Blood Transfusion
I expect you
consider vampires to be either the stuff of myth or blood-sucking
monsters – if you think of them at all, that is. Believe me, they
are real – and contrary to popular belief, most just wish to be
left alone. Of course there have been occasions when blood-lust and
power have turned a vampire evil, but then that can happen with
humans too. As is the case with mortals, there are some undead souls
who yet belong with the angels – and I mean those of the Heavenly
persuasion, not the Fallen.
I know such a vampire. His name is
Dimitri Nikolaides and he must surely be descended from the gods of
Mount Olympus! Tall and leanly muscled, he is incredibly
good-looking, the sculpted planes of his pale, angular face
accentuated by his long black hair and vibrant blue eyes. I met him
at a fund-raiser for leukaemia, which I had organized following my
own life-shattering diagnosis with the disease. The event had helped
me to feel that I was fighting back, but one thing is for sure – if
I had not met Dimitri that night, I would have died.
My name is Tessa Brandon and I used to
be a children’s nurse. I loved my job and I lived life to the full.
Being a self-confessed, fun-loving party animal, I had a different
boyfriend nearly every week. I told myself variety was the spice of
life, but the truth was I had always shied away from commitment
because my parents had broken up when I was small. I had never
considered any of my relationships to be worth that pain. Then the
disease struck. Knowing I was going to die without anyone special to
care about me turned the once-colourful palette of my existence to a
drab, soulless grey.
It is probable that I contracted the
disease through radiation build-up whilst working on the terminal
ward. It is a low risk, but nevertheless one of the hazards of the
job. At first, when I was diagnosed, I went to pieces. It is one of
those things you think is never going to happen to you, then when it
does it is utterly devastating, but the dignity and courage displayed
by all the wonderful children I had nursed inspired me not to give in
and crumble. Hence the fund-raising.
This particular function was a dinner
and auction of promises. As organizer I was expected to be there, but
I planned to keep a low profile. It was being held in the glittering
ballroom of a plush hotel, where floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one
wall reflected back scores of candle-effect lights from a dozen
chandeliers. Wine-red velvet curtains showcased hundreds of richly
dressed socialites.
Diamonds winked in the ears and around the
throats of sex-kittens and divas, while gold and platinum adorned the
wrists of playboys and magnates. This was no place for catalogue
bargains or polyester. The local ‘haves’ were shamelessly
displaying their worth, salving their collective consciences by
giving generously to the ‘have-nots’. The promises on offer
ranged from balloon rides and slaves-for-a-day to a supermarket
grab-it and a day-share in a racehorse. Since the tickets cost fifty
pounds each, the number of ordinary folk likely to be present was
limited, but the object was to make money and lots of it. Those in
attendance were, in slang parlance, rolling in it.
I had felt reasonably happy with my
appearance when I left the ladies’ rest room. Having been at the
hotel all day, to ensure that everything was in place for this
multi-faceted jewel in the charity’s money-raising crown, it had
seemed ridiculous to go all the way home to my tiny flat just to
change. Faced with all the glamour in the ballroom, however, my
confidence was rapidly fading, along with my energy.
A stage had been erected at one end of
the function hall, in front of a cream-painted wall on which coloured
lights could be trained to create special effects appropriate to the
event in progress. Tonight, photographic slides were being projected
on to the wall to ‘advertise’ each promise. Currently, a
super-size black thoroughbred racehorse was in full gallop across a
long strip of verdant green turf, a tiny blob of a human clinging
like a monkey to its huge back. In the background, the strains of the
theme to the television series ‘Black Beauty’, which I used to
watch as a child, were playing over the speakers. ‘Galloping Home’
it was called, I remembered, smiling to myself at the lack of
originality. Most of the crowd were probably too merry to notice,
anyway.
On the stage, the horse’s owner or
trainer was talking up the ability of the nag and the races it had
already contested. It did seem to have done quite well, but apart
from the Grand National, I don’t know one race from another, and I
don’t suppose the rest of the moneyed throng did either, so they
could have been flogging a real dud for all I knew.
Nevertheless, the bidding was brisk,
especially from one corner of the ballroom, where a group of
businessmen were egging each other on with noisy enthusiasm.
Evidently already three sheets to the wind, they managed to outbid
each other – and everyone else interested – to the tune of five
thousand pounds. Brian Gibbs, one-time colleague, old friend and
tonight’s Master of Ceremonies was nearly apoplectic with delight
and almost screamed his encouragement down the microphone. It was
a lot of money, but rather cynically, I could not help thinking to
myself that if the horse was as good as the owner/trainer had
implied, then the red-faced gent in the tight-fitting white dinner
jacket who had had the final bid was likely to win an awful lot more
than that.
The next lot was the services of a
limousine and driver for the day. On the display behind the dais was
a picture of a gleaming Lady Penelope-type pink Rolls Royce, whilst
on to the stage tottered (I cannot say walked, for her heels were too
high) the leggy blonde chauffeuse… in tight baby pink jacket which
revealed a quantity of cleavage – no blouse, needless to say –
and a matching pink mini skirt which barely covered her… assets. Of
course all the men in the room, including the balding, bespectacled
auctioneer, were virtually drooling at the mouth. I noticed more than
one wife or girlfriend poke an errant ‘other half’ back to a
semblance of twenty-first century, rather than Neolithic, behaviour.
Even so, the ballroom was in an uproar
as bids flew in from all sides.
“Fifty quid,” shouted one bright
spark from the back of the room.
“One hundred,” roared another.
“Gentlemen, please!” entreated
Wallis, the auctioneer. “I cannot accept an opening bid of less
than five hundred pounds. And please remember that only Miss
Pinkerton’s driving skills are being auctioned.”
A loud groan echoed around the room
followed by a burst of laughter. I wondered wearily if some of them
would stay sober long enough to view all the lots. In spite of
evident female disapproval, however, competition was fierce and Miss
Pinkerton was finally knocked under the gavel for three thousand,
five hundred pounds. I almost laughed out loud when I saw that the
winning bid had been made by the diamond necklace and tiara-wearing
wife of a local bank manager. I had a strong suspicion that she would
be enjoying the services of the chauffeuse while spending large
quantities of her husband’s money on a shopping spree. That would
teach him, I thought with a certain amount of glee.
It was beginning to feel very stuffy in
the crowded hall and as the next lot was introduced, a
straightforward balloon ride, I started to think longingly of
floating away myself. My attention began to wander and it was then
that I caught sight of my reflection in one of the mirrors. I could
not help but cringe.
My face was the colour of whey and the
cerise lamé turban which I had bought from a charity shop to hide my
absent ash-blonde curls had clearly been made for someone with a
rounder head than I. In the cloakroom mirror, it had seemed content
to stay where I put it; in the warmth of the function hall, it had
slipped drunkenly sideways. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately,
given the way matters turned out – none of this seemed to bother
Brian.
Two lots later, as proceedings were
drawing to a close, he swooped down on me before I had a chance to
engineer my escape. Ignoring my wan face and badly-fitting headdress,
he dismissed my pathetically garbled veto with a wave of his hand and
dragged me up the three steps on to the stage. It was at that moment
that I saw Dimitri for the first time.
I suppose I noticed him because he was
standing on his own to the other side of the dais, with his attention
on the merry gathering rather than the ‘merchandise’ and a glass
of red wine instead of the customary champagne in his hand. His gaze
held mine and for several seconds I had the oddest sensation we were
the only people in the room. Slowly, almost insolently, he then
allowed his eyes to travel over the spangled black party frock I had
hired for the occasion. He raised an eyebrow and instantly I had a
strange notion that he understood how much I hated the limelight.
Something new and unheralded uncurled in my stomach and came to life
beneath his scrutiny. My lips opened on a breath and my heart beat a
rapid tattoo against my ribs.
I began to feel light-headed as Brian
pressed me to make a speech. The bright lights of the crystal
chandeliers seemed to spin before my eyes. All colours of the rainbow
– pink, red, blue, green – swirled around me like a shoal of
exotic fish in a turquoise ocean. Oddly, the events which followed
seemed to take place in slow motion and yet at the same time, while I
remember each moment with perfect clarity, they were over in a flash.
I turned from Dimitri to make my
excuses to Brian. Somehow as I turned, I lost my balance in my
borrowed heels. My spangled dress had a narrow, figure-hugging skirt
and as I took an unwary step to save myself, the fabric snagged
around my thigh, blocking my movement. I heard the crowd gasp as I
teetered precariously and then made an undignified swan dive off the
stage. Before I hit the parquet floor and without apparently moving,
Dimitri was there, cradling me…
I fainted into oblivion.
I awoke in a high, narrow hospital bed
with monitors bleeping and various wires attaching me to them.
Dimitri was gone. Brian and his wife Beryl, my second-in-command,
were arguing, sotto voce, in the corner of the soulless
private room. It was like a thousand other such rooms in hospitals
the length and breadth of the British Isles. Painted a utilitarian
and dispiriting grey, there were drab grey-green curtains at the one
small window, a hard, similarly-coloured faux leather chair beside
the bed and a marginally more comfortable-looking armchair against
the opposite wall. On a trolley table at the end of the bed was an
ancient television. I tried not to, but could not help listening to
the heated conversation.
“You fool!” Beryl was saying.
“Couldn’t you see how pale she was? She’s run herself ragged
putting this together. Throwing the spotlight on her like that, when
you know how much she hates being ‘gawped at’ as she puts it…
Well, it might have been the last straw. This might be… the
end.”
Her voice lowered to a whisper, but I
heard the emotion there. We had been working for months on various
fund-raising events and were a good team, complementing each other’s
strengths and weaknesses. We had become close friends in the process.
I was aware of being weaker than I could ever remember, but it was
too much effort to process what that meant. I felt numb. I wondered
if this was how it was, at the end, this fog-like calm acceptance. My
eyes scanned the unlit corners of the sterile, impersonal room; only
dimly did I realize I was seeking the wraith of Death.
A nurse wearing lilac scrubs and a
plastic apron came in, her grim expression swiftly changing to a
cheery smile when she saw I was awake. As she checked my vital signs,
she murmured words of encouragement, but I was not about to be fooled
and neither was Beryl. I distinctly heard her sob. I wanted to
reassure her that I was ready to go, but my brain would not
cooperate. With a sigh I closed my eyes…
The hospital clock showed two a.m. when
I next opened them. All was quiet, apart from the bleeps of the
equipment and a low humming similar to that a refrigerator makes. A
spicy aroma vied with the integral, sanitized antiseptic smell as the
atmosphere in the room distinctly cooled. By the door the shadows
seemed to shift… I blinked and Dimitri stepped forward to the bed.
In the low-wattage overhead light I could see he was wearing navy
chinos and a matching silk shirt. A heavy gold ring encircled the
middle finger of his left hand. He took hold of mine, a white wisp
against his olive-toned strength, and blood rushed to my nerve
endings, making them tingle in the manner of feeling returning to a
cramped limb.
“Fear not, pethi mou,” he
murmured. His voice was deep and soothing, yet stirred my senses. “I
can help you. Drink, now.”
My mind fuddled with drugs, I obeyed as
he pressed something to my mouth. The liquid was warm and slightly
salty, with a metallic taste. I grimaced, turning my head aside to
avoid whatever it was he was giving me, but he spoke again –
softly, compellingly – and I followed his bidding without another
thought.
When I woke the next morning, I
believed Dimitri’s visit must have been a dream, a side-effect of
all the medication I had been given. However, I astounded everyone –
including myself – by sitting up and swallowing some chicken soup
for dinner. That night I slept more deeply than in a very long time
and I dreamed of him again, though this time my overwrought hormones
had his muscular body enhanced by a figure-hugging black T-shirt and
black jeans. I woke up short of breath, as if I had been running, my
nostrils full of cinnamon and nutmeg and a coppery tang lingering on
my lips. Rubbing my rough scalp, I gulped a mouthful of water from
the glass by my bed. I had never had such a sensuous and powerful
dream. It disturbed me and yet I felt… more alive, more vital,
than I had in months.
All week he came and each day I
embellished the sweet fantasy, even though I knew that it could not
happen. The handsome hero could not save me. Nothing and no-one could
save me. Nevertheless, my condition continued to improve
dramatically. The doctors were dumbstruck. I was tempted to tell them
of my nocturnal visitor, but I knew they would somehow prevent him
coming. I did tell my best friend Julie when she came to visit, but
with sublime disregard for our long-standing relationship, she leaned
back in the armchair, chuckled throatily and blamed the drugs. Being
a mature, responsible adult, I threw my pillow at her.
Determined to prove I wasn’t
hallucinating, that night I refused the medication the nurse brought
me. Of course there was a mighty fuss at this. The ward sister was
sent for – a frosty creature in a starched mauve uniform – and
she summoned the on-call doctor, who considered me gravely and
advised against such a course in a strained, over-worked tone, but
finally I convinced them I was adamant. When the furore had
eventually died down and I was once more alone, I set my watch alarm
for midnight. Dimitri arrived soon after, dressed in charcoal
trousers, short-sleeved white shirt and a black leather jacket. His
hair, dark as a raven’s wing, flopped sexily over his brow. My
hormones sat up and took notice.
“Who are you?” I asked as he
soundlessly approached the bed. He seemed to glide across the
two-tone grey tile-effect floor. “Some sort of Guardian Angel?!”
He said nothing at first, as if
considering. “Once I was a doctor. I help where I can.” His voice
was low-pitched and gravelly. It sent shock-waves of sensation to my
stomach.
“You made me drink. Made me better.”
It was a statement, not a question. “What did you give me?”
“It is best you do not know.”
He turned away, his movement smooth and
assured. Suddenly I was afraid I would never see him again.
“Don’t leave. Tell me… Please.”
I climbed from the bed, reaching for
him. As I clutched at his arm, my mind at once filled with images:
star-filled skies; barren moonlit landscapes; a figure tramping dark,
empty streets. I saw his loneliness and felt his sorrow, his need to
hold and be held. Was this his life I was seeing? How could that be?
I had never before had any kind of spiritual experience. In fact I
had always had so much trouble deciding what to buy close friends and
family for Christmas, knowing what they were thinking would have been
a huge help.
His skin twitched beneath my fingers,
as if his body was healing, coming back to life the same as mine was.
What a bizarre thought! His brilliant sapphire eyes captured
mine; their pupils contracted, the colour intensifying… and I felt
oddly as though I were drowning in their depths. Raising my hand, he
pressed a kiss to my palm. I trembled deliciously, my lips burning in
anticipation under his heated perusal.
Without being aware that I did so, I
reached upwards. His lips were cool and sweet, his kiss gentle and
coaxing. I pressed closer to his hard, toned body and put my arms
around his neck, pulling him down to me; shamelessly seeking more.
His tongue sought entry to my mouth as he deepened the kiss. It was
glorious and quite unlike any kiss I had ever had in my life. With
each stroke against the sensitive skin inside my mouth, a charge of
electricity shot to my toes. As I followed his lead, I heard a growl
and then something pricked my tongue. I tasted blood – and then I
knew what he was, how he had been able to save me. We stood
transfixed, breathing heavily. My mind screamed denial, but my soul
believed.
I should have been alarmed. Any sane,
sensible person would have run from the room as fast as her feet
could carry her… although if the myths were to be believed, he
could be at the door almost before I had thought to move. However, my
heart was soaring, already lost. I watched as Dimitri slowly brought
his wrist to his mouth and allowed his fangs to descend. I knew no
fear as he bit into the vein, only an all-consuming relief that I no
longer fought this thing alone. He offered his bleeding wrist, one
eyebrow quirked upwards.
“Will it make me what you are?” My
voice was scratchy and infuriatingly weak.
“No. Drink and be well.”
Hesitantly and with a sense of
unreality, I took what he offered. Expecting to feel revulsion, I was
surprised to find the reverse was true. He tasted of wine and dark
chocolate, a heady flavour which I found intoxicating. Desire raged
through me like a forest fire. His. Mine. He smelt of spice and a
musk which was uniquely him. My body trembled and I felt giddy, as if
he had taken my blood.
He wanted me. I wanted him.
Dragging his shirt free of his
trousers, I ran my hands feverishly over the smooth flesh of his back
without breaking my hold on his vein. His muscles were taut and
sculpted, like a centrefold model. With a groan I rubbed against him
in the manner of a well-fed cat which has just lapped a saucer of
cream.
Gently Dimitri withdrew his wrist.
Sealing the wound with a swipe of his tongue, he gave me a kiss which
was long, slow and full of promise. Patience, beloved, he
spoke to my mind. Not yet. When you are stronger…
The fire in my veins abruptly died.
Lifting my unresisting body into his arms, he carried me to the bed,
where he lowered me to the mattress as if I was a porcelain doll and
tenderly tucked me in.
“Sleep,” he whispered, brushing his
lips over mine. “You must get well. Then I will make you mine own,
sweet beloved.”
I sighed, the mists of slumber already
claiming me. I dreamed of exotic lands, beautiful treasures and
magical creatures. I dreamed of angels dancing on pink-edged clouds
and I dreamed of Dimitri, my very own dark angel, whose touch
promised me both heaven and earth.
Enjoy! Happy Hallowe'en!