Waterhouse by Melissa Frye

John William Waterhouse has always been a secret pleasure of Brendan. While girls cut out pictures of Usher and Justin Timberlake to tape into their journals, he snipped Waterhouse’s paintings out of decommissioned library books. It was his mother that had started him on his love of Waterhouse. She’d read aloud to him from Shakespeare while he was still in the cradle, and poured into his young mind tales of Greek and Roman mythology while on car rides to the market. Brendan could still recall her voice was she pushed the shopping trolley slowly down the grocery store aisles, murmuring art criticism into his toddler ears.

“I often wonder if the Victorians that first viewed Waterhouse’s canvases ever felt the same wicked attraction to the nubile bodies of nymphs and demi-goddesses scampering through his oil paints.”

When he hit puberty, Brendan finally began to see his mother’s fascination with Waterhouse, though Brendan's attractions were far less aesthetic than his mother’s. The dab of shadow hinting to Circe’s breast beneath a sheer tunic was now a secret thrill. A single brushstroke created a whisper of seduction keener than a Siren’s song in his ears. Mythology and fantasy and sexuality carefully diffused in hints and touches to protect the delicate sensibilities. He wondered with the same vague imaginations as his mother if the pale blush upon the cheeks of a young Victorian governess equal to the rosy glow of Boreas’ face?

Given the opportunity to see a Waterhouse firsthand, Brendan could hardly contain his joy, though he had to. After all, what seventeen year old boy was giddy to see a collection of paintings on loan from the Manchester Art Museum when they were being forced to attend on a field trip?

Brendan waited on a baited breath as the school bus pulled to an idling stop before the art museum. His teacher was prattling on over the indignant voices of his peers. She tried, somewhat in vain, to explain the assignment to the class. Brendan had already memorized it. Find a painting that moves you, then do research into the themes of the painting and describe how it made you feel. Brendan had his heart set on Waterhouse already and took comfort in the fact that only his teacher would read his final assignment.

He spared not a glance for the Wagner, the Stubbs, or the Burges. His heart could want only for Waterhouse. And there, hung above a low, ebony cabinet, against the dusky red wall, was Hylas and the Nymphs. Brendan stood rooted before the painting, oblivious to the rest of the gallery.

Ringed by the bare breasted water nymphs with scattering of lily pads to protect their decency, the beautiful Greek youth Hylas leans over the water’s edge, water urn dangling, forgotten, from his fingertips. The scene hangs precariously between action and respite, beauty and death, erotica and art. Hylas’s sable curls and golden skin stand in stark contrast to the nymph’s ivory bodies and long, auburn manes. Their eyes are dark and predatory, coaxing and beguiling Hylas into the water. Brendan could hear his mother’s voice floating through his head; “Legend tells us that Hylas joins the nymphs in the water, to drown in sexual bliss or simply in his demise.” Waterhouse’s dark eyed, nubile nymphs seem to suggest either fate is possible.

Brendan's knees weakened as he tried to catch his breath. He’d been so young, listening to his mother’s endless murmuring of myths and tales. It had become a blur in his head, a shifting wall of endless color and sound that had never really made sense to his young mind until now.

Brendan's seated himself on the leather bench opposite the painting as his mother’s voice crept into his mind from all those years past.

“I think of the other half of the myth, the story Waterhouse’s painting is ignoring,” she’d whispered to him as she’d tucked him into bed around age four. He could still make out his pale face in the moonlight as she perched on the edge of his mattress. “Hylas was beloved to Hercules, brought on to the Argos to join Jason’s quest for the Golden Fleece. By the time the Argonauts had set sail, Hercules had already sealed his fate as a hero by completing his twelve labors. He was already worshiped as a demigod by the time he set foot on the deck of the Argos with Hylas at his side. Hylas was Hercules’ arms bearer, a spoil of war when Hercules killed Hylas’ father, Theiodamas. Hylas was a prince and a warrior, favored by Hercules above all other. In 300 BC the Greek poet Theocritus wrote ‘We are not the first mortals to see beauty in what is beautiful. No, even Amphitryon's bronze-hearted son, who defeated the savage Nemean lion, loved a boy—charming Hylas, whose hair hung down in curls.’ The word catamite is left hinted upon the lips of poets and writers from Edmund Spencer to Christopher Marlowe and Oscar Wilde.”

She had paused there, with those funny sounding names still thick on her tongue. Brendan remembered that she’d looked sad as she turned her face away. Her voice held thrall over his dark, quiet bedroom.

“I think of Hercules searching desperately for his beloved Hylas. Searching so long, in fact, that the Argonauts decided to abandon him in Mysia. I imagine Hercules weeping as he scours the riversides, perhaps discovering Hylas’ forgotten urn abandoned on the banks. Calling out Hylas’ name as he dives into the waters, begging the nymphs to bring Hylas back to him. All alone in the dark waters, weeping for his lost boy while his compatriots sail away without a second thought. What if he had found Hylas’ body, ravished by those unforgiving waters? Would he have held Hylas’ lifeless body in his arms? Arms that had once held up the world, that had wrestled Cerberus, arms that done the impossible time and time again. But now, there he stood holding his most precious treasure and for all his strength he could not give life back to Hylas. Would he press his lips to Hylas’ once more, breathing into them a final prayer?”

Brendan's lungs tugged at his throat, clawing for a breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. He felt the tears pool at the corner of his eyes like a warning, but he let them gather unheeded. They broke and rushed down his cheeks with unchecked vigor.

Brendan wept. Not at the beauty of Waterhouse’s brushstrokes, or at the flush in the cheeks of the nymphs, or in the golden hue of Hylas’ skin. He mourned for Hercules because there was no one else left that would. He wept because a painting of Hercules holding Hylas to his breast didn't hang upon the gallery wall. He wept because Waterhouse’s brush didn't craft Hercules’ tears with depth and agony. He wept because no Victorian could gasp in moral outrage at the sensuality in Hercules’ embrace as he clung to Hylas. He wept because while he was sure that such a painting could not have graced the walls of the gallery in 1896, he wasn't sure they’d be allowed in the gallery even today.

Writer's Journal- October 11, 2013

My computer is a mess. It keeps overheating like crazy and it burns like a hot kettle to the touch. I need to get a new computer. Suggestions are always welcome.

Still, today was a good day. I managed to write about eighteen pages in "Return to Eternity" (R2E). It was very good feeling to be able to get some of that story out of me and on to the page. Even as I write, more and more keeps pouring out of me. Its both beautiful and absolutely frustrating. What's worth keeping and what's worth throwing off? Its like trying to choose which one of your children you love more. It's horrible.

After getting nearly twenty pages off my chest, I spent the day with Bryan. We went out for a bit of light shopping where I finally was able to buy a new pair of shoes for my library job. I can't wait to wear them tomorrow. Afterwards we went to a farmer's market where we splurged on some fresh veggies, apple cider, homemade jams, and even a candied apple. The sites and smells of fresh vegetables, roasted meats, candied nuts, and baked breads was absolutely tantalizing. I can't wait to taste everything we bought today on my tongue.

We finished our wonderful day together watching TV while we ate Arbys. Yes, I know how inconsistent that is with buying fresh foods, but we both had a craving for curly fries.

Tomorrow is a long, opening shift at the microfilm room at Carnegie Library. Hopefully I can get a few more words out.

Writer's Journal

It's been awhile since I've come around here to actually write. In the past year I've graduated college, wrote an amazing senior tutorial about Sherlock Holmes and queer theory, and lost my biggest supporter.

This last May I lost my beloved grandmother Donna, and a little light went out of my world. My grandmother was my staunchest supporter through the good times and always there for me in the bad times. When others laughed or yelled at me, saying I was wasting my time on daydreams, my grandmother was my defender.

So here I stand now, degree in hand, a published writer, and I no longer have my cheerleader. For a person that prides themselves on being a "wordsmithe" I am left without the words to describe my grief.

Yet, I must move on because that's what Donna would have wanted. I move on because that's what I want for myself.

I'm very focused on returning to my most passionate work, "Return to Eternity." As of late the inspiration to step back into my writing is George R.R. Martin's "A Game of Thrones." I just started reading again (College has this mean habit of giving you plenty of intellectual literacy meat but denying you brain candy in the form of pleasure reading) and I've been trying to expand my horizons by reading more non-fiction and historical narrative. But my friend and former roommate suggested I read Martin and my boyfriend got me to watch the show, I became hooked by the complexity of the characters and the storyline. I've always been a fan of fantasy writers, especially when I was in my teens. My heroes were people like Alanna the Lioness and the characters from Dragonlance (Raistlin was always my favorite). Yet, as I grew up the stories didn't feel as palpable to me anymore. Perhaps it was my growth as a reader, a writer, or even maturity, but I longed to find fantasy that wasn't fluff.

As well, being both a female reader and writer, I found many of the female characters in stories to be sterile, self centered, sexpots that go about their lives trying to capture the affections of men. That is why Alanna will always stand out to me as my childhood hero, and that is why my main character in "Return to Eternity" has red hair in tribute to Alanna. Growing up reading fiction in the 90's, I was often reminded that fantasy is often the place of male readers and male writers. I was a niche market, and had to hear this bullshit over and over again throughout my youth while reading fantasy, science fiction, and comic books. Sometimes it disheartened me, and more often it made me worry that I'd have to change my name to be "accepted" by publishers and readers.

God bless the 00's for bringing in a rash of female fantasy writers that blew up the booksellers worldwide. That's right J.K. Rowling, you saved my career as a woman writer. Now women writers can sit proudly on the bookshelves besides male writers and can share in equal success.

Now, I turn to my work once more with fresh eyes and a maturer outlook. As I return to my world of Therra, I'm realizing that my story isn't the bright world of Tortell where good are reward and evil is punished. As well, my characters need to make mistakes. I've even made mistakes in making my characters into Mary Sues.

For example, the main protagonist, Hero (a name taken from Greek mythology) was originally suppose to automatically hate Fae Namir, the antagonist. Looking upon my characters now, Hero would never hate Fae at their first meeting. Fae enters the palace as a warrior ambassador riding on her warhorse with her train of Blackguards, her own small army. Hero, who is set to become the ruler of Eternity, is a free spirited young woman that enjoys mischief and adventure. To see a woman knight holding command over men would have been thrilling to Hero. As well, the young women are only two years apart, making them much more likely to understand each other. On top of all of these things, Fae and Hero share the disdain of their courts. Fae is the illegitimate daughter of Emperor Lordesus and Hero is the "traitor's daughter". This unique meeting of young women that will later become rivals would not be met with hatred but with intrigue. 


With all these things in mind, I hope to move forward once more.

Update on "Protein"

I've mentioned my western-zombie, "Protein", several times before on this blog. I wanted to give everyone a little heads on where the story is headed.

So the era of the story has moved from a futuristic, post-apocalyptic world to post-Civil War. Kodie and Terry will be traveling across the United States, heading west on a special adventure.

As much I enjoyed writing a modern day western-with zombies- I found that my audience couldn't wrap their minds around the loss of technology and an entire society reverting to a "Wild West" sort of mindset. I grew very tired of having to dodge the "Why don't they drive in a car?" or "Where's all the buildings?" questions.

So I took my story back a few hundred years to make all those pesky quibblers shut the fuck up. This also gives me the excuse to have Lincoln make a guest appearance in my story. I've always wanted to do that. (Just thinking about it makes me feel like I'm time traveling with the Doctor and we're battling an alien conspiracy to over run the world with zombies. Hehe)

I've got my hands full with college and a metric shit-ton of editing for "Protein" but I refuse to believe this is a set back. Instead, this is a flowering promise of creative revival.

(Yep, that last line was bullshit.)

"Sphere of the Night" Sample

-Where Angels Fear To Tread-

Nia Foster thrust herself through the line of policemen as they scurried to hold the growing, anxious crowd back behind the lines. Eryn tagged behind the petite detective, a secretive smile pulling at her mouth as she followed, hands buried in her overcoat.

Nia was just brushing past the last of the barriers when the inspector in charge finally noticed the interlopers.

“Hold there!” the portly man roared, rushing at the petite woman. Nia glanced back at Eryn, a grimace on her face. Nia leaned into the taller woman with a sigh.

“Fifty officers standing about and I get the one that isn’t affected by my charm,” Nia grumbled to the blonde. She turned just as the inspector reached them, her most alluring smile jumping to her face immediately.

“Just what do you ladies think you’re doing crossing my police line!” the inspector balled, his face turning a stunning mauve color. Nia’s smile didn’t slip a notch as she reached into her overcoat and pulled out her badge.

“Inspector Foster and Inspector Grant from the Special Investigation Unit,” Nia spoke with a brusque commanding voice as she flicked her badge in his face.

“Special Unit,” the inspector snarled, “I’ve never heard of them.”

“Really?” Nia sighed, arching one long ebony brow, “I’m sure my associate here would be happy to explain our involvement in this case,” Nia turned to Eryn with a cheeky grin. Eryn tried not to roll her eyes as she moved in front of the petite detective.

“I want answers right no missus! No more double talk!” the inspector roared. Eryn kept a calm smile on her face as she placed a hand on his elbow.

“Inspector…?”

“Pattison, Inspector Detective Pattison and I want some answers! You can’t just come tromping on to my crime scene and…” Pattison’s voice dropped off as Eryn applied a gentle pressure to his elbow. His face seemed to go blank for a moment as Eryn leaned in, whispering something into his ear. The next moment she had stepped back, releasing the inspector’s arm. Pattison blinked dumbfound for a second as a strange seriousness came back to his face.

“Right, carry on Inspectors,” Pattison told them in an almost cheery voice before turning back to his men, “Oi! Roberts, get those people back in quay!” Inspector Pattison went after the young policeman, his face turning that funny shade of red again.

Eryn turned back around with a grimace as she glanced at Nia. The Order detective was still grinning almost manically as she started down the stairs to the Underground with Grant a step behind her.

“I should bring an empath with me more often! Saves me energy trying to charm the nosey bastards,” Nia chortled as they reached the platform. Eryn grimaced again as she fished a set of latex gloves from her coat pocket. Nia threw the younger woman an inquisitive look.

“What? Don’t you like being out in the field? You’ve practically been begging the Director to let you join the duty roster. Not as glamorous as you imaged?” Nia teased. Eryn sent the succubus a limp smile.

“I just feel like I’m taking advantage of the poor man is all. I mean he’s just trying to do his duty and we walk in and muck about with his memory. It just doesn’t seem fitting,” Eryn sighed. Nia snorted.

“Trust me dearie, you’ve done far kinder to that man than you think. Suppose he actually finds out what went down in here, that there’s a real monster lose in the Underground? Do you think a man like that could wrap his mind around that? Better to muck him up a bit and let him go home to his tea and telly without being burdened with that sort of knowledge,” Nia told Eryn sternly before she knelt beside one of the white shrouds and lifted the corner. Eryn gagged and turned away, tears bursting to her eyes. Nia hissed under her breath as she inspected the tattered remains of what might have been a teen aged boy at one point. Nia reached out with a bitter smile and stroked the boy’s gouged but nearly intact cheek with the back of her knuckles. Eryn watched with a sick fascination as Nia caressed the dead boy’s face with almost motherly gentleness.

“Poor thing,” Nia whispered to no one in particular, “Had his whole life ahead of him until tonight.” She glanced at the tattered boutique of flowers still clasped in his hand. She lifted one of the white smashed flowers from the wilting boutique.

“Daisies,” Eryn murmured as she crouched down beside Nia, swallowing back her revulsion. Nia nodded and dropped the flower on to the boy’s gouged out chest.

“Probably bought them for a bird he fancied,” Nia whispered and reached out, sliding her fingers over the boy’s wide, terror filled eyes until they were closed. Eryn shook her head, looking away as the first tear slid down her cheek.

“I need you to touch him,” Nia told Eryn in a calm, but flat voice. Eryn’s blue eyes leapt to Nia’s face.

“Wh-what do you mean t-touch him?” Eryn croaked. Nia winced and let out a heavy sigh.

“I need you to touch the body and tell me what happened to him right before he died,” Nia ordered the younger woman. Eryn’s entire face went deathly pale as she looked between Nia’s stern face and the boy’s mangled corpse.

“You can’t be serious! I can’t do that!” Eryn whined pathetically. Nia shot the terrified younger woman an icy glare.

“I’m not asking you to, Inspector Grant, I’m ordering you to,” Nia snapped and grabbed the wrists of Eryn’s coat and thrust her forwards until the palm of her hand hovered over the corpse. Eryn squealed in terror, tears parading down her cheeks as Nia lowered her hand the final centimeters until Eryn’s hand lay over the boy’s forehead.

Eryn’s head snapped back as a sickening rattle climbed from her throat and echoed through the empty platform. The empath’s eyes rolled back in her head, her jaw hanging loose as more twisted cries crept out of her body. Nia watched with a morbid fascination as the empathic woman’s body convulsed and finally slumped forwards on her hands and knees. Long lanks of blond hair obscured the woman’s face.

“Who are you?” Nia ordered. Eryn’s shoulders teased as her body rose back up to its knees like someone pulling a puppet by a string. Eryn’s head hung against her chest still, her blue eyes clouded over with a white film. Nia swallowed back on the bile that was rising in her throat as she studied the empathic.

“Johnny,” Eryn hissed in a voice that was dry and thin. Nia’s eyes shot to the dead boy, a sense of remorse coming to her.

“Tell me Johnny, what did you see?” Nia ordered looking back to Eryn Grant’s possessed body.

“I saw a monster,” Johnny’s dead voice whispered over Eryn’s lips. Nia grimaced.

“Tell me Johnny, what kind of monster was it?”

“Fury!” Johnny screamed through Eryn, her body convulsing, “I saw fury and rage and blood. So much blood! The sky opened up and it rained blood inside the car.”

“What did you see Johnny!” Nia screamed, grabbing Eryn by the shoulders and shaking the younger woman. Eryn’s head whipped back and forth on her shoulders like a rag doll.

“I saw a monster,” the voice inside Eryn whispered but the voice sounded like it was falling away, disappearing like smoke rings in the dark. Eryn sagged sideways, her body slumping onto the platform’s tiles.

Nia leaned over the unconscious American, her face stern but her eyes glistened with real concern for the younger agent.

“Please tell me you didn’t kill her.”

Nia’s hand shot to the gun at her belt as her head whipped around to look at the stairs. Alixandra Sinclair sat on the bottom step of the platform’s stairs, her dark red eyes scanning over the carnage filled scene with an air of detachment. Nia let out a heavy breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and let her arm fall away from her pistol.

“Bloody hell Alix, you damn near made me shit myself,” Nia cursed and rose to her feet. Alix smirked, her claret eyes glinting as she let her gaze flicker over the other agent.

“How much of that did you hear?” Nia asked, jerked her head towards Eryn. Alix frowned, her eyes lingering over the unconscious young woman before flicking off to study the melee of white shrouded bodies that lines the blood stained platform and subway car.

“Enough of it,” Alix sneered and stood, “He called them monsters, ‘fury and rage’.”

“But what does that mean? You think there was more than two?” Nia asked. Alix shrugged as she picked her way through the bodies like she was stepping over stones. Nia had always admired Alix’s level of detachment from crime scenes but sometimes she found the half demon’s aloofness disturbing.

“With this level of overkill I’d say it was a whole pack,” Alix drawled, “But someone would have noticed a pack of werewolves charging through London’s Underground. No, this was something else, something far more sinister than a roving werewolf.” Alix paused and shot a look to Eryn. “He called it ‘fury’. That seems strange for a teenager. I mean a boy at this age would have seen a Hollywood werewolf, so why didn’t he say werewolf? He said ‘fury’.”

“You don’t think he actually meant a furie? They’ve been extinct since the dark ages,” Nia snarled, kneeling beside Eryn. Alix shrugged and waved a hand to the carnage.

“We haven’t seen this sort of attack since the dark ages, care to explain that? Creatures we’ve been calling extinct for centuries seem to be propping up right and left these days. Like royal vampires…”

“And Valkyrie. We thought Valkyrie were all dead up until a few years ago? Twenty five years, to be exact,” Nia murmured, her eyes shooting to Alix. Alix’s frown turned a little colder as she nodded.

“What is old is new again,” Alix drawled, lifting the corner of a sheet, “Old species of fey reappearing, a sudden string of human murders the likes of which we haven’t seen in centuries, and the Order is falling under the power of these mysterious Ministers.”

“You think it’s connected then?” Nia asked tentatively. Alix paused, her eyes meeting Nia’s with an eerie glow. Nia felt the succubus side of her hiss and draw back from the raw power she saw floating in those dark ruby orbs. Nia blinked and looked away.

“Link should be on his way,” Alix murmured, changing the subject, as she let the cloth drop back down over the corpse she was studying. Alix jerked her chin towards Eryn, “He’ll know what to do with our young empathic.” Nia frowned and shook her head.

“God, Alix, at least try and pretend you don’t hate the girl. She’s a valuable member to our team,” Nia chastised. Alix’s silvery white brows shot up at she met the succubus’s glare.

“I don’t have anything against the little psychic…”

“She’s an empathetic, not a psychic and you know it Alix. Play nice Agent Sinclair,” Nia warned her friend. Alix rolled her eyes, the air of formality slipping some from her stance.

“I don’t have anything against Grant, I just don’t like people that can muddle with someone’s head,” Alix grumbled. Nia shook her head with a rueful smile.

“Funny, Eryn said the same thing before she passed out,” Nia sighed and moved towards another body, shaking her head in disgust. Alix moved to stand next to Nia, her eyes sweeping the wreckage and bloodstains with a cold impassiveness. A slight wind from down the tracks stirred up the air around the platform.

“Have you been inside the train car yet?” Alix asked suddenly, her hand going to the pistol at her hip. Nia’s ebony brows shot up as she automatically went for her own firearm.

“No, Eryn and I came and went to the boy first. I thought our agents had already given the all clear,” Nia whispered. Alix put a finger to her lips and motioned Nia to follow her. Alix moved towards the train car, Nia flanking her with weapon drawn.

Alix slid into the compartment, her pistol sweeping over the white shrouded bodies on the left while Nia pressed to Alix’s back as she swept the right side of the train car. Both agents held their breath, their ears straining to hear even the faintest movements. Alix was the first to take a deep breath, letting the coppery air slid over her tongue. The heavy metallic scent of blood and death tasted bitter in her mouth, making her grimace but she could sense the traces of something else lingering. Nia sniffed the air, her eyes closing as she lifted her head.

“Can you smell that?” Nia whispered, her eyes bolting open with a twist scowl.

“No but I can taste it,” Alix hissed, moving forward, her firearm sweeping each body she passed. Nia followed Alix, sniffing the air as the scent grew more pungent. Nia let out a thunderous sneeze as they reached the end of the compartment. Alix tried not to flinch as the succubus threw her an apologetic look.

“What is that?” Alix murmured, motioning to a dab of dark green ooze that was dripping from the handle of escape hatch. Nia sniffed and grimaced, putting her free hand to her nose.

“God, it stinks whatever it is,” Nia complained. Alix rolled her tongue in her mouth, trying to banish the vile taste from her senses. She reached out and touched the handle, feeling the door sway open on its own. Nia’s gun shot up immediately, covering Alix as the other woman pushed the door open the entire way. A distinct trail of green ooze trailed off into the dimly lit railway.

“I say we pursue,” Nia whispered. Alix nodded but hesitated. She glanced back towards the platform.

“What about Grant?” Alix murmured, eyeing Nia. The succubus’s intent expression faded a bit as she too looked towards the platform.

"Glasspool"

Mirror could smell the musk of sex before she heard it. She paused for a moment on the rusting fire escape and listened carefully. The grunts and soft pants of pleasure where definitely coming from Glasspool’s apartment. Mirror chewed at her lower lip as she pondered if she should wait until Glasspool’s client had left.

Glasspool’s high, reedy cry cut through her indecision. Mirror leapt forward, jumping down the last flight of stairs to the platform below Glasspool’s window. The window to the apartment stood open expectantly. Mirror crouched in front of the open window and peered in at the scene set before her in Glasspool’s bedroom.

Mirror’s eyes easily traced Glasspool’s lean tan frame spread out beneath another male on the queen sized bed. Glasspool was arched up on his hands and knees, his head bowed as the other man thrust into his body, rocking Glasspool. Mirror bit her lip again as she watched silently, fascinated by the grunts emanating from the client as he pushed into Glasspool’s tanned body with fervor.

The client’s hips snapped forward with an exceedingly hard thrust, drawing a sharp cry out of Glasspool. The young man threw his head back, tossing the inky black strands of hair from his face as he bowed. Glasspool’s handsome face was twisted in a grimace of pleasure, his mouth hanging open as tiny pants crept over his lips. A thin trickle of blood speckled the corner of his lip and dribbled down his chin. Glasspool moaned loudly and dropped to his elbows, arching his hips upwards to meet his client’s next thrust. Glasspool moved his hips in a primal rhythm, his thighs trembling with every erratic plunge. Mirror watched, enthralled by Glasspool’s body as it moved.

The other man grunted suddenly and pulled out of Glasspool’s body. He grabbed Glasspool fiercely by the shoulder with one hand, his other hand moving down his body to wrap around his cock. The client growled and threw Glasspool on to his back before he pounced on the younger man, pinning Glasspool down to the mattress. Glasspool seemed oddly serene as the grunting man loomed over him, jerking his cock in a broken rhythm, his eyes clenched shut. Mirror grimaced as she watched the client grit his teeth as a keening wail slid out of his chest as he burst over Glasspool’s belly. The client’s hand jerked between his thighs for a moment longer before his entire body deflated and fell against Glasspool’s chest with a wet, hard slap.

Mirror tried to ignore Glasspool’s wince as he pushed up against the client’s broad white shoulders. The client let out a tired groan, moving his weight achingly slow from off of Glasspool’s chest. The man forced himself up on to his hands, his hips still planted firmly between Glasspool’s thighs. The client held himself there for a long second as he studied Glasspool with a curious eye. Mirror knew from experience that Glasspool hated when clients took their leisure after sex on top of him. She watched as Glasspool averted his eyes under the veil of his long, black lashes, a wanton little smirk pulling at his lips in a feign. The client seemed pleased as he moved a hand up to caress Glasspool’s prominent cheekbone with a strange delicacy.

“You’re rather pretty for a whore,” the bigger man said in a sex roughened purr, his fingers brushing over Glasspool’s lower lip tenderly. Glasspool’s forget-me-not blue eyes flashed open wide, drawing a heavy gasp from the man’s chest even as Glasspool drew his lingering fingers into his mouth teasingly. Mirror had seen this post sex ballet played out by Glasspool many times before. The steps were well practice; a heated look, a suggestive tease, and the silent promise of pleasure to come to a repeat customer. Judging by the client’s fevered grin, it was working well. He pulled his fingers from Glasspool’s mouth with a quiet pop before he swiftly thrust his mouth forward. Glasspool moved faster, turning his head aside so the client’s mouth landed sloppily against his jaw in an ill formed kiss.

Mirror flinched as Glasspool’s brilliant blue eyes landed on her. Glasspool glowered at her even as his body moved methodically against the client, pushing him away. Mirror guiltily inched backwards, hiding behind the window frame but she didn’t stop her observations. Her eyes remained fixed on the client as he levered himself off of Glasspool, a heavy frown written over his face. Glasspool laid spread out on the mangled bed sheets, the picture of lazy sexual satisfaction. Mirror watched the client stand and shuffle around for his clothes. Glasspool rolled on to his side, putting his back to the window as he watched his client rummage around, collecting the pieces of the tailored suit he’d flung about the bedroom in his haste. Mirror’s eyes moved from the client’s bumbling search to study Glasspool’s back. A dappling of bruises, some fresh and some healing ringed the honey brown skin along Glasspool’s lower back and hips. A rather nasty red bite mark marred the skin below Glasspool’s left shoulder blade.

“Here,” the man muttered gruffly as he flung a few credit clips on the bed beside Glasspool. The man hastily left the bedroom without a backwards glance. Mirror held her breath, her ears straining to hear the telltale click of the front door closing behind Glasspool’s client. Glasspool let out a wretched groan as the front door to the apartment slammed. He flung himself backwards onto the rumpled sheets, pressing his palms tightly over his eyes.

Mirror took this as her cue to slip silently into the apartment window. She moved with a self-confidence through the bedroom that she had lacked on fire escape. First she went to the small bathroom adjoining the bedroom. She returned to the bedroom a moment later, a wet washcloth in hand.

Mirror moved with a solemn, practice ease that she knew Glasspool appreciated. She kneeled beside Glasspool on the bed, sweeping the credit chips aside as she leaned over the young man. Glasspool kept an arm flung over his eyes as Mirror moved the washcloth over his chest and abdomen, cleaning away the remains of the client’s spent passions on Glasspool’s body. She moved with tenderness to clean his thighs, her eyes averted from his still aroused member. Glasspool held very still as Mirror swept away any traces of his client from his body. Mirror finished cleaning Glasspool and returned to the bathroom. She emerged a moment later carrying a red silk robe. Glasspool had levered himself up into a sitting position by the time Mirror came back to his side, holding the robe open expectantly.

“Thank you,” Glasspool whispered huskily as he stood and let Mirror wrap the silk robe around his nude body. She kept her head bowed as she diligently tied the robe’s sash in a careful knot over Glasspool’s flat belly. Mirror froze in her well-practiced movements as Glasspool’s gentle brown hand curled under her chin and lifted her face upwards. She blinked up at Glasspool, noting the smeared black kohl under his eyes and the tired tilt of his mouth. The corner of Glasspool’s mouth pulled up in a drowsy smile as he leaned down and pressed his lips to Mirror’s in a chaste kiss. Mirror felt her eyes flutter close against her will as Glasspool’s cool lips moved against hers tenderly. Glasspool pulled away with a sleepy sigh and stroked Mirror’s cheek until she forced her eyes open again. He smiled and patted her on the head affectionately before he left the bedroom.

Mirror pressed a hand over her breast and silently ordered her heart to stop jumping up and down in her chest. Glasspool acted funny sometimes when he was very tired. Mirror shook her head fiercely and hurried to finish her chores. The bed was stripped with deft hands and remade and the credit chips dutifully stowed away in the cigar box on Glasspool’s dresser. Mirror moved around the bedroom blowing out the candles that illuminated the room. She paused in the dark, letting her eyes adjust before she looked to the open window. The night was still a thick blue-black outside but Mirror could feel the approaching dawn in her bones. She hurried to pull the shutters closed on the window and bolted them before pulling the long black curtains over the window as an extra measure. A complete darkness enwrapped the silent bedroom. Mirror let her hand skim across the wall as she walked the bedroom’s length and returned once more to the bathroom. A single candle still burned on the counter of the sink.

Mirror let her thoughts wander to Glasspool’s kiss as she began to fill the tub with hot water. Her body moved on its own accord pouring the sweetly scent oils into the bath as she pondered Glasspool’s kiss. It was something simple, silly even for Glasspool. He’d kissed Mirror a handful of times before, always with the same sleepy innocence as the kiss they’d just shared in the bedroom but Mirror liked to think they were special. Glasspool never let his clients kiss him on the mouth, even when he allowed them full reign of the rest of his body. Mirror smiled to herself and let her fingers skim softly over her lower lip as she remembered how Glasspool’s cool lips felt.

“Daydreaming Mirror?” Glasspool purred in her ear, making her start. Mirror whipped around to face Glasspool, her cheeks flushed and her mouth parted in a silent cry. Glasspool’s blue eyes flashed hungrily to her heated cheeks. Mirror bowed her head quickly as Glasspool giggled. Mirror tried to pretend her face wasn’t burning up as she hurried to finish her task.

Glasspool sunk down into the tub’s warm, scented waters with a satisfied sigh while Mirror fussed over hanging up his silk robe before she turned back to him, her eyes wide and expectant. Glasspool smiled sleepily, his handsome face lighting up as he motioned for her to come near. Mirror grinned and slowly pulled off her own clothes, folding them and placing them gently aside before she slipped into the tub with Glasspool.

Glasspool’s arms enfolded her the moment her pale body had slipped into the water, drawing her into his chest. Mirror closed her eyes with a smile, curling her body up against Glasspool’s chest, her head tucked under his chin. His hands lingered on her arm and thigh, pulling her insistently closer to him as he nuzzled the crown of her head. Mirror shivered despite the warm water. Glasspool’s body was solid and cold against her thin frame, his arms forming an icy cage around her. Glasspool sighed into her hair, his nose brushing against her ear as he spoke.

“Do you remember the day I found you?” Glasspool murmured, his hand moving in little circles on her thigh. Mirror nodded mutely. Glasspool smiled and kissed her temple. “I remember it clearly, as if it hadn’t been seven years ago. It was raining and I was on my way back from meeting a client at one of those swank bars up in Bromley Towers. I was coming down 5^th Avenue, fingering the credit chips in my pocket and thinking about buying myself a ticket off-world when I pass this by this little boutique and there you were, sitting in the window. I remember thinking ‘I wish I could have an advanced gen with blue hair like hers’. Your hair was the color of sapphires and it was in these little ringlets all around your pixie face. I thought you might have been a doll until you looked up at me and blinked those big, empty eyes. I was so shocked, I started laughing. Right there in the middle of the avenue and the pouring rain ‘cause this little girl had these big empty eyes. I swear there was absolutely no color in your eyes, just these two empty mirrors staring up at me. I knew then I had to have you, I’d already named you. My little doll, Mirror. I resolved to go into the boutique and bargain with the owner, maybe offer my services, anything to buy that little girl in the window,” Glasspool murmured against Mirror’s ear tenderly.

Mirror smiled and forced herself a little tighter against Glasspool’s sinewy chest despite the cold. She felt herself being swayed to sleep my Glasspool’s soft voice. Mirror rubbed her cheek against his shoulder in a loving gesture, urging him to continue. Glasspool chuckled and squeezed Mirror’s arm affectionately.

“You must imagine my surprise when I ask about the girl with the blue hair in the window that the owner told me I didn’t want that girl. My little blue haired girl had been returned after her last owner treated too roughly and broke her. Now the little blue hair creature couldn’t speak, just blink those big empty eyes. I was so disappointed, I nearly pouted. I told the woman I wanted that girl and only she would do for me. I’m sure the owner thought I was one of those pity cases that took in all the little broken creatures. She dropped your price so low I felt like I was robbing her, even if it did cost me every credit I had. I still remember that moment though, the first time I picked you up in my arms like this,” Glasspool whispered and demonstrated, curling his arms protectively around Mirror’s thin body, “I cradled you to my chest and whispered in your ear, ‘Hello my little Mirror. Let’s go home.’ Now look at us. I don’t even mind anymore that you can’t speak.”

Mirror flinched, her uncolored eyes flashing open as she guiltily pulled away from Glasspool. Mirror feigned a silent smile for her owner as she leaned over, picking up the washcloth she’d left out on the side of the tub, and dipped it into the water. She brought the washcloth out of the water and brought it to Glasspool’s face, cleaning away the smeared eye makeup and sweat from his handsome brow. Glasspool purred as Mirror worked with her affectionate thoroughness until every inch of his body was cleansed. She cleaned herself with a shy, swift manner as Glasspool dozed in the cooled waters. Mirror pulled herself out of the tub first and dried herself off before she shook Glasspool awake. Mirror stood aside, a towel in hand as Glasspool stepped out of the tub. She allowed herself to marvel at him as she pat him dry and helped him slip into his silk robe. Mirror motioned to Glasspool to lean down so she could reach his face, both of them familiar with this routine. Mirror gently swiped her fingers across Glasspool’s startling blue eyes, dislodging the contacts to reveal the luminescent amber eyes below. Mirror never let Glasspool know, but she had preferred his golden eyes. His vampire eyes.

As soon as Glasspool’s eyes were unshielded, he drew back from the sputtering candle light and into the thick shadows. Mirror shivered as his body disappeared but she could still see the glittering gold eyes peering at her through the darkness, shimmering like cat’s eyes in the dark. Mirror had drained the tub and stowed away Glasspool’s contacts when she felt him blow out the candle as his arms came around her. He lifted her again like he was cradling a small child and carried her into the dark bedroom. Mirror couldn’t see anything but Glasspool’s golden eyes in the dark, watching her as he laid her down in the bed. A moment passed in silence before Mirror heard the soft hiss of silk falling to the floor. The mattress shuddered and squeaked a protest as Glasspool threw himself down beside her, his arms automatically seeking her out and pulling her to his cold, nude body. Mirror spooned herself against his body, shivering as Glasspool’s heavy breath brushed across her throat. His hunger held over them like a heavy tension, but this too was routine.

Glasspool’s arms caged her in, one hand snaking between her breasts to lay over her heart even as the other gripped her hair, pulling her head back, angling her to his desires. Mirror closed her eyes as his mouth sealed over her jugular first with tenderness, but tenderness was quickly cast aside for need. Mirror winced despite the familiarity as Glasspool’s fangs sank into her throat, as his tongue lanced over the wounds and drew her blood into himself. Mirror let herself slid into the familiar dizziness and lethargy that came from feeding. Distantly, she heard the church bells all over the city begin to ring their warning as dawn approached the city of the dead.