Encounters with Evil Pt. 08a

©Copyright jvaughn, 2013, 2014. All rights reserved. Copyright violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Note to readers: So, sorry for the long delay. This is the third time I'm submitting this.

Lit is no longer accepting .rtf format, so rejected my first submission. I was submitting in .rtf because I've had trouble with .doc losing characters. This story is in .doc format, so I hope it still looks okay.

Don't know what is going on with Lit, but when I resubmitted in .doc format, they published some random story that I've never seen before instead of mine. I didn't actually see the story or the comments, but I could see the comment titles. Not surprisingly, there seemed to be much confusion.

I've changed the name slightly because I don't want to inherit the ratings and comments from the random story that was published in place of mine. Hopefully this one will post very soon. Again, so sorry for the delay.

Chapter Twenty-One

The TV was on, broadcasting an early-season game between the Seahawks and the Saints, and it was a close one. Guy's attention normally would have been riveted to the game, but today he couldn't muster enough energy to care. He'd turned the sound off; it was annoying. He would have turned the TV off entirely, but he felt like he should care. He should want to watch the game and know the score.

He certainly didn't need the glow of the TV in order to see. He didn't even need the night vision feature of his bionic eye anymore. He could see clear as day regardless of the amount of light.

He sighed. I'm more of a mutant now than ever.

His hearing had been enhanced to the point where he could hear a squirrel running up a tree outside, several hundred yards away. His sense of smell now was almost overwhelming. He could smell things that he'd never thought of as having a scent: the kitchen counter, his glass coffee table ... everything had its own scent.

It was confusing, all of these new sensations. He mainly just tried to block them out. They weren't of any use to him. His plan was to get well enough to be sent on another hunt, and then to fail. He was fairly convinced that, in his current state of mind, he couldn't succeed if he wanted to, but he didn't want to succeed. He just wanted to die. Suicide by vampire—a hell of a way to go.

However, he wasn't sure he'd ever get better to the point where he could hunt again. He might have to come up with a different plan for his demise. He really didn't want to commit suicide outright; the idea was repulsive. But he was in so much anguish, he would do almost anything to escape it.

The doctor had visited him earlier in the day and was confused by his lack of progress. He was a week out of the hospital, and not only was he not getting stronger, he seemed to be getting weaker. Making it to the bathroom was a monumental feat. He had no interest in eating. His arm was a useless appendage; he could barely wiggle a single finger. He wished they'd removed it.

But mostly, he just didn't care.

The doctor didn't understand what the problem was, but Guy knew: he was missing his heart. It had been ripped out of his chest and now there was a gaping hole there. The void left by Mel's absence was a chasm so deep and wide and depressing that he'd never be able to climb out of it. He just wanted to die.

He had failed Mel. He'd failed to protect him. He'd driven him away. He'd lost the only thing that gave his life meaning, and he would never get it back. He understood why Mel had left: he was a freak show. He was a grotesque cross between a vampire and a human, who was incapable of having a normal relationship. He wasn't even able to sit in the same room as Mel and have a conversation—the proximity would make the beast inside him go crazy. He would attack and rape his precious angel, and that would be a horror far worse than his own death.

He gave a bitter laugh. At least I'm too weak to do that anymore.

He shifted on the leather couch, his muscles protesting every movement. A sharp pain slashed through his shoulder. He glanced at his bottle of painkillers on the table. Consuela had left the lid off because he was unable to open it one-handed. Is it too soon to take another one? He decided it didn't matter because he didn't have the energy to make the effort. He closed his eyes and escaped into sleep.

*****

Salvatore heard himself whimpering and tried to silence himself. Even standing still—or hanging limply from his chains as he had been doing—the pain was excruciating. Putting one foot in front of the other caused fire to flare across the sensitive nerves of his anus, even drowning out the agony of his empty eye socket.

He couldn't see. His remaining eye still worked, but it was so filled with tears of pain it blurred the world around him. He clutched his sister's thin waist to steady himself. She was cool—cooler than she should be. She was covered with volumes of fabric. A thick black cape hung from her shoulders, its hood covering her hair. Under the hood, she had covered her face completely with a thin crimson scarf.

Why? he still had the presence of mind to wonder.

He had managed to stop whimpering, instead letting out little stuttering gasps as he shuffled slowly forward, leaning heavily on his sister for support. Her arm was wrapped comfortingly around his waist, and she urged him on in a low voice.

"Hurry, Sal. You need to get as far away as possible before nightfall."

Something about this sentence bothered Salvatore, and through the fog of pain and confusion, it took him a few moments to figure out what. You? "You're not coming with me?" he cried.

"Here, this way," she said, tugging him along through a wide arched doorway onto a massive stone porch. She paused on the porch, sucking in her breath in a hiss. Then, seeming to gather herself, she plunged forward down the steps and into the bright midday sunlight, dragging him along with her. A low cry, almost as if she were in pain, broke from her lips, but she didn't falter.

Salvatore squinted his eye against the brightness, tears streaming down his face as his pupil fought to adjust after so much time in the dark.

"Hurry Sal!" she said again, her voice tight. He could hear her panting behind her scarf.

He wanted nothing more but to lie down and die. He clung to her and struggled on, one foot in front of the other as they trundled down a grassy slope toward the water.

"Here," she said, pausing. "Watch your feet."

Salvatore blinked hard, trying to see through the blur. The green gave way with a sharp line to a dark brown. He smelled pitch. They were at the edge of the dock, he guessed. He picked his foot up and put it carefully on the darker area, then Eva was hauling him forward, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the wooden platform. He could hear the waves lapping at the shore, smell the fresh breeze that came off of the great lake. We're free! In spite of the blinding pain, he felt joy burst forth in his heart. He had given up hope, but somehow Eva had come out of her stupor to save them.

"The boat is here," Eva said. Pulling him down to his knees, she took his hand and placed it on the smooth wooden gunnel. It was the boat they had come in—the one he had stolen from his father to make his escape. It was one of his father's smaller, less ostentatious boats, a 17-foot 1948 Chris Craft Deluxe Runabout. It had a fast, new motor that ran almost soundlessly—one of the reasons he'd chosen it.

"Get in," Eva urged.

Salvatore squinted at the boat, trying to orient himself with it. They were even with the helm. He crawled into the boat, hissing as his sore ass came in contact with the red vinyl seats. Then he turned to help his sister in. She was kneeling on the dock, but didn't take his hand.

"Come on, Eva."

"No, I can't go with you, Sal."

"What do you mean?" Shock froze his beating heart. "You can't possibly stay here!"

"I have to, Sal. It is too late for me. I am already changed. I cannot go back."

"What are you talking about, Eva? Of course you can go back. Father will be furious, but—God, I never thought I'd say this—I'd rather face him than stay with that demon. Come on. Hurry!"

She inched away from the edge of dock as he reached for her hand. "No, Sal. You need to go without me. Rescue yourself."

"You can't stay here! The demon will kill you when he finds out you've helped me escape."

She let out a low, bitter laugh that didn't sound like her at all. "I don't think he can kill me anymore."

A coldness crept over Salvatore that had nothing to do with the wind coming off the water. "What do you mean?"

"He has turned me, Sal. I am already becoming like him. You must leave quickly while there is still enough human in me to help you. It's already been so difficult to help you—I am getting these horrible urges to hurt you."

He saw her frame shudder and she clenched a fist.

"Would that you could end me but I'm afraid that if you tried I would kill you." Her voice broke when she said, "Go Sal, and try to remember me as I was, not for what I've become."

"But ... but..." Salvatore stared at his sister in horror, seeing only the red scarf which hid her face. He couldn't accept leaving her behind. It was too much of a burden, too much of a loss. "No, Eva. You must come with me." He grabbed her cold hand and tried to pull her into the boat.

She pulled her hand easily out of his grasp and gave him a shove which sent him sprawling backwards. Pain screamed through him.

"I will not leave you," he said stubbornly, through teeth gritted against the pain.

"Look at it this way, Sal. You are not leaving your sister behind. Your sister is already dead. I am the monster who has taken her place." As she said this, his sister pulled the scarf away from her face, just enough to reveal her eyes.

They were black as coal and as soulless as the demon's.

Guy woke with a cry of horror on his lips. His body was board-stiff and covered with a sheen of cold sweat. I failed her. I led her into mortal danger and left her there. The anguish caused by the old wound was almost as sharp as his new pain.

I have failed everyone I've ever cared about. I really don't deserve to live, he thought.

*****

Some time later he heard Consuela coming. The noise of the golf cart gliding through the tunnel was unmistakable. Then he heard a noise that caused his heart to suddenly start pounding in his chest.

There was more than one set of footsteps coming toward the elevator, and then he heard Mel's voice, distant and soft.

A surge of adrenalin rushed through him and he sat bolt upright, pain screaming through his shoulder. His breathing was erratic, his pulse pounding. He's here! My mate is here! He felt almost panicked.

What does he want?

That question was answered soon enough. As the elevator doors slid open, he heard Consuela say, "Come say hello to Guy."

Mel's answer crushed him with the force of a mountain of rocks. "No, I don't want to see him. I'm just going to go to my room and pack up my stuff. I'll be done in no time."

He sank back to a prone position on the couch, devastated. Then Mel's scent reached him and he practically swooned. He'd forgotten just how heady that scent was. My God, it's no wonder that I want to rape him every time he's near. Even lying on his deathbed, he was affected. He felt a surge of energy going to his limbs. His cock plumped.

He suppressed bitter laugh as he listened to Mel going down the stairs. His body didn't seem to care whether Mel wanted to see him or not. It wanted him with a desire so intense it made his head spin.

But it was his heart that really craved him. Yes, his heart was back. Returned suddenly from its hiatus, it was beating frantically in his chest, and it hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before. The craving for Mel, the longing, the needing, the loving—it was like an ocean, vast and deep and turbulent, and oh so painful.

He listened to Mel packing. He could hear him opening drawers and rummaging through the closet in the guest suite downstairs. He listened intently and breathed in his scent. These would be the last moments he'd ever have with Mel, the last moments before the brief joy Mel had brought him was gone forever.

All too soon he heard Mel struggling with his suitcase up the stairs. He wanted to run and help him, but his body was wasted; he could barely crawl to the bathroom, he wasn't going to climb stairs and carry suitcases.

He heard Mel wheeling his suitcase to the elevator and his pain level reached an all time high.

"Consuela?" Mel was looking in the kitchen for his housekeeper, who was there, chopping onions—he could smell them.

"Yes, chico?"

"I'm ready to go back now. Will you take me?"

"Not until you've talked to him."

"What? No, I really don't want to. Please don't make me." Guy could hear the panic in Mel's voice, and his pain ratcheted even higher. It felt like there was a vice around his chest, crushing him. He couldn't breathe.

Consuela's answer was firm. "I'm am not taking you back until you've at least said hello to him."

There was a long silence, and then Guy was surprised to his hear his own voice, sounding steady and commanding as he called out, "Melvin! Come here!"

He immediately cursed himself for not having the grace to let his mate go in peace, for being so selfish he had to see him one more time even though his mate clearly didn't want to see him.

*****

Mel heard that resonant voice, powerful and demanding, and a tsunami of longing crashed over him. His feet began to move in the direction of the living room; he was incapable of stopping them. Guy's command was just too compelling.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish glow of the television. Guy was stretched out on the couch, wearing baggy sweats and a ragged T-shirt. Mel approached him slowly, awed by how much he seemed to have changed. His face looked gaunt, his eyes were heavily shadowed, and his dark hair fell lank and greasy across his forehead. He looked like he'd aged ten years. His left arm was in a sling strapped to his chest. The smell of sickness clung to him: antiseptic, purulence, and stale sweat.

Mel swallowed the lump that rose in his throat.

Guy watched him approach, his single eye dark and unreadable in the dim light. He lifted his right hand and pointed to a spot on the floor directly in front of him.

Mel shifted the coffee table out of the way so he could stand where Guy had indicated, then, because it seemed natural to do so, he dropped gracefully to his knees and bowed his head. He felt his body start to tremble.

This is what I want. I want to serve him. I want to offer myself up to him. I want to make him happy. And I want him to love me and protect me in return. Is that too much to ask? Apparently it was, because he knew that Guy didn't even want to be in the same house as him, let alone the same room or the same bed. Suddenly the intensity of his longing overwhelmed him and with it came devastation. His heart was laid waste, nothing left but smoking ruins. Tears began to fall from his eyes and run down his cheeks. He kept his head bowed and focused on his breathing, but he could not stop the deluge.

Fingers on his chin lifted his face, and he was looking into that one dark eye, which reflected back his own pain.

"This is my fault, isn't it?" Guy said softly. "Oh, Mel, I am so sorry—so very, very sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

The lump in Mel's throat was so big, he couldn't speak. Guy looked upset—over him! This was not what he had been expecting at all. Then Guy spoke again and Mel's world was rent in half.

"Hurting you is the last thing I ever wanted. I love you." Guy's voice was low and deep.

When Mel heard those words coming from Guy's mouth, he was shocked. He would not have believed Guy could be so sadistic. It didn't even occur to him that Guy could mean them, because that was an impossibility. The man he thought he'd loved was toying with his emotions in the cruelest possible way. He was pretending to be sorry, pretending to love Mel, so that he could twist the knife in further.

Mel lurched to his feet. I need to leave. There's no way I'm going to stay here and let him torture me. His encounter with Guy was more painful than he could possibly have imagined.

But before he could take two steps toward retreating, Guy caught his hand in a firm grip.

"Please, Mel!" Guy's voice broke. "I ... I won't stop you from leaving. I understand why you want to go. I know I'm a monster. I just ... I wanted you to know how sorry I am for hurting you."

Mel had been looking toward the kitchen, wanting to extract his hand and run, but something in Guy's voice caused him to turn and look at the big man.

The faint bluish light from the television glinted off the tears that were running down Guy's cheek.

Mel froze in shock. It took his brain several seconds to process what his eyes were seeing. He reached out a hand and touched Guy's cheek. His fingers became wet with his tears.

"You're crying," he said in awe. This was the last thing in the world he ever expected to see.

Guy turned his head away, looking at the back of the couch. He swallowed. "It's the drugs," he said in rough voice.

The realization that Guy had deep feelings for him, might even love him, dawned like the brightest sun.

"You ... you really love me?" Mel's voice was so husky he almost didn't recognize it as his own.

Guy turned his head toward him, looked him in the eye, and said, "With all my heart. There will never be another. I will love you with every shred of my dark soul until the day I die, and maybe even after that too."

Mel was stunned.

Absolutely gobsmacked.

He stood motionless staring at Guy as his brain frantically tried to rewrite everything he believed about him. What shuffled to the top and stood out in glowing letters was this: he truly loves you! At that moment, Mel realized he still loved Guy too.

He let out a small, inarticulate cry of joy, and hurled himself onto Guy for a hug, completely forgetting about his injuries.

Guy let out a grunt of pain as Mel landed on his chest and wrapped his arms around him.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry!" Mel cried, suddenly realizing that he was crushing Guy's arm. He started to climb off of Guy, but a large hand snaked around his waist and held him in place.

"It's good. I'm fine. Stay," Guy commanded.

"Yes sir." The words slipped naturally from Mel's tongue. He buried his face in Guy's marble chest and hugged him as tightly as he dared, letting the emotions of the past few minutes wash over him. It felt incredible to be so close to Guy, holding him. He felt strong fingers stroking tenderly up and down his back. His brain was still racing, trying to fit the new pieces into the half-formed puzzle that was his picture of Guy. Finally, the questions he had were burning so brightly in his mind that he was afraid his brain would melt.

He pulled himself up so he could look at Guy, carefully positioning his arms to support himself without putting pressure on Guy's injured shoulder. His hip was against Guy's and their legs were tangled together. The position was very intimate, but it felt right.

"So, if you love me, why ... why did you act like you couldn't stand me?" he asked. "I ... I thought you hated me. I thought you were absolutely disgusted with me, being a virgin and all."