Read Online Originally Human by Eileen Wilks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eileen Wilks
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy fiction, Horror, American, Vampires, Occult & Supernatural, Horror Tales, Anthologies, Werewolves, Anthologies (Multiple Authors)
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currents entered with him, and swallowed me.
Sex is God's way of reminding us not to take ourselves so seriously. There are a thousand ways to arrange two sweaty, straining bodies. Each has its own pleasures, and each is as absurd as it is delightful. Passion—real passion—is different, and rare. It grabs you by the throat and shakes you like a terrier with a rat. Then it flings you off, across the abyss.
If you're lucky, you don't break when you land. If you're very lucky, you don't land alone.
I landed sobbing… held safe in Michael's arms.
He was stroking my hair, my side, my hand as I came back to myself. It took a moment for his quiet murmurs to settle into words. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't… what is wrong, Molly? Tell me, querida, mío tesoro, a chuisle mo chroj . Let me make it better."
I turned my head, which rested on his shoulder. "It's nothing. I'm all right."
"I have heard of happy tears, but this…" His thumb rubbed some of the dampness from my cheek. "… is not happiness."
It wasn't so hard, after all, to smile. I shifted, propping up on one forearm so I could see his face. "Have you ever been around an overstimulated two-year-old?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
"They burst into tears for no reason." I traced his lip gently. "Now you've seen an overstimulated three hundred-year-old do the same thing."
He considered that. "This is a compliment, I think."
"Oh, yes. And you were wrong. Part of the overload is happiness." I spoke true. I've lived too long to spurn the good God's gifts—and moments like this were just that, gifts of grace that fall like sunshine, unsought and unearned.
He smiled slowly. "Good." And he urged my head back onto his shoulder, and stroked my hair.
How strange , I thought. Here I was, lying on my side with a stick digging into my hip and my lover's heart beating beneath my ear. I was sated and sticky, my muscles lax and warm, my skin cooling. None of the physical sensations were new to me, yet everything was new, fresh-minted.
How long had it been since I took a lover? Not a sex partner. A lover. I ran my hand over his ribs, marveling. There would be grief later. I didn't care. Loving was gift enough.
After awhile I asked, "What do you think of the name Sarah?"
"It means soul in one of the Indian languages, princess in Hebrew. Why?"
I shrugged my free shoulder. "I need a new name."
"I like the one you have."
"So do I. But I can't be Molly Brown anymore. I'm having trouble settling on a new name, though."
"Names are important. I will give it some thought. Do you want…" His voice drifted into silence even as his body tensed.
I've hunted, and I've been hunted. I didn't cloud the silence with questions but, like a hare in the bush, went still myself, straining to sort the night sounds. Cars continued to whoosh past on the highway. The breeze ruffled the leaves in the trees. Grass rustled…
Michael sprang to his feet, yanking me up with him. "Run!"
They came at us out of the darkness. Four, five—I don't know how many there were. They seemed splinters of darkness themselves, clothed as they were in black, their faces smeared with black. We were in full flight when we saw them, our hands clasped, bare feet slapping on the asphalt. They raced out of the trees—from in front of us. Between us and the RV.
Moonlight gleamed on metal. A gun barrel, raised—the shot cracked out even as Michael jerked me to the left. The highway—yes, they might not want to shoot us where so many witnesses streamed by. There were trees between us and the interstate, too. Cover.
There were also two more of them, rising from the brush like shadows. One with a rifle, one with something large and ominous held to his shoulder and pointed, oddly, off to the right.
But the rifle was pointed at me.
I felt the power jump into Michael. He bellowed something. A word. It slid through my brain like melted butter—hot, ungraspable. And the one with the rifle burst into
Sex is God's way of reminding us not to take ourselves so seriously. There are a thousand ways to arrange two sweaty, straining bodies. Each has its own pleasures, and each is as absurd as it is delightful. Passion—real passion—is different, and rare. It grabs you by the throat and shakes you like a terrier with a rat. Then it flings you off, across the abyss.
If you're lucky, you don't break when you land. If you're very lucky, you don't land alone.
I landed sobbing… held safe in Michael's arms.
He was stroking my hair, my side, my hand as I came back to myself. It took a moment for his quiet murmurs to settle into words. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't… what is wrong, Molly? Tell me, querida, mío tesoro, a chuisle mo chroj . Let me make it better."
I turned my head, which rested on his shoulder. "It's nothing. I'm all right."
"I have heard of happy tears, but this…" His thumb rubbed some of the dampness from my cheek. "… is not happiness."
It wasn't so hard, after all, to smile. I shifted, propping up on one forearm so I could see his face. "Have you ever been around an overstimulated two-year-old?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
"They burst into tears for no reason." I traced his lip gently. "Now you've seen an overstimulated three hundred-year-old do the same thing."
He considered that. "This is a compliment, I think."
"Oh, yes. And you were wrong. Part of the overload is happiness." I spoke true. I've lived too long to spurn the good God's gifts—and moments like this were just that, gifts of grace that fall like sunshine, unsought and unearned.
He smiled slowly. "Good." And he urged my head back onto his shoulder, and stroked my hair.
How strange , I thought. Here I was, lying on my side with a stick digging into my hip and my lover's heart beating beneath my ear. I was sated and sticky, my muscles lax and warm, my skin cooling. None of the physical sensations were new to me, yet everything was new, fresh-minted.
How long had it been since I took a lover? Not a sex partner. A lover. I ran my hand over his ribs, marveling. There would be grief later. I didn't care. Loving was gift enough.
After awhile I asked, "What do you think of the name Sarah?"
"It means soul in one of the Indian languages, princess in Hebrew. Why?"
I shrugged my free shoulder. "I need a new name."
"I like the one you have."
"So do I. But I can't be Molly Brown anymore. I'm having trouble settling on a new name, though."
"Names are important. I will give it some thought. Do you want…" His voice drifted into silence even as his body tensed.
I've hunted, and I've been hunted. I didn't cloud the silence with questions but, like a hare in the bush, went still myself, straining to sort the night sounds. Cars continued to whoosh past on the highway. The breeze ruffled the leaves in the trees. Grass rustled…
Michael sprang to his feet, yanking me up with him. "Run!"
They came at us out of the darkness. Four, five—I don't know how many there were. They seemed splinters of darkness themselves, clothed as they were in black, their faces smeared with black. We were in full flight when we saw them, our hands clasped, bare feet slapping on the asphalt. They raced out of the trees—from in front of us. Between us and the RV.
Moonlight gleamed on metal. A gun barrel, raised—the shot cracked out even as Michael jerked me to the left. The highway—yes, they might not want to shoot us where so many witnesses streamed by. There were trees between us and the interstate, too. Cover.
There were also two more of them, rising from the brush like shadows. One with a rifle, one with something large and ominous held to his shoulder and pointed, oddly, off to the right.
But the rifle was pointed at me.
I felt the power jump into Michael. He bellowed something. A word. It slid through my brain like melted butter—hot, ungraspable. And the one with the rifle burst into
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