I had him to guide me, because I still hadn't learned my way around the fortress, and I was a little worried about what I might accidentally stumble upon if I got lost. There were a lot of things I didn't know. How many vampires lived here? What do the undead do with their time? If you believed what you saw in movies and TV series it was all orgies and blood baths. However it seemed like that would get boring if you were going to be alive for centuries. Did s*x get boring? How OLD was Matthias anyway?? I knew he predated the Spanish Influenza of 1918... and... eww.. how many women had he had s*x with in all that time? Did the undead get venerial diseases? I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and wondered how he would react if I asked him such a question. I didn't dare.

We arrived at the door, which was beautifully carved with vines and flowers. He pushed it open and stood aside for me to enter before him. At least he had nice manners. Most of the time. "My dear, please allow me to leave you, I have work to attend to."

It rubbed at me the way he kept calling me "dear". I'm not his "dear" anything. So I ignored him. Can't say much for my own manners I guess. I left him there by the door and marched up the curving stairs. It was too early to go to bed. And I wasn't going to go near the bathtub while he was still around. I've never been much of a TV person. So I decided to go acquaint myself with the "study."

It was so weird, how he seemed to know everything I liked. I don't think it was accidental that he had put an art studio there. I fished around and found some charcoal pencils and sticks, and an enormous sketch book. I opened to a fresh page and stared at the blank white space. My art teachers in high school had always said I did my artwork all wrong. "First you should do a rough sketch," one teacher had advised me, "And then flush out the details. And then add color and shading." But I never planned things, I never did preliminary sketches. I held the image I wanted to draw in my head, picked a point on the paper, and simply started. Tonight it began with an eye, the soft, dewy eye of Charlie the horse, and the rest of his face, his hair, his perked ears, his whiskery muzzle all bloomed onto the paper. "You don't control your composition," one male art teacher had criticized me. He was right. Once I began, it was more like the art work created itself... I was nothing more than a conduit to get it onto the paper. But if I tried to follow all the silly art rules... plan it out, sketch it, draw it, then paint it... everything came out very flat and lifeless and it felt dull. What was the point of making art if it didn't FEEL good? If you were just planning pleasing compositions so that you could sell it at Art in the Park or pitch it to some gallery, but you weren't letting your soul express itself... then it really wasn't art, was it? Charlie the horse had materialized on my paper exactly how I'd seen him today at the barn, his head stretched toward me, his bottom lip bouncing happily. I sighed and set down the charcoal, and the tortillion I had used to blend the shadows together.

Being a prisoner might not be so bad after all... I thought idly, looking at my soot-stained fingers. If I had to choose between "freedom" and going back to my shitty apartment just so I could look for another stupid, dead end retail job, and live off from Ramen noodles and buy from the clearance racks at the the thrift stores... or choose to live in captivity... where I had a horse, an art studio, free food, and an Olympic sized bath tub... I sighed and went to wash my hands. I felt like it was somehow wrong to enjoy all these good things... and I thought that later, I would regret it. Eventually Matthias was going to want something in return for all these nice things. What then? Would the price I had to pay for my fairy tale be too much to bear? I had a feeling it was going to destroy me, sooner or later. But I couldn't think about that now. All the unanswered questions and the uncertainties about this strange situation threatened to drown me. I had to pull myself back to NOW. And NOW was a good time for another long bath... maybe with a book... as long as I didn't fall asleep and drop the book in the bathtub. I was pretty sure that the books on the shelves in the library were quite old and valuable. I found a book of poetry by Emily Dickenson, and headed down the stairs.

I opened up my wardrobe to look for some pajamas. Everything was silk and lace and s*x. There was a point where all these nice things became an annoyance. I didn't want to be fashionable in bed. I just wanted a nice soft, oversize cotton t-shirt. I wondered where Matthias kept HIS clothes. What would he do if I stole one of his t-shirts to use as a nightgown? But since I didn't know where his closet was... I dug out the simplest thing in my wardrobe, which was a plain black silk gown with spaghetti straps that stopped at mid thigh. Who had picked out these things, anyway? I had a hard time picturing the dark prince standing in a lingerie store picking out lacy underwear. I sighed and shut the wardrobe door, making my way down the stairs and into the master bath. This time I turned the lock to make sure that I wouldn't have any visitors. I stripped off my clothes for the day and set about filling the tub. I opened the cupboard of salts and oils. Lavender wasn't really my thing. I found another vial labeled "Bermuda Violets." I pulled off the cap and sniffed. Now THAT smelled heavenly! I added a few drops into the water, and slid inside the tub. Yes, this was the thing that I had been missing in my life; long soaks in a huge bath-tub. I sank down and picked up my book of poetry, opening the book randomly.

Wild nights - Wild nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile - the winds -

To a Heart in port -

Done with the Compass -

Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden -

Ah - the Sea!

Might I but moor - tonight -

In thee!

I snapped the book shut and felt betrayed. I had always pictured Emily Dickenson as a chaste recluse. I felt betrayed! I wanted poetry about flowers and butterflies! Not mooring in somebody! Geez. I immediately had unbidden images of Matthias Black... dirty thoughts I should not be entertaining! I tossed the book out onto the bathroom floor (a safe distance from the tub so it wouldn't get wet) and sank beneath the warm scented water... as if I could wash away the images in my mind.

Matthias

Much of my night was taken up with meetings. That was the reality of my life as the leader of a large and ancient family. Group. I had inherited the hive from my father. I myself had sired very few offspring, but I had adopted in many strays over the decades. We ran businesses all over the world, keeping our fingers on the pulse of most of the major industries, balancing amassing wealth with charitable projects. My father had been a great lover of music. He had taught himself to play many instruments, and had invested great sums of money into music schools, concert halls, funding composers and offering full scholarships to young talent. I myself hadn't found a particular cause to champion, and tended to pick something at random that seemed likely to benefit humanity or the planet in some significant way. For the last few months I had been engaged in buying up large tracts of Amazonian rain forest, and then registering them as preserves and sanctuaries for fauna, flora and native people. There had been some lively debate over what to do about poachers and foresters who were encroaching on our territory. My people wanted to administer vampire justice... they wanted permission to feed from the violators.

I sighed and pushed open the door to the tower. Immediately my nose was assaulted by the heady combination of violets and Rose's unique floral scent. I trailed into the bathroom, knowing it was empty. How interesting that she had naturally chosen a scent that so closely resembled her own. She had put her dirty clothes into the hamper, and hung her towel neatly on the bar, but I noticed a book on the floor. I bent and picked it up. Selected Poems from Emily Dickenson. That seemed like strange reading material for a modern young woman. I carried it upstairs with me, intent to return it to the library.

Rose was already curled up asleep on top of the blankets. She hadn't even gotten into the sheets. When she was alone she tended to curl into the fetal position, a tight little ball as though even in her sleep she needed to defend herself. The black nightie had ridden up her thighs and was now bunched up around her hips. My eyes swept over her body. She was naturally kissed by the sun, but the skin above her knees was pale. Her blue veins stood out in stark contrast to her white skin. I could hear her femoral artery pulsing away in her groin. Ah, the torture of it! My father had warned me of this. "To possess a flower is the greatest gift, and the greatest curse," he had told me as he tuned his violin. "Her blood will never stop singing to you, day and night, for as long as she lives. You will always feel hungry and unsatisfied."

I passed her and continued up the stairs to the library. I set the book back on the shelf, and turned to study the charcoal drawing set upon the easel. When I say that the woman had artistic talent, it was not mere flattery. First of all, she had completed this large drawing in only a couple of hours. I'd known some artists over the years, and I know they would have labored for weeks, even months to complete a piece this detailed and intricate. It was more than photo-realistic... the play of light and shadow over the subject gave it a 3 dimensional feel, as though Charlie were leaning his head out of the paper just has he had leaned his head out of the stall. There was an emotional realism there too... she hadn't just captured the details of his physical appearance... she had portrayed his soft, puppy-dog personality, his eagerness to please, his desire for attention and affection. It was all there. It needed to be framed and preserved. I thought about taking the drawing while she was sleeping, but perhaps that was too bold. It was her work, her property. I had better wait and ask her permission when she was awake. I trailed down the stairs and wondered... what would she reveal if she painted a portrait of me. Perhaps more interesting... what would I see if she painted a self portrait. Would she paint herself in the same stark, emotional honesty that she had drawn the horse?

I went quietly back down to the bedchamber. I knew how to move silently, so as not to wake even the lightest sleeper. I eased onto the bed beside her, and spent a long time just looking at her. This was the queen I had waited a hundred lifetimes for, my fate, my destiny. I couldn't help myself, I trailed my finger up the faint and delicate blue vein that ran from her knee up into her thigh. Her skin was so warm under my cold hands. She mumbled something in her sleep and shifted a bit. There were only a couple hours left before morning, but I wanted to lay with her in the bed. I wanted to feel her warmth against my body. But to do that, she needed to be under the blankets, otherwise I would make her too cold. I peeled back the blankets as far as I could with her laying on top of them, then I lifted her and shifted her so that she was on the sheet, and I could cover her up. I stripped off my clothes and stretched out beside her. I expected that she would recoil from the coldness of my flesh, just as she had spent the day avoiding my touch. Much to my surprise and my delight she unfurled and stretched like a cat, and turned toward me, wrapping her warm arms and legs around me in a sleepy embrace. She was not awake or aware of what she was doing. Her hand slid over my chest, and anchored along my rib cage as she pulled herself closer and nestled her hed onto my arm as a pillow. Her leg hooked over my hip, and then relaxed, so that her thigh rested just below my groin. She mumbled something again, and this time I thought I deciphered the words "dark prince", but I couldn't be sure. She talked quite a bit in her sleep, mostly indecipherable mumblings.

I lay there without moving, feeling her warmth, absorbing it, reveling in it. I could hear her heart beat, her slow breathing, feel her fingers occasionally twitch in her sleep. I wanted her so badly. Every fiber of my being was crying out to complete our union. I had thought this would be such a simple thing. I thought the moment I found her, she would be as enthralled with me as I was obsessed with her. I was used to humans who were susceptible to my viral charms. I was old and powerful I could take a woman with a look, convince her with a touch. I should have known that Rose would be immune and unaffected. When I thought back to my own mother... I know she had been strong and independent. She had not resisted my father, not because she was compelled to obey, but because she had loved him. I reached over and caressed her full lower lip.

It wasn't enough to possess her body. I had to have her heart as well.