The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

This one, he thought, was very brave. Some surrendered early, some struggled even after he had gotten them tied up, gag in place, but they used up their strength quickly and then became quiet and resigned. With this one there had been tears at first, but they had flowed from eyes that were wide and glaring-tears of rage and frustration rather than of fear and grief for the anticipated loss of her own life. And the walk into the woods hadn't been easy at all, far from it. Even trussed up completely, she had never for a minute given up struggling, knees and elbows pummeling his chest and sides as he carried her over his shoulder. Now she was on the ground; but not, as many did, simply waiting it out anxiously, moaning or crying or praying, or lying back in surrender with eyes closed, pretending it was a dream- or trying to avoid seeing his preparations. He had seen a lot of different reactions. But none exactly like this. She sat up in the pile of leaves he had gathered-his improvised altar-her legs pulled up under her as she stared at him with angry eyes, their burning ferocity accented by the redness left from the tears that had now stopped. Even though he had already scissored away the blouse and bra, had laid the oilskin packet on the ground where she could see it, still she hadn't rearranged herself instinctively into some shrinking posture, wasn't cringing. He smiled as it occurred to him that maybe it wasn't merely that she was brave...Maybe she wasn't normal. He took the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, tapped one out, and lit it with a match. He didn't blow out the flame immediately but held the match in his hand like a tiny torch. For the past few minutes he had been leaning against a tree, just trading stares, but now he took a few steps toward her. Her eyes widened slightly, but he still didn't see any expression of outright dread. "Burning to death," he said, "is a horrible way to die." He switched his gaze between the flame and the pile of leaves on which she was perched. She stiffened, lifted her chin, but what he saw was still something less than terror. Her eyebrows creased, as if she was trying to comprehend what he had said, why he would say it. He smiled. "You know me too well," he said, "don't you?" He blew out the match then, crumbled the end, and put the wooden shaft into his pocket. "You know I wouldn't do that." Careful not to inhale the smoke, he took a long puff on the cigarette, watching from the corner of his eye as the ash glowed red. He moved up next to her, then took the cigarette from his mouth, and in a quick deft movement touched the burning end to the tip of one of her nipples. A muffled squeal came through the gag, and her body jolted backward, but he was prepared for her retreat, so that he was able to keep the singeing ash pressed against her breast. The amber tissue was burned to black. He pulled the cigarette away, but her whimpering squeal went on. That was better, he thought. She even sounded like a pig about to be slaughtered. He went back to where the oilskin packet lay, walked around it so that she would have a view of what he was doing, and knelt down. Untying the string, he opened the flaps. Then he picked up each item-needlessly really, just straightening them or moving them a little farther apart, like a host fussing with the settings at a dinner party. The knives, the saw, the drill, the screwdriver, the long rubber cylinder, and of course the gloves. Until he had finished fiddling, he didn't look at her again. At last the tone of her cry changed from a squeal of pain to the muffled plea for pity. She was looking at him. And, he was relieved to see, the terror was there. She was normal, after all. He put on the gloves and passed his hand uncertainly over the different tools, hesitating over his choice. At last he picked up the rubber cylinder and took the scissors again from his pocket. "Well," he said, as if they were simply going on a picnic, "I think it's about time we got started. . . ." Her throat flexed with the effort of a scream that puffed out the front of the gag. And though she couldn't possibly articulate a word, he thought he knew exactly what she must be saying. "Yes," he mocked her as he rolled her over on her stomach. "Pretty please with sugar on it."