Blood loss, p.1
Blood Loss, page 1
Blood Loss
The Third in the
Cycle of the Aphotic World
Tobin Elliott
Copyright @ 2023 Tobin Elliott
Luminous Aphotica Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any process—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and Luminous Aphotica Publishing, except for brief quotations in a review.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions from reliable retailers. In doing so, you support our authors and respect their rights.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-1-77826-298-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-77826-294-4 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-77826-295-1 (ebook)
Cover Design by Camille Codling (Instagram: @codling.creations)
Interior Layout by Jennifer Dinsmore (jenniferdinsmoreeditorial.com)
The Aphotic Series
Bad Blood
Out For Blood
Blood Loss
Blood Pact
Blood Relations
Flesh and Blood
This one is for all those crazy bastards I hung out with when I worked in fast food. You’ll never get another first job, so you can only hope the ones you share that time with make the drudgery fun. Very few names remain in my memory—aside from Brian, Brian, Brian, Brian, Brian, and Bryan—but the laughter and the fun—both inside and outside the stores—still remain. And that’s all you can really ask for, isn’t it?
Also, this one’s also for all those who I have worked with, and continue to work with, in both the bookstore and the comic shop. I don’t have to work in retail now. But with friends and co-workers like these, I want to.
Acknowledgements
As with my note in the previous book, thank you to everyone in my life who keeps me sane. You are my family. To lose you would be to lose my blood.
To the Hickeys and the Longs. Both your families have taken mine in. That’s a gift I can never repay.
To Patricia Flewwelling and A. L. Tompkins, who have poked and prodded and made damn sure I not only wrote, but finished what I started. I’ve always winced, but I’ve always appreciated it.
To Jennifer Dinsmore, who is shockingly good at finding out how shockingly poor I edit myself. If there’s pleasure to be had from these books, it’s because Jennifer made them make sense.
To my daughter Madison and her husband Devyn, and to my son Hunter and his fiancée Camille. And, of course, to my wife, who is mother to not just our kids, but to so many more.
Each and every one of you make me a far better person.
“Blood does not family make. Those are relatives. Family are those with whom you share your good, bad, and ugly, and still love one another in the end. Those are the ones you select.”
— Hector Xtravaganza
Prologue
Just give me the goddamn Geronimo, Billy.
As Billy huffed and puffed, Sarah ticked off the various ways she wanted Billy out of her vagina and out of her life. Billy, for his part, existed only for the sex act, his body jackhammering into hers in a rhythm designed for his own maximum pleasure. Perfect hair over a perfect face. Billy enjoying the ride of his life. For her, it was simply a goodbye fuck, no more and no less.
The problem was, Billy just didn’t know it yet.
♦ ♦ ♦
Its ears prick up at the unusual noises, so unlike the night sounds in this area. A slight, mechanical screech of metal stressing against metal. It doesn’t think much in language when it’s in a state like this, but it gets a barely recalled image of springs and shocks.
Yes, it knows this. A car.
It remembers them. Then, a more pleasurable thought: Cars mean people.
There is another sound, fainter, muffled, of heavy, rhythmic breathing.
Sex.
Then it’s on the move, ears twitching, sourcing out the sounds, and nose enticing secrets from the cool night air.
They will have fun together, the people and it.
They just don’t know it yet.
♦ ♦ ♦
Sarah’s head thumped against the back seat armrest, Billy’s thrusts keeping time like a bass beat to a heavy metal song. She tried to reposition her left leg a little and settled for draping it over the back dash. Billy continued to pump, ignoring—or simply not noticing—her discomfort. He’d never been particularly adept at noticing much that didn’t directly involve him. During sex, it all came down to that thrusting five inches of muscle. Nothing else.
Billy could take a long time to come, having long ago fallen into the delusion that this was as good for Sarah as it was for himself. But really, after all this time, with the lack of care he put into this so-called lovemaking, she wished he’d just blast through it like some of her girlfriends always complained their boyfriends did. No, I had to pick a guy who’s all stamina, no compassion. She envied her girlfriends’ three-pump wonders right now. Not a lot of fun for her to have a guy who basically used her vagina to masturbate himself.
How the hell did I get here?
They’d been dating for over a year now, and she had always been a realist. Billy was a good-looking guy, and they looked good together, but even with that, she realized very quickly that arm candy simply wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot. Oh sure, he had other points. He could be funny, some of his friends were nice…but overall, Billy missed the mark on more important things. And over the past few months, those missing important things had become more and more noticeable to Sarah.
She thought of her parents, married over two decades now and still happy. Sure, they squabbled and disagreed, sometimes they even fought. But mostly, they respected each other even though each still did things that irritated the other. Her father’s damn coat, for one thing. An ugly navy-blue parka with an eye-wateringly repulsive orange lining and a matted fringe of fake fur around the rim of the hood. He’d owned the stupid thing so long that he had resorted to reinforcing the thinning elbows with duct tape. Small strips of tape also showed up haphazardly around the coat to repair the odd rip and tear. It was easily the most hideous thing Sarah had ever seen, and her mother hated it even more. But still, her father wore it every winter. He would pass over the stylish leather jackets or modern ski jackets her mother purchased in vain in favour of the hideous thing that had been outdated by the eighties.
And yet, for all of that, as much as she threatened to throw the thing out, somehow she never did. And Sarah knew why.
Because her mother respected her father.
That was something Sarah wanted for herself as well. The way Billy fucked her was just one symptom of his lack of respect. Sarah knew he’d finish, then go and have a smoke, leaving her alone. It’s simply what he did.
And the sooner he does that, she thought, the sooner I can get this over with.
♦ ♦ ♦
The wooded areas and the hills play tricks on its senses. It takes longer to pinpoint precisely where the sounds originate.
It took longer than it likely should have for it to remember to equate cars and roads. It crossed three before it makes the connection and begins following them.
The additional time it spends searching only serves to build its anticipation of the sport to come from excitement to rage.
It wants to find them. Now.
But the small, human side of it that still held on in a corner of its brain makes it slow down. Sit and take a moment to both calm itself, somewhat, and to cast about for more sensory input.
And when it does, its nose immediately picks up the unmistakable musk of intercourse.
It stands, angles its ears this way and that, then lopes down the road. They are close. The sport would begin soon. They would be found.
The sooner it finds them, the sooner it will get this damnable hunger over with.
♦ ♦ ♦
She very deliberately started working up to her spectacular, and completely manufactured orgasm, hoping that he would take that as a signal to let go.
God, seventeen and I’m already faking orgasms. She knew it was wrong, knew it sent the wrong signal—that Billy was the greatest lover in the world—but if she didn’t, he’d half-heartedly pump at her for another half-hour before giving up. Then the ego-massaging questions would start.
It was bad enough that she was letting him get his dick stroked one last time. She wouldn’t stroke his ego as well. Well, aside from the bullshit orgasm.
She built up to an enthusiastic but not too over-the-top crescendo, then slumped, her head still pounding against the damn armrest. Okay, that should clear the path for Geronimo.
Billy worked up to his own, much more authentic release. She felt him tense a little more, felt his hands squeeze a little tighter. To be honest, this part wasn’t bad, just as he approached his own finish. Though she knew it was completely reflexive, he held her a little tighter and she felt some passion from him, even if it was only a side effect of his own pleasure. It was for him, but she could, at least for a few precious moments, kid herself into believing it was for her instead.
Then his breaths changed to tight little Santa Claus noises—ho! ho! ho!—and he tilted his head back as though he would howl at the moon. She smiled, but kept it to herself. A small smile, because even after most of a year, she still could never predict when it would happen. She always tried to gauge from his twitching body and huffing, but whenever she figured it couldn’t go on, it did.
Then finally, he threw his head back even more, his Adam’s apple jutting prominently from his taut neck muscles. He stopped the huffs, holding his breath, pushing himself as deep as he could into her, gathering his strength, then, in a rush of air, yelled, “Geronimo!” and came in great bucking waves before dropping heavily down on her, his breath irritating in her ear, ruffling her hair. She could barely breathe.
His breathing slowed to normal as Sarah continued to take shallow breaths, doing her best to not push him off her. Finally, he lifted himself up and pulled out.
“Gotta take a piss, babe,” he said. “Probably grab a smoke while I’m out there.” She pulled her legs up to give him room to slip his feet into his crumpled jeans and pull his underwear and pants back up. She felt what he’d left behind leaking out of her, cooling on her buttocks.
He opened the door, letting the brisk October air in. She saw he’d left his pants low enough for his ass to show whitely above the waistband, like he was one of those idiots who wore those low-rider jeans that showed way too much underwear. For him though, she knew this was simply for expediency. No sense in doing the pants up only to undo them again for a piss.
He held the door open, letting even more cold air in. “While I’m out here, you wanna fold up the blanket before anything soaks through?” Sarah restrained herself from mouthing the next words along with him. “The old man’ll kick my ass if anything stains his seats.” It was the usual spiel and the cleanup was always left to her.
He closed the door and she sat up, the leather cold against her bare skin. She could see his blurred form through the fogged rear window and felt the small jolt as he leaned against the side of the car to take his piss.
She gathered up some of the ratty beach towel and wiped herself as clean as she could, then pulled her own jeans up as well. She folded the towel up to keep the wet deep inside and tossed it on the floor in the front where he wouldn’t miss it.
Then, she sat and waited. She knew he’d be a while. He’d pee. He’d smoke. He’d fix his hair. He’d look at the goddamn stars. He’d make her wait.
She glanced out the rear window again and saw his outline, dim in the moonlight, a small red glare of a cigarette.
She turned back around and looked out the side window closest to her. The window was still fogged, so she brought a finger up and drew a circle. Two dots for eyes. A downturned line. Not a happy face.
That was her right now. Not happy.
♦ ♦ ♦
Its task becomes easier as it gets closer. The sounds are more pronounced. The smells sharper.
Then there comes, just back from the road, the slight mechanical sound of a vehicle door opening, and someone speaking. It hears the words, but in its present state, it cannot understand them.
However, the story is very clear. The fug of sex drifting from the man’s penis, then the sharper, acrid odour as he urinates. The patter of the liquid hitting the dirt. The sigh of release.
Then, more sounds, fumbling, before a flare of flame, and the point of red, a beacon for it to follow, as if the stink of the thing in the man’s mouth isn’t enough.
It treads more carefully now, predator stalking prey, but there’s a lightness in its step.
This is what it is. Happy.
♦ ♦ ♦
She’d asked Billy—still called William Stradlater Junior if his mother happened to be particularly pissed at him—if they could get together tonight to talk. She stressed the words to talk, but they seemed to whistle right by his perfect hair. “You lookin’ for a little action?” he had asked, an expectant gleam in his eye.
“Billy,” she’d said. “I’d like to talk.” She was damn near tempted to bust out the William Stradlater Junior tag herself at that point.
“Okay, babe,” he said, placating. “Okay. We can talk.” A salacious grin twisted his lips.
Sarah had talked to her mother about Billy, about how he just didn’t seem to be the one. Her mother had suggested she may be outgrowing him. She’d smiled when she told Sarah that women always mature faster than men. Smiled wider when she said some men don’t ever mature at all.
Then she’d put her hand on Sarah’s, resting it lightly over her daughter’s. “You do what your heart tells you to do,” she said. And Sarah had known what that was. Had, in fact, known it for months.
Her mother had just underlined it for her. So, she’d asked Billy to talk.
She’d had to talk him out of inviting friends. She’d had to make it clear she wanted to be alone with him. Of course, Billy being Billy, he’d read the signals all wrong.
He’d picked her up that night in his father’s car. When she hopped in, he’d asked her where she’d wanted to go. She didn’t have a destination in mind, and made a critical error in saying she didn’t really care, instead of suggesting a fast-food place or a coffee shop. It wasn’t until she realized he’d pointed the car toward the more rural area north of the city that she began to expect what Billy had in mind.
“Billy,” she’d said to remind him. “I said I wanted to talk.”
She watched that same small grin—a grin she’d first loved, then learned to despise—slide across his lips again as he drove, wrists loose on the wheel. “I know, babe. We’ll talk. Promise.” He kept the car pointed north. He took one hand off the wheel and placed it on her knee. “It’s just that Little Billy needs some lovin’, y’know?” His hand crept up her thigh. “Then we can have that little talk, okay?”
She stopped his hand’s roving path mid-way. “Little Billy isn’t getting a damn thing while Big Billy’s driving.”
That was enough for Billy to find a secluded spot, an old driveway that now led to nothing but a dense copse of trees. He drove through the trees, then past them to the other side. “So we can still see the stars,” he’d said. She knew he’d had no intention of looking at the stars until after he’d gotten his dick wet and then had a cigarette. That was just how Billy rolled.
So now, here she sat. Billy had, as usual, gotten what he wanted while she still waited for the real purpose of the night to start.
When he finally got back in the car, she was going to tell Billy she didn’t want to see him anymore.
She didn’t expect him to take it well, but she also didn’t think he’d be overly disappointed either. She’d seen the way he looked at some of the other girls in the school. With more than just a passing interest.
Then again, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit she was doing the same damn thing.
Lately, she’d been focusing her attention on one specific boy. He was the exact opposite of Billy. Nothing to really look at, but still there was something about him. A vulnerability. An openness.
And he’d caught her looking too.
Sarah wasn’t the type to screw around on her boyfriend, no matter how much of a dick he was. Better to break it off clean and start fresh. That was what she wanted to accomplish tonight. A clean break from Billy.
Jesus Christ! What’s taking him so damn long?
It was time to get this over with.
♦ ♦ ♦
It watches the man as the red light at his mouth flares and dims, flares and dims. It will not approach while the man has the thing.
It can’t remember what it’s called, but it knows that thing is as hot as it is bright.
The man takes forever with the glowing thing.
Then, just at the point where it is about to go against its own judgment, it sees the man throw the glowing thing at his feet, hears the sizzle as it lands in the acrid pool of urine and extinguishes.
The man exhales a last, pungent breath of smoke, and then it is on the move.
It is time to get this over with.
♦ ♦ ♦
