Immortal Pleasures E-Book

V. Castro

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 450

Beschreibung

In this seductive dark fantasy from the author of The Haunting of Alejandra, an ancient Aztec vampire roams modern Dublin in search of vengeance and love. Hundreds of years ago, she was known as La Malinche: a Nahua woman who translated for the conquistador Cortés. In the centuries since, her name has gone down in infamy as a traitor. But no one ever found out what happened to La Malinche after Cortés destroyed her people. In the ashes of the empire, she was reborn as Malinalli, an immortal vampire. And she has become an avenger of conquered peoples, traveling the world to reclaim their stolen artifacts and return them to their homelands. But she has also been in search of something more, for this ancient vampire still has deeply human longings for pleasure and for love. When she arrives in Dublin in search of a pair of Aztec skulls—artifacts intimately connected to her own dark history—she finds something else: two men who satisfy her cravings in very different ways. For the first time she meets a mortal man—a horror novelist—who is not repelled by her strange condition but attracted by it. But there is also another man, an immortal like herself, who shares the darkness in her heart. Now Malinalli is on the most perilous adventure of all: a journey into her own desires.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Praise for Immortal Pleasures

Praise for V. Castro

Also by V. Castro and Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Acknowledgments

About the Author

PRAISE FOR IMMORTAL PLEASURES

“V. Castro lures readers into a perilous netherworld charged with debauchery and primal sensuality. Hauntingly rendered and decadently written, Immortal Pleasures is a surprising and fantastical portrait of one of history’s most fascinating (and perhaps most misunderstood) figures.”

ERIC LAROCCA, BRAM STOKER AWARD®-NOMINATED AUTHOR OF THINGS HAVE GOTTEN WORSE SINCE WE LAST SPOKE AND OTHER MISFORTUNES

“Castro (The Haunting of Alejandra) remains masterful at blending the monstrous and the sacred in examining the darkest parts of women’s lives… A lush examination of love, self-worth, and colonialism through the monstrous.”

LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW

“This steamy tale of angsty romance, the enduring trauma of colonialism, and the pursuit of righteous vengeance may appeal to those looking for new twists on vampire lore.”

BOOKLIST

PRAISE FOR V. CASTRO

“If you’re a horror fan and you haven’t picked up V. Castro, you need to fix that.”

SARAH LANGAN, BRAM STOKER AWARD®-WINNING AUTHOR OF GOOD NEIGHBOURS

“V. Castro is the voice of authenticity; una voz que lucha por la igualdad. Dark, atmospheric, sexy, and dangerous, her fiction brings readers her unfiltered Latinx essence and a unique pulpy flavor. Her work matters. Read it.”

GABINO IGLESIAS, BRAM STOKER AWARD®-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE DEVIL TAKES YOU HOME

“In The Queen of theCicadas… you can feel your heart beating in the pages, the words pulsing with life. Touch them if you dare, and don’t be surprised if they quiver into flight all around you.”

STEPHEN GRAHAM JONES, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE INDIAN LAKE TRILOGY

“V. Castro writes like her blood is in the ink. Queen of the Cicadas is the best urban legend story since Candyman, layered and dark and hideously beautiful. It will get way under your skin. If Castro’s not already on your radar, she should be.”

CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF ALL HALLOWS AND THE ROAD OF BONES

ALSO BY V. CASTROAND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

The Haunting of Alejandra

Aliens: Vasquez

Rebel Moon Part One -A Child of Fire: The Official Novelization

Rebel Moon Part Two -The Scargiver: The Official Novelization

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Immortal Pleasures

Print edition ISBN: 9781835410110

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835410257

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: May 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© V. Castro 2024.

V. Castro asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Published by arrangement with Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Dedicated to A.J.D.M.Thank you for being my support and pleasure.And to my ancestors.Thank you for the wellspring of inspiration.Your stories are my stories.

Is it really our life? Perhaps we are gathered todance to a shaman’s chant we cannot hear until wefind ourselves moving to the beat.

ONE

It’s my last night in Dublin before I head to the south coast. Ireland was the first stop on my way to London because of its landscape, particularly its grass—that dreamy electric green, surrounded by dark cold waters and even colder winds.

That landscape had called to me while I was flipping through an airline magazine during one of my business-class flights across South America. The advertisement showed a green pasture that ended with a cliff dropping to leaping waves in the shape of giant conch shells. I had to see that grass with my own eyes, feel it beneath my feet.

You see, my name is Malinalli, which means grass in my native Nahuatl language. The glossy photo ignited my soul with wonder, and I knew I had to overcome my irrational fear of exploring this part of the world, Europe. It was a European who changed my given name Malinalli to La Malinche and Doña Marina. Neither did I choose, nor could I refuse as a human. At least as a vampire I could take back my name. Small steps.

But you may wonder why a Nahua vampire from the sixteenth century like me would harbor a fear of anything after being an apex predator for so very long. After all, my blood is powerful and intoxicating—it comes from a vampire made by one of the very first vampires. However, like the demolished temple Tenochtitlán, my heart still bears the scars of history.

Before this trip was even an idea, my concentration on work had been waning. I kept finding myself slipping into daydreams of distant places. My heart would sink to depths of emotion I could not allow myself to wade in. In train stations and airports, I used to walk with a smug swagger past couples if I saw an obviously out-of-sync partnership, and past families if I saw screaming children throwing themselves at the feet of exhausted parents. Ain’t no one holding me down or holding me back, I’d think. But recently I’d also think soon after: Ain’t no one waiting for me either. Walk enough crowded terminals alone, your hand swinging aimlessly by your side, and it starts to feel dead. And mine had hung empty for centuries. I couldn’t care less about the offspring. As a vampire, my bearing a child was not an option. But lately I’d wanted to feel an arm around my waist. A companionship that lasted longer than a night would be nice.

*   *   *

Two days after the idea of traveling to Ireland first struck me, I received an out-of-the-blue opportunity to purchase rare Mexican artifacts from a dealer in London. I am a collector, buyer, and seller of antiquities from all over the world; however, my specialty is Mexico and South and Central America. As a blood huntress it was a natural fit.

Since 1972, I had made my living tracking rare objects, although I began my search for these objects long before I’d ever earned a cent. My career had begun not as a career, but as a sort of spiteful secret mission to reclaim our culture’s lost treasures one object at a time from the colonizers. The more I learned about my new vampire life and all its strengths, the more I thought about my purpose in life. My work has given me purpose beyond servitude or mere survival. I could create some good for myself and others.

The artifacts are two skulls I first encountered when I was still human. When I read the email and saw the photos of the skulls, the excitement in my work that I’d lost came back, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. My instinct told me these were the very same treasures I had been hunting for since I began my journey in acquiring antiquities. One skull is carved from pure clear quartz. The other is an embellished mosaic of turquoise and obsidian set in a human skull with most of the teeth still intact. Judging from the photo, the gold that once plated the human skull had been scraped from the bone.

The skulls had once belonged to someone I loved dearly. Her name was Chantico. She was like a mother to me when I first became a vampire. She helped me find the will to live for myself.

I had been searching for centuries for these skulls with no luck, and I’d been on the brink of giving up on ever finding them. It wasn’t until the birth of the internet that my journey began to gain a little momentum, though every path had led to a dead end until now. However, life can be as unpredictable as the height of waves crashing on a shore; now, at long last, the skulls were within my reach. The universe presented me the perfect opportunity to act on my desire to reclaim these treasures.

So I simply had to fly across the Atlantic to purchase those skulls and keep them safe. The catch was the skulls were now in London with a private collector. But this purchase was too important to leave to chance, to buy on the evidence of digital photographs alone, even if the photos I’d been emailed appeared legitimate. My usual London-based antiquities broker, Horatio Hutchings, a trustworthy man in the business, assured me it was not a scam. However, he did not possess the same skill that I did in detecting forged objects—and I had seen my fair share in my many centuries of existence. To reclaim the skulls—and with them, a part of my soul—I had to take the trip. And that trip would be first class all the way, including the best hotels. Everything paid for by the business I had built from scratch and the antiquities I’d acquired over time. I deserved to have everything I wanted in this life. Divine timing can be a stubborn bitch, but when she comes through, she delivers divine rewards.

And so, eager to finally possess the skulls, and with a nagging desire to travel, I created a four-week itinerary to explore Ireland and England at the same time. Spain would be the next place I’d visit—where perhaps I could finally lay my anger at its colonizers to rest—and finally Vienna, Austria, to see the Penacho, a rare surviving Aztec headdress, bright green and feathered, that didn’t belong halfway around the world from its country of origin, in a museum for people who could not fully appreciate its true importance. Indeed, part of my mission has been to reach out to museums around the world and broker deals to give back stolen items to their original cultures. The treasures can then go on tour or on loan to museums in other lands; however, sole ownership belongs to the people who created them. That particular headdress had long been on my radar. I figured my kind emails to the museum were not doing enough, and that my power of persuasion in the flesh could serve me better. After years of practice, vampires can use their energy to influence the emotions of humans. We can’t force them to do something, just steer them toward what we want from them. I was not opposed to using my vampire magnetism to get what I wanted, and I wanted this headdress back in Mexico City.

In my human life, as a translator, I’d watched villages and temples be sacked by the conquistadors. The terror and sorrow at one’s powerlessness to stop the destruction of one’s home is something no one should experience or witness. And with the treasures of our past stolen, our children would grow up without anything to remind them of their history or story. The children of Europe had no tie to this object and could, at best, see it only as a unique piece of history of a people they could not fully understand, but more than likely, as just a nice artifact with pretty feathers from a bird they had never seen before. But the headdress had the potential to instill pride and awe in my people if returned to its rightful place in Mexico. And that is exactly what I was going to do. The Hapsburg Archduke Ferdinand II was long dead—what would he care if an item he acquired out of imperialist greed was taken back?

And as soon as I landed on the distant cool shores of Ireland, I knew I had made the right choice. Even the sight of the drizzle on the small window as we landed excited me. An undercurrent of expectation made my body alert to every sensation and sight. The climate in Ireland differs greatly from my home. Although it is summer in Ireland, there is always a damp chill in the evening air. What a change from the heat I’m accustomed to! This is exactly why I’d made the decision to cross the pond to explore the Old World. My trip would be a gust of change to rid myself of my inner demons—and perhaps introduce me to a few new ones along the way, just for laughs.

All of this to reclaim the freedom once stolen from me back when I was a mortal. Imagine going from “Will this be the day I die as a slave?” to becoming the very embodiment of death. And now I wanted to appease the restlessness that had settled over me the last few years. I am worth millions, but as life has shown me, cash only goes so far in creating a fulfilling life.

And so on this trip I felt open to the unexpected. Perhaps destiny had even brought me across the pond for a reason beyond the skulls. Part of me wanted to believe Chantico watched me from wherever her spirit hovered and sent me a blessing of joy.

TWO

Later that night, I am on my final stop on a pub crawl and my third glass of sparkling water with a wedge of lime. What a great way to end the evening: “Big Love” by Fleetwood Mac playing on speakers mounted on the front of the bar. The paunchy bartender wearing a rugby jersey bellowing “Last call” over the din of the bar. People guzzling whatever they’re drinking and shuffling toward the door. Through the thinning herd, I can now see the corner booth.

And there he is, sitting with his mates at a table covered in Stella Artois bottles and pint glasses. His blue eyes flash with the same allure as his smile surrounded by a light stubble. The sleeves of his T-shirt creep over defined biceps. Candy for the eyes and body. A box of new books rests at his feet. The covers are all dark with red titles. One has a skeleton key and skull with what look like fangs. I chuckle to myself. He has a thing for vampires. I wonder if he is selling the books. Or did he write them? Doesn’t matter. I want the pleasure of his company, or at the very least the comfort of his body.

During my human life, romance and sex for pleasure had not been options for me. I had gone from being a teenage handmaiden serving the Tabascan royalty to being owned by the Spanish colonizer known as Hernán Cortés. Not only did I translate for him, we Indigenous women could not say no to any “advances” made toward us. First, he’d given me to one of his captains, Alonso Puertocarerro, then to himself, and finally to my Spanish husband, Juan Jarmillo, before my human death.

When I was reborn, I relished my newfound freedom, but I had much healing to do after the trauma of witnessing the conquest in all its horror—and the horrors inflicted on me. My history had left me with deep scars, one of them the fear of being used. There was the lingering paranoia that once my use was over so would be my worth, my life.

But after some time, I began to allow myself the luxury of physical pleasure even though I still was not able to give my heart freely. My experience of not being accepted, respected, or loved as a Brown woman by colonizer men made me self-conscious, about myself and also my vampire nature. Not all vampires felt like this, as I found out centuries later, when I finally befriended one.

“Mortals only want one thing,” that vampire had once told me, shouting over pulsating disco at a nightclub in New York City in the 1970s. White light refracted across our faces from the spinning disco ball in the center of the dance floor. The vampire’s name was Catherine, and she was older than me by a few hundred years. She wore the best clothing in the current fashion and the brightest red lipstick, with a shine as blinding as the nail polish on the talons she filed to sharp points. Her life was a constant party; she was never not planning another wild bash, and she was never alone for long. If not planning that next party, she hopped from shop to shop for the best her money could buy. So I was curious about her thoughts about life as a vampire.

“And what is that? A chance at immortal life?”

With her hot-blooded gaze, she flicked her feathered, bouncy honey-blond hair and scoffed, “No, no. Very few mortals have the courage for that. Most really can’t stomach the idea of being a blood drinker day in and day out. They want to feel close enough to life after death to not feel afraid of death itself. Humans are so full of doubt and fear of the unknown. They can’t see the divine unless the signs hit them like battle axes and draw blood. And vampires tell them that death is an illusion.”

Her bright lips spread to a sinister smile. “But also vampires do not deny ourselves pleasure. And pleasure is everyone’s drug of choice.”

She raised a finger and motioned for someone behind me. A young woman slid next to her, exposing her bare shoulder blade as she continued to move to the music. Catherine laid a sticky lipstick kiss on the woman’s shoulder before pulling out a small velvet pouch from her metal clutch. The young woman giggled and purred with delight. From inside Catherine plucked a small white pill and placed it into the woman’s mouth. Catherine didn’t take her eyes off me as she bit deep into the shoulder blade of the young woman. Blood and lipstick stuck to her skin. The woman moaned and writhed in Catherine’s embrace. Catherine still had crimson beads clinging to her lipstick when she pulled away from the young woman.

“All the lords and masters are dead, Malinalli. It is our turn to celebrate in the streets. We are not dead. I hope they are all burning in hell while feeling the constraints of the tight corsets some of us were forced to wear. Let them choke on sulfur for a change.”

Catherine became a vampire during the thirteenth century in France. She had seen the evolution of Europe. As an aristocrat, she was by no means deprived or underprivileged in material wealth; however, her only worth was to be wed to create more of it. Her words hit me in the center of my chest even harder than the bass from the music. My wounds opened for a moment as the faces of my many owners flashed before my eyes. I couldn’t argue with that sentiment. I hoped in death they knew intimately the pain they had inflicted. Part of me wanted to embrace the carefree nature Catherine had adopted, but my resentment still glowed a little too brightly. More time, something I had plenty of, was still needed.

She let out a wicked giggle before shouting, “I fucking love the seventies!” Her hand slid beneath the low-cut collar of the young woman’s thin pink polyester wraparound dress to massage her breast. The young woman tugged at the fabric to expose her nipple. Catherine used the tip of her nail to flick the erect pink flesh. One swift swipe drew a bloom of blood, causing the woman to groan. Catherine bit her lip before lapping up the red liquid jewel.

Catherine hadn’t cared about being inconspicuous. That was her way of getting vengeance against her former masters. And now, so many years later, I was slowly reaching the same point. I had once kept my true vampire self in shadows, and now it was rising to the surface.

The longer I am far from home, the more open I feel to wanting my vampire half and human half to be equally free. I have left my past in Mexico and I have traveled across the waters that brought the many colonizers to my world. It is time to confront their world. My work requires me to seem human. And I have kept my sexual relationships superficial so as not to reveal I am a blood drinker by nature. There was a time in my life when the thirst and the hunt gave me immeasurable pleasure, the only pleasure, as I had retreated into hiding as the last of my people attempted to fight off the invaders. I orgasmed in the throes of draining a soldier dry and tossing his corpse where I knew the Spanish sent scouts. Every part of me let go in blinding surrender. The look of horror when they saw the new me, the vampire me, let me know this was a side of me humans would never understand.

Yet the lack of intimacy in my life had only become another wound. My heart feels tied in ropes of thorn. I had tried to place a vast distance between me and others, as vast as the depth and length of the ocean between the New World and the Old. All the while I ached for real connection, for a profound love to blow away the profound hurt I was still healing from. But now I was resolved: I did not come this far or live this long to become a captive again. I want a lover to love all of me, the woman and the vampire.

But I don’t believe we find our true soul’s desire, or purpose—it finds us. Perhaps, when you meet a soulmate, it is a sign that all those long-lost particles blown to bits at the beginning of time have found their way to one another again—stardust finding itself in another body. Until we reunite with those parts of ourselves, our thoughts and desires will burn like meteors scalding skin, brain, bone, and soul. And that’s how we end up choosing the wrong people, feeling the kind of heartbreak that teaches us lessons. After centuries alone, I hoped to find my soulmate as I did the treasures that made me my fortune. My soul’s aching desire was to discover real love, to feel true equilibrium with my match. To make up for when I had been passed hand to hand in my youth without choice. At that time, I was merely a treasure to be taken.

As I look at the stranger, I can’t tell yet how deep an encounter might be with him, but fate is somehow telling me I’m not going back to my room anytime soon. The question is: Will he notice the only Brown woman in the place, the one with the leather jacket, dress too short to bend over, large hoop earrings, and lips tinted so red they’d leave a ring around his cock?

The bartender shouts “Last call” again with a grumpy look on his face for those of us who remain. I drink the dregs of my water, waiting for a glance from the stranger. He’s wearing a tweed newsboy cap, jeans, and a black T-shirt that reveals one tightly sculpted arm with a sleeve of tattoos. Is he strong? It makes me want both of his arms holding me against a wall with him inside of me. I watch him take the beer bottle into his mouth, then lick his lips with a slight pout. Perfect for nibbling bare skin. His physical allure was apparent, but I also liked that he was giving his friends his full attention. He didn’t talk over them nor was he too obnoxious from alcohol. He had a sense of self-control and intensity when he didn’t speak. Now I’m even more convinced I want to take him home. Just one last souvenir from my time in Dublin. Stardust or dark matter, in the spirit of this trip, I’ll take a chance. He’s perfect.

Our gazes lock when his group begins to say their goodbyes. His eyes are the color of stormy coastal waters and mine are so dark they look nearly black, or so I’m told. Suddenly my thighs are slick—something I notice since I’m wearing nothing underneath my thin jersey dress. The wetness between my legs becomes harder to ignore the longer I stare. His look says, “I’m here,” and my body answers, “I’m coming.” In this moment I’m a piece of driftwood being pulled to shore by a sensual current I can’t control, and my thirst is the same vivid color as my lips. My belly moans like a siren looking for shipwrecked sailors to devour.

I walk over to the table; his friends eye the brazen woman with a hungry gleam in her eye, straight out of “Maneater” by Hall & Oates. They are certainly drunk, talking too loud with heavy-lidded eyes, but he’s not. He knows, with my predatory movements, that I’ve come for him.

I don’t get the sense he scares easily, which is good. “Hey, fellas.” I only greet the others to be polite, then I turn my attention to the man I’m even more physically attracted to the closer I get. He looks up from his beer and meets my gaze like before. I can hear his heartbeat quicken and smell sweat and the blood increasing around his groin. He is aroused. A stubbly five o’clock shadow covers his face, but it’s not so thick you can’t see his cleft chin. I touch his shoulder to let him know my presence is a formal invitation. Any inkling of unease will be forgotten as soon as he feels my vampire caress. A spark ignites in my mind. My vampire senses are similar to human intuition, but clearer: He wants to fuck me too.

Vampires may be dead, but we still possess energy; in fact, that energy is stronger than that of humans. Depending on the vampire, it can be used to send different emotions to a human through touch. My ancestors believed in something called tonalli. Consider it a type of soul energy. This soul energy even protects me from the daylight. I was born a sun worshipper, after all.

The magnetism of my being, this silken tonalli, I bend with my will, and I use it to tell him to relax. With one touch I could also send him running away with nightmares for the rest of his life.

“So, can I help you carry those books home?”

His Cupid’s bow mouth curls to a slight smile. He looks at his friends, who are too gobsmacked to say anything. They just stifle their boyish schoolyard giggles. I could give zero fucks what they’re thinking, because all I have on my mind is pleasure.

“All right then. I’m not far. My bookstore is just around the corner. My flat is above it.”

“If you have no one waiting for you at home, show me the way,” I say without looking at anyone but him before I make my way to the bar. The bartender is wiping down the wood counter scratched to the varnish, displeased we are still hanging around past last call. I pull out a one-hundred-pound note from my cross-body handbag and slap it down. “Their drinks are on me.”

I can feel my beautiful prey standing behind me. His pulse pumps quickly, a tempo I hope he can match with his body. “I’m ready when you are,” he says.

My tongue feels the sharp point of one of my fangs. I am ready.

*   *   *

We walk into the cool summer night. His arms shiver at the evening air. I don’t feel the cold. I only see and feel the sights of this foreign, intriguing city. This is what keeps me moving forward year to year through my immortal life: beautiful objects, new people with unique stories, and discovering the secrets of the world.

It was my curious nature that kept me alive in those early days of the conquest in the sixteenth century, when my world was one of perpetual death and upheaval. The Spanish and the Tabascan traitors are the ones who taught me how to be a trader. I watched how they exchanged worthless beads for my people’s riches and favors. In docility I facilitated these transactions. I was the object of a transaction myself, traded for a string of beads as long as the list of men I was expected to service, as numerous as the tears I cried. When I began my own antiquities business, I didn’t consider it stealing if it wasn’t the current owner’s right to take the treasures in the first place. Cortés had conquered my people with treachery, double-crossing anyone when he could to get what he wanted. I learned from the best of the worst.

But that is history. My revenge is living my impossible life beyond mortal death.

And right now, I’m curious about this man with the books. “Tell me, why all the books in a box if you own a bookshop?”

He laughs, throwing me a playful glance. His eyes glitter beneath the streetlights. Hot damn, he is cute. “I had a book signing at a bookshop on the high street earlier this evening. A big chain. I’m a writer. My publisher says something about there being more traffic there, more visibility, blah fucking blah. Sell, sell. It’s not easy, but I love it. When I’m old I want to look back and say I followed my passion.” I like that he is an average guy doing his best to do something wonderful with his life. He has personality. We walk down a quiet road lined with the tiny cars people drive in Europe because the roads are so narrow. Bright streetlamps highlight the sheen of a recent rain shower on the sidewalk. It is not long before we stop in front of his bookstore.

“This is it.” His voice is full of pride.

The shop is in one of those old lopsided buildings built in the seventeenth century. It’s painted white, with exposed brown wooden beams on the outside. It’s terraced, and the windows are dark. It’s probably filled with ghosts. At one time in history this land was filled with people as pagan as my own. The crooked sign reads, Horror, Occult, and Other Mischief. Now I really like him. My soul calls out for the one who will not only complete me but understand me. I love myself too much for anything less.

Perhaps fate has set me on this cobbled road to a secondhand bookshop. And to his body.

He fumbles with the key before unlocking and opening a door that creaks like a heavy coffin lid. The walls are filled with tightly packed frayed spines from top to bottom. It smells of coffee and musty paper. There’s a large, tatty sofa facing the door, onto which I throw my leather jacket. He drops the books in front of it along with his hat. His hair is cut close to the scalp. It takes a certain type of man to pull off that kind of haircut, but with that face, he can do anything he wants. Only moonlight illuminates the room—just enough light to see each other, but dark enough to set the mood. I pull him to me by the waist of his jeans. “So, what do you write?” I ask.

“Horror. I write horror. Shall we go upstairs?”

My arousal is heightened when he says this. What I seek is some sort of intimacy through deep understanding. Could a horror novelist be the one to comprehend and accept my existence?

There is a room in the back with what looks like another sofa and desk. I don’t want to wait and make small talk. I only allow in the things I want. Being this close to him makes my pussy feel like it’s full of bees, their buzzing causing sticky sweet honey to leak from the honeycomb. I like watching men bathe in that honey as it coats their mouths and chins. “Take me back there.”

He leads me to an office at the rear of the shop. A desk and plush red sofa face each other. A black varnished animal skull with large antlers hangs on the wall, its dark hollow eyes overlooking the entire room. I can’t get distracted by details or get too personal, even though he piques my interest. I turn my attention back to him. Our mouths meet without any pillow talk or hesitation. His kisses are teasing nibbles, licks, and they tell me everything I need to know about him. I can already feel his cock hardening through his jeans, yet despite his arousal he continues to kiss me like we share a secret language using only our mouths. When did someone last try to seduce me? I never give anyone the chance. Too many emotional sword fights. Too many wounds from axes to the back I had to pull out myself with the blood left to dry on its own.

I push him onto the sofa while I sit in front of him on the desk. This dress is short enough that there is little work for him to do to hitch it up to expose my wet lips. My dress strap has fallen, unmasking one of my breasts, just enough to tease him.

A little fact about me: I’ve got a bit of a predilection for voyeurism. I like to see the excitement and anticipation on my lovers’ faces. I take them to the edge of desire so once I allow them the pleasure of my body, they hold nothing back, giving me untamed, ravenous sex. Sexual gratification fertilizes the part of me where nothing grows, as hard as I might try. Since I’m a free woman now, I live my life without limitations. All the ones who ever told me no or held me back are dead in the ground from old age or disease, their empty armor hanging in museums. Moments like this, of pleasure and freedom, are the best revenge I could ever imagine.

“Stroke your cock,” I mutter as I touch myself. Without protest he begins to remove his jeans, then masturbate as he watches me. I can tell he wants to reach out and feel me by the soft sigh that escapes his perfect mouth and by the pained look in his eyes. His hand glides up and down. Beads of precum call for me to lick it off, wear it like lip gloss, but not yet. The anticipation of getting him alone has me feeling like I’m about to come, but I don’t want to do it on my own. He will be rewarded for his patience.

“Get over here now. I want to come in your mouth,” I breathlessly command.

He crawls on all fours toward me like a pilgrim at the steps of a church. He remains on his knees so I can rest my thighs on his shoulders. His tongue is soft, and it winds around my clit as if he’s spelling my name without knowing what it is. Darting between my pussy and ass, his tongue draws sensations of pleasure from me like water trying to escape through a crack in a dam about to burst wide open. I push his head closer to my pussy. He sucks me to the edge of the universe and back with his blue eyes, tongue, and stubble that scratches my thighs. I have to steady myself against the desk as my back arches in ecstasy. It hasn’t been long since I last had sex, but I can’t remember when I last orgasmed like that.

Coming once is not enough, and his cock is still dripping with something delicious. I push him backward onto the floor with my stiletto, careful not to hurt him. I can’t handle the sight of blood right now. It has been hours since I last fed. He smells wonderful, and I know his blood would stir my appetite for more than sex. My aim is not to harm him. I try to only bite to kill when threatened. A charmed snake will dance until you get too close to her mouth. Don’t blame the creature for acting on its nature or curse the venom it cannot prevent itself from releasing.

I lower myself onto him slowly. I want to experience every thick ridge and vein of his cock inside of me. I’m about to ride him with bull rider precision.

He moans as I tighten my grip with my pussy. His hands find their way to my round, fleshy hips, holding on for dear life, like I’m about to throw him over the side of a ship without a life vest, his entire body tensing each time. I can tell he wants to come. But not before I get my seconds. The waves are cresting inside of me. My mind floats on a cloud with heaven in reach.

“God, woman, who are you?” he groans.

I lean forward, never stopping my grinding, slapping hips from increasing the friction against my clit. My lips are close enough to his ear to whisper, “I’m a horror story.”

He grips my ass with a firm hold; if I felt pain it might hurt a little. I start pounding hard against his body as I orgasm on his cock. As my toes curl, joints freeze, and fingers push against the floor, I think I can hear him grunt through my own calls of release. We both get what we came for. I fall onto his chest, which is thumping with a heartbeat. Feeling satisfied for a moment, I close my eyes. Sex reminds me I was once a flesh-and-blood woman with needs that didn’t get met. I can have what I want now, and I love that. Soft petals can still line my soul even after centuries of the most superficial watering. The thumping of his chest reminds me of the rhythm of life.

He’s the first to speak, his fingertips rubbing my back lightly. “That was unexpected. I thought I was just meeting my mates for a few beers, then going home to write until I fell asleep at the keyboard.”

His touch makes me feel nervous, a bit frightened at how good it feels. I raise myself from his body and sit next to him as I look for something to clean my wet legs. He takes off his T-shirt and hands it to me. This gesture stuns me. Sexy as hell, a great lover, and kind. Maybe pots of gold do exist.

“Thank you. You sure?”

He nods while staring at me with a faint smile on his face. The black skull with enormous antlers catches my eye again. It reminds me of a past life when we were all pagans without any scientific understanding of our world. We had blind faith the sun would rise, or enemies could be vanquished, if only we had the courage to offer our flesh and blood for divine use, like the papas I knew who consumed flesh and covered their entire bodies with sacrificial blood. Our lives were a ready offering for the gods and goddesses who watched our every move.

And then I think of the ones who arrived and used our faith in the gods to deceive us. Some of us thought the conquerors were gods themselves. Cortés manipulated many using our own religion, which he claimed was evil and false. They maligned our religion and faith as superstition yet told us the host was Christ’s flesh once inside our mouths and the wine his blood once it caressed our tongue. We were not the only ones with wild tales to tell. But it did cross my mind after I became a vampire—what if it really was blood in the chalice Christ offered?

The skull on his wall is like a dark god who witnessed and blessed our unholy sexual matrimony. The entire room is dark and a bit macabre with spooky little trinkets meant as Halloween decorations but kept out year-round. He’s my kind of guy—he’s got an edge, but not so sharp you can cut yourself. Something tells me there are emotions, stories, and thoughts that drop off to dark trenches few see inside him. I’m always drawn to those places where not a ray of sunlight dares to shine—that is where you can sometimes find treasure. However, I can’t forget he is still one hundred percent human. The few vampires I have encountered all roll their eyes at the very idea of any human-and-vampire romantic dalliance beyond consumption or pleasure.

His deep voice breaks my wandering thoughts. “By the way, I’m Colin.”

“I’m Malinalli.”

He’s buttoning his jeans and picking himself up from the floor. “It was a pleasure meeting you tonight. Where are you from? I can’t place your accent.”

I lean against the desk. He moves closer, so close I want to kiss him again to show him where I am really from and what I am. His voice has an undeniable Irish accent that rolls off his tongue, another little thing that turns me on. “You’ve got those black eyes, that beautiful skin that is so intoxicating.”

I know this to be true. Too much of me will give a normal man cirrhosis of the liver eventually.

He places a fallen strap from my dress onto my shoulder, and then his hands trace the lines of my neck, my breast. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good, to be touched like this. Most of my lovers never get beyond asking my name and not getting an answer.

It begins and ends the same every time, century after century. A change is long overdue. I want to begin a new cycle in this eternal life with a different ending to my story. The longer time goes on, the more I realize I am losing something precious—myself, my sense of place in this world, beyond my treasures, beyond blood, beyond sex. Something more than my original genius plan for revenge. Because revenge served cold is just that: cold.

And I would like to experience love for the first time in my life. The fear of heartbreak is a crown of rusty nails. I would like to take it off my head once and for all.

“You’re right. I’m not from here. I’m from Mexico. It’s my dream to explore all of Europe, one country at a time. I thought Ireland and England a good start. This excursion is business and . . . pleasure.”

“Well, I am honored you chose me for the pleasure.” His eyes are still large with excitement. There is an innocence in them I find very attractive. He’s playful.

The rigors of sex must have worn off as his body shivers from the cold in this uninsulated old building that would probably cost a small fortune to repair because of its age. He rubs his forearms, then mine. “Aren’t you cold?”

I smile to avoid the question and try to think what a human woman might say. “Got anything to drink?”

“Sorry! How rude of me. I didn’t offer you anything.” He walks to the other side of the desk, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and a T-shirt from a drawer. There are mismatched frames with pictures of people who somewhat resemble him. His family, I am assuming. There is a silver one with Best Uncle engraved on the bottom. A small boy hugs him tightly in the photo. I want to leave, but not be in such a rush as to appear rude. At least I tell myself I want to leave.

Because I like this man. He’s into books—he’s a writer, of all things—charming, and with looks as rugged as the landscape. The idea of us exploring each other more excites me.

But as he stretches his neck while pulling on the T-shirt, I find myself listening to his pulse. His heartbeat sounds louder now that my sexual need for him has been quelled. I realize I can’t relax here much longer, because there’s something else, a nagging need crawling beneath my skin. I’m hungry. The siren is awake, and she calls to be fed. If I wait too long, he will become my meal. “Thanks for everything tonight. Good luck with your book.”

I start to walk toward the door to retrieve my jacket and go in search of fresh blood. His steps are quick against the hardwood floor as he follows me. Then I feel his hand gently touch the back of my right arm.

“Wait. I don’t know anything about you. And what about a drink? What just happened was fantastic. How about dinner tomorrow? Meet at the pub around seven P.M.? The food there is surprisingly good.”

His charm is irresistible, for a human. Maybe it’s how sexy he looks in the moonlight or the way he asks, but my mouth says “Maybe” before my brain can tell it to say no because I am due to leave. I’d make an exception and stay.

I stop before I walk out the door. The rest of the night will be quiet for me, considering I don’t sleep in the human sense. And I still want to know more about this man, even if I can’t spend more time with him right then. My heart wants to open, feel a slice of sunlight. “Hey, can I have one of your books?”

“Hell yes. Writers are always eager to give out their books.” He reaches into the box he carried previously. “Here you go. Hope you like it.” One hand offers me the book while the other is a feather’s touch against my thigh until my ass is in his palm. It takes every ounce of self-control not to devour him with my body and mouth. There is something about his touch that makes me feel alive. It amazes me that I didn’t even know he existed two hours ago. He growls in my ear with his lips barely brushing against my cheek.

“I hope you like blood.”

Once again, he reads my mind. He has no idea.

THREE

The moon is high in the sky. Its gray halo calms me because we are old friends—at one time one of my only friends. The softness of the light feels like rabbit fur, and it’s just as gentle. So many things have come and gone in my life, but the moon and sun have always been steady companions that show up without fail. They look down on me without judgment for my past, or at what I am today. The heavens, and my faith in their unwavering power to shine, are my guides. I take no shelter in the opinions of others.

My name is Malinalli; however, I was also once known as La Malinche, or later Doña Marina, after I was forced into Christianity and, eventually, to act as its mouthpiece as I wandered through Mexico with Hernán Cortés. Some called me a traitor during the Spanish invasion, because so many of Cortés’s translations were done by me.

But I was not a traitor. I was coerced to use my voice and words as a weapon. It was the world I lived in that traded me. My own mother was the first. I didn’t have much time to be a child. My father was a lord who died when I was just a girl. My mother remarried; it wasn’t long before she found herself another man and bore him a child, thinking, like so many women in history, it might be a sure way to secure herself to him. But it is the weakest of chains, and they cost too much for both the child and the parent. As soon as I looked at her sweaty face and into weary black eyes after hours of labor with my new sibling, I knew my fate. She didn’t smile at me when it was announced as a boy. We exchanged no words in that room saturated with the smell of blood and body odor. It smelled like a battlefield. A light scent of copal moved around with the presence of our unseen gods.

In my mind I could hear what her eyes wanted to say, What will I do with you now? That was it for me. My usefulness was gone in a single moment. There was a proper male heir to my father’s position. So at twelve years old I was sold to another tribe, where I learned Mayan until I was bartered again at the age of sixteen to the people of Tabasco. To this day I can’t sniff the stuff people put on tacos and eggs because for me Tabasco was just another betrayal, another place I had to go to without any say or control. I stayed there until the Tabascans gave me to Cortés. By that time, I had been a mistress to many.

But now I am far from Tabasco, living a completely different life in a different era. How could I have ever predicted wandering to a place called Dublin across a great body of water? The thought makes me chuckle, and I feel grateful that I can laugh at life; if I hadn’t found a way to laugh again, I might be dead—or there would be far more corpses trailing behind me.

I walk through an area of Dublin known for its women of the night. I’ll fit right in with the sex workers here, having spent centuries also living on the margins of society. Tonight, I want to find someone without a pimp who’s working for herself. Whenever I can help a sister out, I do. Anyone can fall on hard times; no one is immune to life pulling the gravity from beneath your feet, leaving you at the mercy of powers beyond your control. I should know: I too was sold at a young age.

A young woman emerges from the shadows. “Hey, sexy, want to walk on the other side of the street for a change?” She looks me up and down. “Love your shoes.”

She doesn’t appear strung out or drunk. In any event, even if she had been, it is not my place to judge others’ choices. Not with what I have witnessed or have done to survive. We are all made from equal measures of the stars. And so, while hard drugs are a no for me, I leave people alone to do whatever they want.

“Come closer. Let me see your arms, your eyes. Are you with anyone?”

She looks slightly put off and confused by my questions. “No. I’m on my own. My body, my cash. All of it. And I don’t use. I smoke pot if it’s offered. I drink occasionally.”

“Honey, I’ve got cash, but I don’t want your body; I want your blood. I’ll pay you double and no sex involved. I promise there will be no lasting harm to you. I’ve even got a topical anesthetic to numb the pain of my bite.”

She furrows her exaggerated drawn-on eyebrows. It’s obvious she has no idea what I’m talking about. Her eyes scan me from head to toe again, probably using her extensive knowledge of people to suss me out. From my clothing and shoes she knows I have money.

“My blood? You want my blood, but you won’t hurt me?”

I touch her arm to put her at ease. “Cross my heart. You can search me for anything sharp.”

She looks me up and down again. “Triple for the kinky shit, and I want the money up front.”

I give her a sincere smile of gratitude. God, I’m starving. “Deal. You don’t need to tell me how much—this should cover it.” I count out four hundred euros and hand it to her. Her grin tells me she is satisfied with the amount. We wander into a nearby park where we sit on a bench dark enough to hide us from a passerby. She must know this spot from her previous business dealings. The bench has one of those small metal plaques dedicated to someone who has passed: She was a devoted sister, wife, and mother. I can’t help but snigger. Devotion is one of the most expensive things I know in existence. Especially when it is to the wrong people or things.

I wipe the numbing cream I carry in my bag on her outstretched wrist. She watches me with curiosity.

“Close your eyes and listen to music on your phone. I have earbuds if you need them,” I tell her. She shrugs and obeys,