Luxuria part three
Disclaimers in part one
The man who believed he had a DVD of The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift was being watched. The boy leaned against a tree across the street from his house. He was growing weak and was grateful for the tree's support. He saw the car arrive and pull into the driveway. A woman emerged, wearing a stylish raincoat and a clear plastic headscarf over her hairdo. She trotted hastily through the rain to the door of the house and rang the doorbell. The man answered the door but did not invite her in. The boy heard the tones of arguing, though not the words, and then the man took out a gun and shot the woman in the face. The clear headscarf hid nothing from the boy of the carnage the shot made of her head.
###
"Hey Celluci," Kate called.
Mike stopped on his way to Crowley's office, grateful for any excuse to delay. "Yeah?"
Kate caught up with him, a folder in her hand. "Remember that funny symbol carved in the entertainment center?"
"Yeah?"
"Forensics finally got to it. It wasn't carved; it was burned. And recently, too. You want to see?"
Mike took the folder from her and scanned the brief report. Although the incisions were small, like what a knife would make, the particle board had been burned into the symbol's shape, possibly as recently as the day of the murder. The report didn't speculate about what tool could have done it, and Mike guessed forensics hadn't cared to put any more work in on a closed case. He looked up at Kate.
"What do I do with that?" she asked.
"I don't know," he told her honestly. He removed the blown up photo of the symbol and handed her the rest of the file back. "Can I keep this?"
"Knock yourself out," she said with a smile and turned away.
Mike headed straight back to his desk. What was the name of that professor Coreen knew? The one who had helped when Mendoza had Fitzroy prisoner. His thoughts winced away from that memory as his fingers flipped through his rolodex. Segara, that was it. He scribbled a fax cover sheet with a note to her and faxed the photograph to her department machine.
He reached automatically for the phone to call Vicki, and stopped. He and Vicki had been on only cool terms since . . . what happened. He was probably lucky she was speaking to him at all, and it had been mostly on case-related things. Was this a case? Was he asking for her help, or for Fitzroy's, and if so, with what? He really dreaded having to talk to Fitzroy about anything. He rubbed his neck, absently, where the vampire had fed on him. There was a memory to stay away from, too. He drummed the fingers of his other hand by the phone.
He picked up the phone and called Dr. Segara.
"Yes, I have your fax here, Detective Celluci," she said, coolly.
"Can you tell me what it is?"
"Is this another matter of life and death?"
"No, I just thought it might be important."
"I don't recognize it and I'm afraid I don't have the time to research it properly for you. I’m sorry." So she was still pissed at him over Fitzroy.
"You aren't curious? It was burned into wood at a murder scene."
"Detective Celluci, any friend of Henry Fitzroy's is a friend of mine, but you aren't in that category. Perhaps one of my colleagues would be curious on your behalf."
Mike was silent, mulling over whether it would do any good to try to apologize or explain. At least she didn't hang up in the interim. Dave was passing by Mike's desk, so he lowered his voice as he asked, "Can you at least tell me if it looks demonic?"
She hesitated. "It looks celestial of some sort, and yes, I would guess demonic."
"Celestial? What does that mean?"
"In most Christian mythology and its precursors, Detective, demons are a form of angels. Angels have their secret lore and language as well. But what you have here is most likely demon. Now, if you'll excuse me, good day." She hung up.
###
Tina had it figured out. It was magic. She believed in magic, sort of. She wanted to, anyway. She brought her wand to work and kept it under the counter. She had made a Hogwarts wand by cutting and painting a dowel the right size from the art store. She had bent a metal strip around the tip making a little cap. She loved how the wand felt in her hand and she liked to practice drawing it and saying, "wingardium leviosa" when she was alone. Her wand, she imagined, had a phoenix tail-feather just like Harry's, but her phoenix was rainbow colored-the rarest and most wonderful kind.
When she saw one of the unreadable discs in a case, she had only to let the customer take it and within an hour-often minutes-praise for her writing and for her spunky main character would pour into her inbox. If she got the customer a replacement disc her story would receive silence, or worse, insults. And then the weird spooky disc would always break when she tried to take it out. A part of her mind said this was just superstition, like having a lucky shirt, but the other part of her mind said magic. And so far, no one had brought the weird discs back and complained.
After she had sent out six discs her story was being publicly recommended on multi-fandom rec sites. She couldn't be happier.
###
Coreen was wrong. Vicki didn't want an incubus or Henry. To herself she was willing to admit to what Emmanuel had called "longings," but she didn't want anything that wasn't her choice. Hers, not her hormones'.
Vicki placed the garlic and the other herbs around her bedroom, particularly the door and the window. She dug out a cross her aunt had given her once for Christmas, and tried to hang it over her bed, but her aching hands couldn't hold a hammer. She placed the cross on her nightstand and put Henry's little one around her neck. She tried not to feel silly doing all of this. Then, utterly exhausted by the day she fell into bed, leaving the bedroom light on.
But the light was out in her dream. And her faceless lover was back and more amorous than before. More insistent, more attentive. And God how she needed it. But somehow, because she was Vicki Nelson, even in her dream she managed to question. "Nothing . . . keeps . . . you . . .out, does it, Emmanuel."
"Do you not know your power, my Vicki? Your beauty? How can I stay away?"
How could there be anything wrong with this? She was aware she was dreaming, but slumber lay so heavy on her she couldn't wake up. Or else she didn't really want to. She smelled that cologne, heard his voice, but still saw no face. Could she choose her partner? She summoned a memory of the smell of soap and rain and there it was. The scent was stronger, mixed with something musky. Her lover's feel changed beneath her hands, his hair grew long and wavy, pearl white teeth glinted in the gloom. He nibbled her ear as he stroked her breast, then moved his tongue down to lick her neck in a way that brought every part of her to attention with anticipation. As they rolled and rocked together, she felt the pulsing length along his thigh rubbing against her thigh. Urgency poured through her and she trembled, groping. Her hands, not sore in this dream, warmed at the wrists as her lover caressed her, murmuring reassurances, rolling his member into place between her legs. Her thoughts grew more fragmented, but she tried to remember-cold, painfully large, pronged-none of that seemed true. She needed him in her. Mumbling incoherent begging, she wrapped her legs around him. Her wrists burned. The burning sensation distracted her at the very moment he entered, finally giving her what she needed, but she looked to the side to see what . . . in the darkness of the dream, the shape of her tattoo glowed so brightly she began to see the room and the man atop her. She turned her head and saw the other tattoo, radiant with angry heat.
Suddenly the man sat up, withdrew, fell back. Vicki awakened in her brightly lit room with Emmanuel, naked, his head thrown back and howling in agony. He lifted his arms over his head as if in supplication and screamed words Vicki didn't understand. Then to her horror, flames engulfed her bed, not burning her but consuming the creature with her. Before her eyes, Emmanuel blackened, charred and melted, all the while screaming in inconceivable pain.
###
Henry couldn't work. He couldn't even doodle aimlessly, which was how he often collected his scattered thoughts. He had to admit it; he was heartsick. Hunger nagged him, but his general malaise kept even it at bay. For now. It had been such a long time since he'd had someone he could give all of himself to. Vicki's walls were so strong she was almost cruel.
He sighed.
The phone rang. He gave it a baleful look. At this time of night? The few people who knew the hours he kept were work-related and he didn't care to talk to any of them right now. That's why God had invented answering machines.
"Henry? It's Vicki. I know you let the machine pick up when you're working . . ."
"Vicki, I'm here."
"Oh. Henry, the, uh, incubus is gone. Really gone. He died, I guess you'd say, screaming. With flames all around him. It was . . . it was awful."
Henry was stunned. He wanted to pepper her with questions, but he wanted to see her more. "I'll be right over."
"No, wait!" she cried.
"What?"
She took in a breath to speak, but didn't for a long moment. "Could I . . . come by your place?"
###
Vicki arrived, subdued and a little surly. Henry understood. She resented being frightened, and particularly resented being forced to admit it.
"You know," she groused, "you could lay in some coffee or something for your friends."
Coffee had a strong scent he had never wanted in his own house. It was bad enough in all the other places it permeated. "I will," he promised. "Do you have a favorite kind?"
She sank onto his couch and accepted the glass of water he handed her, using both hands to support it. "Strong and black," she said.
She told him what had happened while she finished the water. Henry sat beside her on the couch with a careful distance between them. He had a little trouble concentrating. Her presence dispelled the mood which had suppressed his hunger and now he really wished he'd bothered to feed earlier.
He realized she was waiting for him to say something. "Was there any sign in your room that it had been anything other than a dream?"
"No scorch marks, or anything like that. But the place stinks of . . . I know how obvious this sounds, but it smells like rotten eggs. Sulfur."
Henry leaned toward her. "You don't smell of sulfur," he said, using the proximity to admire her eyes.
"I showered," she said.
Henry withdrew, but stayed closer than he had been, trying not to think of Vicki in a shower.
"And," she pulled back one sleeve with a hand that clearly still pained her, "I really was burned."
Startled, Henry took her wrist. The mysterious tattoo on it looked more like a fresh brand. He met her gaze. "Did you treat this?"
She frowned. "I ran cold water on it. That's the treatment."
"You need sterile gauze as well." Henry rose to get some.
Vicki allowed him to tape gauze on both her wrists. The blood pulsing there made him a touch light-headed. "Where did you get all this medical training?" she asked, but without the bite in her tone that she probably intended.
"It's first aid, Vicki," he said. He couldn't bring himself to release her wrist.
"The thing is," she said, "what happened? I don't think vervain and garlic set him on fire."
He put gentle pressure against her swollen muscles and got an immediate twitch from her. "He didn't burn, Vicki, he went back to Hell, where demons belong." He stroked along her wrist and reveled in her small gasp. If only she would let him do this. It wasn't overtly sexual, and her hands were so sore. He smiled what he hoped was an innocent smile.
"Is there really a Hell?" Vicki asked, breathily, as even the gentle rubbing he was doing affected her.
"Do you doubt it?" he asked, moving up to the strong muscle beneath her thumb. Again, she could only bear the gentlest of pressure there or the pleasure he was giving her would become pain. She looked down at her hand, on edge.
"I doubt a lot of things." She squirmed. "That's really good, but . . ."
"Trust me," he begged. "Let me do this."
She licked her lips and forcibly relaxed. Delighted, Henry focused more on the job. He took her other hand as well; her wrists were so small his hands could easily reach around them. He worked from forearms up into her palms and squeezed outward along her fingers. He felt her submit. She closed her eyes and breathed.
After the first, gentle pass, he increased the pressure, pressing insistent circles into the soreness. His world shrank to her hands and the feel of so many pulses there.
"Half the world doesn't believe in Hell," she said, somewhere in the distance.
"Hmmm," he managed to answer. He felt the myriad muscles in her hands quiver under his ministrations, the blood cleansing them as he squeezed it gently around. Blood, bringing strength and life and purity . . . maybe this was not such a good idea. He was so hungry.
"Henry, are you hungry?" Vicki asked.
He glanced up at her, blinking to restore proper vision. He was sure his hunger wasn’t showing. And how like her to ask so bluntly. "Um, nothing serious," he said, which was almost a lie. Not starved, tortured and drained of blood serious, no, but yes, he was very hungry. Yes. But the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her.
She smiled. "I think I'm learning to tell." She tugged at her arms and he released them, but it was more of a we're-done-now than a recoil, he thought. She looked down at her arms like she hadn't seen them before, and flexed her fingers. "Thank you," she said genuinely. "You're very good at that."
He found a smug smile to give her back. "I can tell where the swelling is. And I'm very strong."
She shook her head. "You are such a vampire," she said.
He didn't know how to take that and he needed distance from her badly, so he stood. "You need to sleep,"-darn the luck-"please stay here."
"It's true," she said, almost apologetically as she rubbed her eyes. "I couldn't sleep last night, either. And my place stinks. Can I have your couch?"
"You can have anything you want."
"The couch would be fine."
He fetched his most luxurious bedding and settled her in it, her clothes still on. As she lay down he placed a final blanket over her. "Vicki," he said, crouching down beside her, and caressing her forearm where she gripped a pillow, "this is the only thing you've ever let me do for you."
"What do you mean?" she asked, and yawned. "You do things for me all the time."
"Right. Like drive the car."
"You're my . . ." her eyelids drooped, "lie detector and . . . safety net."
"Vicki," he said in a low voice, "I could give you the greatest pleasure you've ever known."
The more alert look she gave him glinted with amusement. "There's that nagging self-doubt again."
"No, it's . . ."
"I believe you, Henry. I do, really." She smiled and yawned again. "G'night."
And with that sleep took her as surely as the dawn would take him.
Henry sat back on the floor, amazed, amused and famished. He had time to go out and feed, but he wouldn't leave her for anything. He'd just have to wait until tomorrow.
###
on to part four
The man who believed he had a DVD of The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift was being watched. The boy leaned against a tree across the street from his house. He was growing weak and was grateful for the tree's support. He saw the car arrive and pull into the driveway. A woman emerged, wearing a stylish raincoat and a clear plastic headscarf over her hairdo. She trotted hastily through the rain to the door of the house and rang the doorbell. The man answered the door but did not invite her in. The boy heard the tones of arguing, though not the words, and then the man took out a gun and shot the woman in the face. The clear headscarf hid nothing from the boy of the carnage the shot made of her head.
###
"Hey Celluci," Kate called.
Mike stopped on his way to Crowley's office, grateful for any excuse to delay. "Yeah?"
Kate caught up with him, a folder in her hand. "Remember that funny symbol carved in the entertainment center?"
"Yeah?"
"Forensics finally got to it. It wasn't carved; it was burned. And recently, too. You want to see?"
Mike took the folder from her and scanned the brief report. Although the incisions were small, like what a knife would make, the particle board had been burned into the symbol's shape, possibly as recently as the day of the murder. The report didn't speculate about what tool could have done it, and Mike guessed forensics hadn't cared to put any more work in on a closed case. He looked up at Kate.
"What do I do with that?" she asked.
"I don't know," he told her honestly. He removed the blown up photo of the symbol and handed her the rest of the file back. "Can I keep this?"
"Knock yourself out," she said with a smile and turned away.
Mike headed straight back to his desk. What was the name of that professor Coreen knew? The one who had helped when Mendoza had Fitzroy prisoner. His thoughts winced away from that memory as his fingers flipped through his rolodex. Segara, that was it. He scribbled a fax cover sheet with a note to her and faxed the photograph to her department machine.
He reached automatically for the phone to call Vicki, and stopped. He and Vicki had been on only cool terms since . . . what happened. He was probably lucky she was speaking to him at all, and it had been mostly on case-related things. Was this a case? Was he asking for her help, or for Fitzroy's, and if so, with what? He really dreaded having to talk to Fitzroy about anything. He rubbed his neck, absently, where the vampire had fed on him. There was a memory to stay away from, too. He drummed the fingers of his other hand by the phone.
He picked up the phone and called Dr. Segara.
"Yes, I have your fax here, Detective Celluci," she said, coolly.
"Can you tell me what it is?"
"Is this another matter of life and death?"
"No, I just thought it might be important."
"I don't recognize it and I'm afraid I don't have the time to research it properly for you. I’m sorry." So she was still pissed at him over Fitzroy.
"You aren't curious? It was burned into wood at a murder scene."
"Detective Celluci, any friend of Henry Fitzroy's is a friend of mine, but you aren't in that category. Perhaps one of my colleagues would be curious on your behalf."
Mike was silent, mulling over whether it would do any good to try to apologize or explain. At least she didn't hang up in the interim. Dave was passing by Mike's desk, so he lowered his voice as he asked, "Can you at least tell me if it looks demonic?"
She hesitated. "It looks celestial of some sort, and yes, I would guess demonic."
"Celestial? What does that mean?"
"In most Christian mythology and its precursors, Detective, demons are a form of angels. Angels have their secret lore and language as well. But what you have here is most likely demon. Now, if you'll excuse me, good day." She hung up.
###
Tina had it figured out. It was magic. She believed in magic, sort of. She wanted to, anyway. She brought her wand to work and kept it under the counter. She had made a Hogwarts wand by cutting and painting a dowel the right size from the art store. She had bent a metal strip around the tip making a little cap. She loved how the wand felt in her hand and she liked to practice drawing it and saying, "wingardium leviosa" when she was alone. Her wand, she imagined, had a phoenix tail-feather just like Harry's, but her phoenix was rainbow colored-the rarest and most wonderful kind.
When she saw one of the unreadable discs in a case, she had only to let the customer take it and within an hour-often minutes-praise for her writing and for her spunky main character would pour into her inbox. If she got the customer a replacement disc her story would receive silence, or worse, insults. And then the weird spooky disc would always break when she tried to take it out. A part of her mind said this was just superstition, like having a lucky shirt, but the other part of her mind said magic. And so far, no one had brought the weird discs back and complained.
After she had sent out six discs her story was being publicly recommended on multi-fandom rec sites. She couldn't be happier.
###
Coreen was wrong. Vicki didn't want an incubus or Henry. To herself she was willing to admit to what Emmanuel had called "longings," but she didn't want anything that wasn't her choice. Hers, not her hormones'.
Vicki placed the garlic and the other herbs around her bedroom, particularly the door and the window. She dug out a cross her aunt had given her once for Christmas, and tried to hang it over her bed, but her aching hands couldn't hold a hammer. She placed the cross on her nightstand and put Henry's little one around her neck. She tried not to feel silly doing all of this. Then, utterly exhausted by the day she fell into bed, leaving the bedroom light on.
But the light was out in her dream. And her faceless lover was back and more amorous than before. More insistent, more attentive. And God how she needed it. But somehow, because she was Vicki Nelson, even in her dream she managed to question. "Nothing . . . keeps . . . you . . .out, does it, Emmanuel."
"Do you not know your power, my Vicki? Your beauty? How can I stay away?"
How could there be anything wrong with this? She was aware she was dreaming, but slumber lay so heavy on her she couldn't wake up. Or else she didn't really want to. She smelled that cologne, heard his voice, but still saw no face. Could she choose her partner? She summoned a memory of the smell of soap and rain and there it was. The scent was stronger, mixed with something musky. Her lover's feel changed beneath her hands, his hair grew long and wavy, pearl white teeth glinted in the gloom. He nibbled her ear as he stroked her breast, then moved his tongue down to lick her neck in a way that brought every part of her to attention with anticipation. As they rolled and rocked together, she felt the pulsing length along his thigh rubbing against her thigh. Urgency poured through her and she trembled, groping. Her hands, not sore in this dream, warmed at the wrists as her lover caressed her, murmuring reassurances, rolling his member into place between her legs. Her thoughts grew more fragmented, but she tried to remember-cold, painfully large, pronged-none of that seemed true. She needed him in her. Mumbling incoherent begging, she wrapped her legs around him. Her wrists burned. The burning sensation distracted her at the very moment he entered, finally giving her what she needed, but she looked to the side to see what . . . in the darkness of the dream, the shape of her tattoo glowed so brightly she began to see the room and the man atop her. She turned her head and saw the other tattoo, radiant with angry heat.
Suddenly the man sat up, withdrew, fell back. Vicki awakened in her brightly lit room with Emmanuel, naked, his head thrown back and howling in agony. He lifted his arms over his head as if in supplication and screamed words Vicki didn't understand. Then to her horror, flames engulfed her bed, not burning her but consuming the creature with her. Before her eyes, Emmanuel blackened, charred and melted, all the while screaming in inconceivable pain.
###
Henry couldn't work. He couldn't even doodle aimlessly, which was how he often collected his scattered thoughts. He had to admit it; he was heartsick. Hunger nagged him, but his general malaise kept even it at bay. For now. It had been such a long time since he'd had someone he could give all of himself to. Vicki's walls were so strong she was almost cruel.
He sighed.
The phone rang. He gave it a baleful look. At this time of night? The few people who knew the hours he kept were work-related and he didn't care to talk to any of them right now. That's why God had invented answering machines.
"Henry? It's Vicki. I know you let the machine pick up when you're working . . ."
"Vicki, I'm here."
"Oh. Henry, the, uh, incubus is gone. Really gone. He died, I guess you'd say, screaming. With flames all around him. It was . . . it was awful."
Henry was stunned. He wanted to pepper her with questions, but he wanted to see her more. "I'll be right over."
"No, wait!" she cried.
"What?"
She took in a breath to speak, but didn't for a long moment. "Could I . . . come by your place?"
###
Vicki arrived, subdued and a little surly. Henry understood. She resented being frightened, and particularly resented being forced to admit it.
"You know," she groused, "you could lay in some coffee or something for your friends."
Coffee had a strong scent he had never wanted in his own house. It was bad enough in all the other places it permeated. "I will," he promised. "Do you have a favorite kind?"
She sank onto his couch and accepted the glass of water he handed her, using both hands to support it. "Strong and black," she said.
She told him what had happened while she finished the water. Henry sat beside her on the couch with a careful distance between them. He had a little trouble concentrating. Her presence dispelled the mood which had suppressed his hunger and now he really wished he'd bothered to feed earlier.
He realized she was waiting for him to say something. "Was there any sign in your room that it had been anything other than a dream?"
"No scorch marks, or anything like that. But the place stinks of . . . I know how obvious this sounds, but it smells like rotten eggs. Sulfur."
Henry leaned toward her. "You don't smell of sulfur," he said, using the proximity to admire her eyes.
"I showered," she said.
Henry withdrew, but stayed closer than he had been, trying not to think of Vicki in a shower.
"And," she pulled back one sleeve with a hand that clearly still pained her, "I really was burned."
Startled, Henry took her wrist. The mysterious tattoo on it looked more like a fresh brand. He met her gaze. "Did you treat this?"
She frowned. "I ran cold water on it. That's the treatment."
"You need sterile gauze as well." Henry rose to get some.
Vicki allowed him to tape gauze on both her wrists. The blood pulsing there made him a touch light-headed. "Where did you get all this medical training?" she asked, but without the bite in her tone that she probably intended.
"It's first aid, Vicki," he said. He couldn't bring himself to release her wrist.
"The thing is," she said, "what happened? I don't think vervain and garlic set him on fire."
He put gentle pressure against her swollen muscles and got an immediate twitch from her. "He didn't burn, Vicki, he went back to Hell, where demons belong." He stroked along her wrist and reveled in her small gasp. If only she would let him do this. It wasn't overtly sexual, and her hands were so sore. He smiled what he hoped was an innocent smile.
"Is there really a Hell?" Vicki asked, breathily, as even the gentle rubbing he was doing affected her.
"Do you doubt it?" he asked, moving up to the strong muscle beneath her thumb. Again, she could only bear the gentlest of pressure there or the pleasure he was giving her would become pain. She looked down at her hand, on edge.
"I doubt a lot of things." She squirmed. "That's really good, but . . ."
"Trust me," he begged. "Let me do this."
She licked her lips and forcibly relaxed. Delighted, Henry focused more on the job. He took her other hand as well; her wrists were so small his hands could easily reach around them. He worked from forearms up into her palms and squeezed outward along her fingers. He felt her submit. She closed her eyes and breathed.
After the first, gentle pass, he increased the pressure, pressing insistent circles into the soreness. His world shrank to her hands and the feel of so many pulses there.
"Half the world doesn't believe in Hell," she said, somewhere in the distance.
"Hmmm," he managed to answer. He felt the myriad muscles in her hands quiver under his ministrations, the blood cleansing them as he squeezed it gently around. Blood, bringing strength and life and purity . . . maybe this was not such a good idea. He was so hungry.
"Henry, are you hungry?" Vicki asked.
He glanced up at her, blinking to restore proper vision. He was sure his hunger wasn’t showing. And how like her to ask so bluntly. "Um, nothing serious," he said, which was almost a lie. Not starved, tortured and drained of blood serious, no, but yes, he was very hungry. Yes. But the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her.
She smiled. "I think I'm learning to tell." She tugged at her arms and he released them, but it was more of a we're-done-now than a recoil, he thought. She looked down at her arms like she hadn't seen them before, and flexed her fingers. "Thank you," she said genuinely. "You're very good at that."
He found a smug smile to give her back. "I can tell where the swelling is. And I'm very strong."
She shook her head. "You are such a vampire," she said.
He didn't know how to take that and he needed distance from her badly, so he stood. "You need to sleep,"-darn the luck-"please stay here."
"It's true," she said, almost apologetically as she rubbed her eyes. "I couldn't sleep last night, either. And my place stinks. Can I have your couch?"
"You can have anything you want."
"The couch would be fine."
He fetched his most luxurious bedding and settled her in it, her clothes still on. As she lay down he placed a final blanket over her. "Vicki," he said, crouching down beside her, and caressing her forearm where she gripped a pillow, "this is the only thing you've ever let me do for you."
"What do you mean?" she asked, and yawned. "You do things for me all the time."
"Right. Like drive the car."
"You're my . . ." her eyelids drooped, "lie detector and . . . safety net."
"Vicki," he said in a low voice, "I could give you the greatest pleasure you've ever known."
The more alert look she gave him glinted with amusement. "There's that nagging self-doubt again."
"No, it's . . ."
"I believe you, Henry. I do, really." She smiled and yawned again. "G'night."
And with that sleep took her as surely as the dawn would take him.
Henry sat back on the floor, amazed, amused and famished. He had time to go out and feed, but he wouldn't leave her for anything. He'd just have to wait until tomorrow.
###
on to part four