The Wicked: A Love Story

The door opened and Seth looked up to see Chris.

“I didn’t know you’d be in here,” he said.

“No?” Seth said.

“I thought you might be out. With Jim.”

“No. He and his family had something over at Marabeth’s apartment,” Seth said. “We may get together later.”

And then Seth said, “But why did you come, if you didn’t think I’d be here?”

Chris took one of the great chairs by the door and dragged it with what Seth was beginning to call vampire strength to sit beside Seth.

“Lewis was with Loreal, going over Susanna’s books. And he went to sleep. And I don’t really—” Chris stopped.

“I sound stupid to myself. I sound like someone who isn’t three hundred years old. I sound confused.”

He looked at Seth. Chris was taller, so he actually looked down on him. His face was narrow and high plained, and his pale blond hair was sticking up a little.

“I did hope you would be here. You’re comforting. Lewis is too, but you’re your own type of comforting, and it has been a while since the two of us have sat side by side. What with everything.”

“There is a part of me,” Seth said, “that assumed I was an interruption.”

“An interruption?’

“Between you and Lewis. That you put up with me.”

Chris laid a hand on Seth’s knee.

“You are not an interruption. You are a sweet, sweet strangeness, and the truth is we’ve missed you. I have missed you. I love having Lewis to myself, but I’ve missed you being with us.”

Seth nodded, smiling a little.

“I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.”

“How are you feeling?” Seth asked.

“About?’

“About your sister.”

“I…. I don’t rightly know.”

“I think,” Seth said, “if my sister died, if she was killed because she had come against me and what was mine, even if I was the one who had to kill her, I think at least part of my heart would be broken. Because I think all this time I would have held out the hope that one day she would be the person she once was. I think no matter how bad she got, I would always hope. And then once she was gone, once it was all over, I would be hurt in a place it’s hard to show.”

Seth looked up at Chris.

“I think you feel like you don’t have the right to feel that way. But I think it’s the way you do feel? Am I right?”

And when Chris turned to him, his blue eyes were deep and wet, and a stream of tears was running down each of his cheeks. He didn’t blink, as humans would, and he nodded his head, his lips parted.

Seth had offered himself to the vampire, been bitten by him, but he had not gotten up out of his chair and held him until now, letting Chris Ashby weep on him. And suddenly, he kissed Chris. He kissed him hungrily, not out of pity or because he was with Lewis, but because he wanted him, and Chris kissed him back and they held to each other with a tight urgency until it was Seth who brought Chris to the floor, and they began to struggle out of clothing. Now Chris blinked away tears as he knelt naked over the smaller man, and the length of his cock bobbed before Seth.

Seth took him in his mouth. He wanted to. He wanted to take away his pain and sadness, or be part of it. And Chris cried out and his eyes closed as Seth’s mouth worked on him. And maybe, Seth thought, as he took Chris deeper and deeper down his throat, he wanted to know what his night with Jim had meant to who he was, because this was who he was. He lay on the floor and wrapped his thighs around Chris’s waist, and as Chris entered him, deeply, and they both groaned, as Seth’s whole body prickled with the pain, with the ache, with the ache dissolving into pleasure of Chris’s entry, he knew who he was. Ancient words played in his mind, but this was not the time to think about them.

This is the secret of the Holy Graal, that is the sacred vessel of our Lady the Scarlet Woman, Babalon the Mother of Abominations, the bride of Chaos, that rides upon our Lord the Beast.

Drain out the blood that is your life into the golden cup of her fornication.

Mingle your life with the universal life. Keep not back one drop.

No this was not the time for thought. This was the time to be and to feel, to wrap thighs around waist and drape them down so your heels landed on the soft round hills of Chris’s ass. This was the time to feel Chris Ashby move up and down and in and out of you like rivers, to lift up your shoulder and receive the bite that stung and connected, that drove in and then felt at home, to, at that moment dig in fingernails like claws over Chris’s back and draw that same blood. This was the time to bite down on his lip while Chris moved in and out of you, shuttling faster and faster as the iron sweet taste of Chris Ashby’s blood dripped into your own mouth. They came together, their bodies crashing, shaking, toes curling, limbs twisting, hands and feet bunching, clinging to each other as the only things that could get them through the orgasm and keep their souls from flying out of their bodies.

They lay together exhausted, redeemed and crushed by each other, heaving on the floor, looking up at the ceiling.

At last, Chris turned on his side and stroked Seth’s cheek. Seth turned to him. And they looked with love on each other.

“Come to bed with us,” Chris told him.

Seth nodded.

The two men, the taller and the shorter, pale and cream colored, rose a little unsteadily, still shaken by their sex. Chris opened the door first. Naked and heedless if anyone might come down the hall of the elegant hotel, he walked out, taking Seth by the hand, leaving their clothes and notebooks, and phones. They crossed the hall into the darkness of the room where Lewis slept. They closed the door, once in the dim and silent room, and on either side of him, climbed into bed.

They were all in Marabeth’s apartment, which she was finding pretty strange because she always imagined her family safely in Germantown and not here. Myron kept walking around the painting of the wolf devouring the girl, and though he looked approvingly at it, almost happy, she wanted to cover it up.

Joyce brought Marabeth the story she had printed off and Marabeth said, “Just listen to this.”

Kris was there and Jim was there, and Peter was standing, arms folded over his chest and legs planted apart on the other side of the easel Myron kept looking at. Strangely enough, Marabeth got comfort from the woman Anne, Myron’s friend who had come with him, her hair tea colored, her large Bette Davis eyes hooded.

Marabeth read.

Once upon a time there lived in a certain village a little country girl, the prettiest creature who was ever seen. Her mother was excessively fond of her; and her grandmother doted on her still more. This good woman had a little red riding hood made for her. It suited the girl so extremely well that everybody called her Little Red Riding Hood.

One day her mother, having made some cakes, said to her, "Go, my dear, and see how your grandmother is doing, for I hear she has been very ill. Take her a cake, and this little pot of butter." Little Red Riding Hood set out immediately to go to her grandmother, who lived in another village.

As she was going through the wood, she met with a wolf, who had a very great mind to eat her up, but he dared not, because of some woodcutters working nearby in the forest. He asked her where she was going. The poor child, who did not know that it was dangerous to stay and talk to a wolf, said to him, "I am going to see my grandmother and carry her a cake and a little pot of butter from my mother."

"Does she live far off?" said the wolf

"Oh I say," answered Little Red Riding Hood; "it is beyond that mill you see there, at the first house in the village."

"Well," said the wolf, "and I'll go and see her too. I'll go this way and go you that, and we shall see who will be there first."

The wolf ran as fast as he could, taking the shortest path, and the little girl took a roundabout way, entertaining herself by gathering nuts, running after butterflies, and gathering bouquets of little flowers. It was not long before the wolf arrived at the old woman's house. He knocked at the door: tap, tap.

"Who's there?"

"Your grandchild, Little Red Riding Hood," replied the wolf, counterfeiting her voice; "who has brought you a cake and a little pot of butter sent you by mother."

The good grandmother, who was in bed, because she was somewhat ill, cried out, "Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up."

The wolf pulled the bobbin, and the door opened, and then he immediately fell upon the good woman and ate her up in a moment, for it been more than three days since he had eaten. He then shut the door and got into the grandmother's bed, expecting Little Red Riding Hood, who came some time afterwards and knocked at the door: tap, tap.

"Who's there?"

Little Red Riding Hood, hearing the big voice of the wolf, was at first afraid; but believing her grandmother had a cold and was hoarse, answered, "It is your grandchild Little Red Riding Hood, who has brought you a cake and a little pot of butter mother sends you."

The wolf cried out to her, softening his voice as much as he could, "Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up."

Little Red Riding Hood pulled the bobbin, and the door opened.

The wolf, seeing her come in, said to her, hiding himself under the bedclothes, "Put the cake and the little pot of butter upon the stool, and come get into bed with me."

Little Red Riding Hood took off her clothes and got into bed. She was greatly amazed to see how her grandmother looked in her nightclothes, and said to her, "Grandmother, what big arms you have!"

"All the better to hug you with, my dear."

"Grandmother, what big legs you have!"

"All the better to run with, my child."

"Grandmother, what big ears you have!"

"All the better to hear with, my child."

"Grandmother, what big eyes you have!"

"All the better to see with, my child."

"Grandmother, what big teeth you have got!"

"All the better to eat you up with."

And, saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon Little Red Riding Hood, and ate her all up.

“And then the woodsman comes,” Myron said.

Marabeth said, “There is no woodsman.”

“I think I heard that before,” Jim said. “That there was a different version of the story.”

“Jim, that’s the story Pamela learned, the story Hagano taught her.”

“Hagano is the guy who protected Friederich. The… spirit?” Myron said. “Or whatever.”

“Yes,” Marabeth said. “But, listen to this.”

She read.

Once upon a time there lived in a certain village a little country girl, the prettiest creature who was ever seen. Her mother was excessively fond of her; and her grandmother doted on her still more. This good woman had a a hooded cloak of wolf fur made for her. It suited the girl so extremely well that everybody called her Little Hood.

One day her mother, having made some cakes, said to her, "Go, my dear, and see how your grandmother is doing, for I hear she has been very ill. Take her a cake, and this little pot of butter."

Rosamunde set out immediately to go to her grandmother, who lived in another village.

As she was going through the wood, she met with a wolf, who had a very great mind to eat her up, but he dared not, because of some woodcutters working nearby in the forest. He asked her where she was going. The poor child, who did not know that it was dangerous to stay and talk to a wolf, said to him, "I am going to see my grandmother and carry her a cake and a little pot of butter from my mother."

"Does she live far off?" said the wolf

"Oh I say," answered Rosamunde; "it is beyond that mill you see there, at the first house in the village."

"Well," said the wolf, "and I'll go and see her too. I'll go this way and go you that, and we shall see who will be there first."

The wolf ran as fast as he could, taking the shortest path, and the little girl took a roundabout way, entertaining herself by gathering nuts, running after butterflies, and gathering bouquets of little flowers. It was not long before the wolf arrived at the old woman's house. He knocked at the door: tap, tap.

"Who's there?"

"Your grandchild, Rosamunde," replied the wolf, counterfeiting her voice; "who has brought you a cake and a little pot of butter sent you by mother."

The good grandmother, who was in bed, because she was somewhat ill, cried out, "Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up."

The wolf pulled the bobbin, and the door opened, and then he immediately fell upon the good woman, slaughtering her. He cut up her flesh and drained her blood into a vial and put them on the fender by the fire. He then shut the door and got into the grandmother's bed, expecting Rosamunde, who came some time afterwards and knocked at the door: tap, tap.

"Who's there?"

Rosamunde, hearing the big voice of the wolf, was at first afraid; but believing her grandmother had a cold and was hoarse, answered, "It is your grandchild Rosamunde, who has brought you a cake and a little pot of butter mother sends you."

The wolf cried out to her, softening his voice as much as he could, "Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up."

Rosamunde pulled the bobbin, and the door opened.

The wolf, seeing her come in, said to her, hiding himself under the bedclothes, "Have yourself some wine and cake. It is there on the fender. then come get into bed with me."

Rosamunde at her grandmother’s flesh and drank her blood, and then she took off her clothes and got into bed. She was greatly amazed to see how her grandmother looked in her nightclothes, and said to her, "Grandmother, what big arms you have!"

"All the better to hug you with, my dear."

"Grandmother, what big legs you have!"

"All the better to run with, my child."

"Grandmother, what big ears you have!"

"All the better to hear with, my child."

"Grandmother, what big eyes you have!"

"All the better to see with, my child."

"Grandmother, what big teeth you have got!"

"All the better to eat you up with."

And, saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon Rosamunde, and ate her all up.”

Myron looked from his cousin to the painting, and back at Marabeth and said, “That’s really fucked up.”

“It is… really fucked up,” Peter pronounced, “but I don’t know why the five of us are sitting in your apartment listening to fractured fairy tales when there are other things to do.”

“And what exactly is it that you have to do?”

It was Anne who spoke.

Peter looked at her, and the annoyance he would have loved to feel died gazing on her, sure that he knew what she was.

“We… need to know the truth.”

“And how do you plan to find out that truth?” Anne asked him, “because at the moment your cousin is looking into very old stories, stories that come from your aunt that she inherited from your family long ago, and while she is trying to see something in them you are… being a cunt.”

Anne lowered her eyes and Myron said, “Peter, in forty years you’ve never been that concerned with finding out the truth, and whatever world you thought we lived in, we’re in a world of blood drinkers and magicians and shape changers, and these stories might tell us whatever it is we need to know. I felt my power for the first time the other night, something I had been terrified of all my life, and it was wonderful and the world was bigger than it’s ever been. I want to know what I am, and if sorting through fairy tales can tell me… shut the fuck up, alright?”

No one else said anything and so they were surprised when the first person to speak was Peter.

“What do the stories have in common? There is no woodsman. The girl is always eaten by the wolf. The grandmother is always eaten.”

“And how are they different?” Jim joined in. “The girl has the red cloak in the first story, and is named for it. In the second she has a wolf cloak.”

“Like the Volsungs,” Kris said. “Like a shapeshifting cloak. Or a pelt, but made from a wolf no matter what.”

“But her name is Rosamunde in the last one.”

“Rose of the World,” Kristian said. “But a rose is red. Red. So she is—”

“Not necessarily Rose of the World,” Marabeth said. “Red of the World,”

“Or Red in the World,” Kris said.

“So always red.”

Anne’s eyes moved from one to the other smiling, but she said nothing.

“She eats her grandmother’s flesh and drinks her blood,” Peter said. “It’s like…”

“It’s like Communion,” Myron crossed himself.

“It’s a ritual,” Kris said. “Is her grandmother some type of… goddess maybe?”

“Maybe?” Marabeth shrugged.

“But her grandmother gives her the cloak,” Jim said. “So… is she like, is the grandmother how Riding Hood becomes the wolf, because I think that her being eaten by the wolf is her becoming the wolf.”

“That’s what Pamela said,” Marabeth and Peter said at the same time.

“This is reminding me of another story.” Jim said,

“Well, spit it out,” Kris clapped him on the back.

Jim opened his mouth, but Kristian had already guessed, “Bisclavret.”

“Yes.”

“What the hell is Bisclavret?” Myron demanded.

“It’s a French story. It’s medieval.”

“Can you find it?”

“It’s the twenty first century,” Jim took out his phone, “Of course I can find it.”

And then Jim recited: “The Lays of Marie de France: Eight, the Lay of the Were Wolf.”

He read on.