Kindred Spirits

Kindred Spirits by Hank Edwards

KINDRED SPIRITS A Lady Aibell Press/Chippewa Publishing Publication, August 2006 Chippewa Publishing LLC P.O. Box 662 Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin 54729 Available Formats: Adobe Acrobat Reader (PDF) Other available formats: Palm Doc (PDB), Rocket/REB1100 (RB), Pocket PC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB), hiebook (KML), iSilo (PDB), Mobipocket (PRC), OEBFF Format (IMP), Microsoft Reader (LIT), (HTML). Kindred Sprits Copyright © 2006 Hank Edwards Edited by Jana J. Hanson Cover Art by Djinn Proofed by Katherine Johnson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole, or in part, by any means, without the written consent of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are fictitiously used. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks referred to within this publication are the property of their respective trademark holders. None of these trademark holders are affiliated with Chippewa Publishing, LLC., our products, or our website. WARNING: The contents of this book are intended for mature audiences 18 years of age and older only. Language, violence, and sexual situations may apply. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Kindred Spirits

I slouch in the back corner of the Rambler’s Roost bar, smoky darkness soothing my soul. A fourth vodka tonic sits patiently sweating on the table as my eyes sweep the room. If I sit and stare straight ahead I can watch as a young, slim kid—no more than nineteen if he’s a day—turns his back to me and straddles the denim covered thighs of his trick. The kid is a dancer at the bar and wears only an old, tattered jock strap, the elastic flimsy and sagging around his tight, white buns. The trick’s cock, hard, ready, and sheathed by a condom, stands up from the gaping maw of the man’s zipper. I cannot see the trick’s face but that’s okay; it’s easier this way for me to put myself in his place, engaging in physical contact. I watch as the kid lowers himself onto the blood-filled flesh, his back muscles tightening and releasing as he takes the dick deep. Beneath the table I am hard, my cock aching to be free, oiled up, and pushed slow into willing flesh. But it’s been a long time since I’ve opened myself up to anyone, even young, beautiful studs like the traffic that parades before me. I keep my gaze averted from their faces, unwilling to meet their eyes and provoke senseless conversation. It’s not the men I hate; it’s my job. My name is John Decker and I am a homicide detective. A few years ago, I found I was unable to shut off the images of death I’ve been witness to during my eleven year career. The madness of people, their ability to destroy their own kind, has infected my soul and hardened my heart. The last few times I was with someone, my mind conjured up the blood soaked bed of a recent case beneath our grappling bodies. It was difficult to stay hard when I kept imagining we rolled in slick, gory sheets rather than lube and sweat. It was all I could do to keep myself from screaming aloud. I gulp my drink and push the glass to the edge of the table. A thin, pale waiter sweeps by and removes it, bringing me a fresh one without a word. As my eyes follow the waiter drifting through the crowd, I catch sight of a man sitting alone in another corner of the bar. He is pale and tall, his long legs crossed before him. In his eyes I am surprised to find a tortured isolation that mirrors my own. His eyes, dark and endless, burn with the agony of a life lived beyond his years, a screaming soul trapped inside. I feel something turn within me, like flipping a rock and uncovering a small, forgotten treasure. All of a sudden I do not feel so alone and take a breath in an attempt to clear my spinning head. I look away from the dark-eyed stranger, and turn back to the kid bouncing on the trick’s lap across from me. From the corner of my eye, however, I continue to watch the other loner. He orders something from the bar, something clear, and sips it as he peers at the flesh show milling before him. No one stops to speak to him; his expression keeps them all at a distance. I know how he feels, this kindred spirit, and I feel a sudden attraction beyond his pale good looks and shaggy dark hair.

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For the next few minutes we catch each other staring. I consider getting up and walking over to him when the trick across from me lets out a grunt. I look back as the man lifts his hips from the padded vinyl chair, ramming his cock balls deep into the kid on his lap. The kid tips his head back, eyes closed, hands gripping his penetrator’s shoulders. I’ve seen him take bigger cocks than this one but have to hand it to him; he makes every guy feel as if he’s hung like a horse. The trick’s thighs quiver inside his jeans, his ass still lifted off the seat, a sure sign he’s blowing his load. Moments later, he sinks slowly back onto the chair and I watch the kid disengage himself from the sagging length of the trick’s cock. Using a towel, the kid pulls the condom off and wipes spare lube from the trick’s dick in one swift, practiced move. He then wipes the lube from his own asshole, takes the money the trick offers and without a second look, heads toward the back room. Exhaustion consumes me with a fierce intensity. I’ve seen enough for the night; the stranger across the room will have to wait. If it’s fated we are to meet, it will have to be some other night. It’s late and I’m tired. All thoughts of sex have died with the trick’s orgasm. I down my drink and push myself up from the booth. As I pass the bar, I toss some bills to the bartender and he gives me a nod. The pale stranger’s eyes linger as I head for the door, but I refrain from returning his look. I don’t want to pretend to be offering what it is he seeks. A cold wind bites into my skin when I step outside. My head pulls down between my shoulders and I plunge my hands into my coat pockets as I walk to my car. It’s 1:15 a.m. and the temperature has settled below zero. Tomorrow morning’s going to be a bitch. **** The next morning I get a call at home about a new case not far from my apartment. At the scene I park behind a string of black and whites and follow the squelch of cop radios into a trash filled alley where I find the familiar strands of yellow crime scene tape. At first sight of the victim, a sharp, quiet gasp escapes me. It is the young stripper I watched fuck a trick the night before. His face is white, paler than the dirty snow surrounding him, and his lips are blue. His neck is a gaping, bloody hole of ragged flesh and muscle. “Jesus H. Christ,” I whisper. “Yeah, it would take some impressive strength to do that, eh?” a patrol officer says as he walks up. “His name’s Barry Turner; got it from his license.” I nod as my mind whirls with thoughts of the people at the bar I’m going to have to talk with in a professional capacity. Once I question the staff and patrons, I will never again be able to go back as an anonymous person and I feel a quiet indignation at the thought. I take a breath and duck beneath the tape. Half an hour later I pull up at the curb just outside the Rambler’s Roost and step over mounds of slush on my way to the door. As I am reaching out for the handle, a crazy old man shambles around the corner from the alley. His white hair stands straight up all over his head. His eyes, faded blue and filmed from too much booze, catch sight of me and in his eagerness, he trips over his own feet and stumbles into my arms. Catching a whiff of his unwashed body, I hurriedly push him away. “He’s here! The Dark Master is among us!” the old man cries. He brandishes a cross made from taped together scraps of wood. “Beware for he is seeking followers!” “Okay, okay,” I say and hold him at arm’s length. “Thanks for the warning, old man. I’ll be careful. Tell me, did you see anything unusual last night?”

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The man’s eyes widen and he turns to run down the sidewalk. “The Dark Master is among us! His army is growing!” I shake my head then turn to pull open the door and step into the familiar smell of the bar. The bartender, the same guy from the night before, is cleaning the place up and frowns at the sight of me. I flash him my badge and his eyes go wide. “I never knew you were a cop,” he says. “Oh, fuck.” “Yeah, I get that a lot.” I start to ask him questions and he is shocked to find out Barry Turner is dead. I’ve questioned a lot of people over the years and the guy’s reaction seems genuine. The bartender tells me he lost track of Barry around 1:45 a.m. and figured the kid cut out early to go home. I leave him my card and ask him to call if he thinks of anything else that can help the investigation. The rest of the day is spent finding out Barry Turner was a foster kid, no one left to care that he’s now dead: the perfect victim. It is dark by the time I leave the station and as I head for home, I realize the last thing I want is to be locked in my small apartment all alone. Barry Turner’s body haunts me, riding shotgun as I try to decide where to go. I can’t go back to the Rambler’s Roost, not yet; maybe never again. Driving aimlessly, I pass a small bar I haven’t been to for several years. On impulse I hang a U-turn and park. Inside the place looks tired and run down, the same as it did years ago. I buy a vodka and tonic, then make my way to a doorway leading to a downstairs room with black velvet drapes hung at the bottom of the stairs and cinderblock walls painted black. As I walk slowly through the room, my eyes adjust to the dim lighting and I can make out couples and trios engaged in graphic exploration of each other’s physical goods. I make my way to the back of the long, narrow room and sit in a corner, sipping my drink as I watch the action before me. My cock starts to respond to the sight, sound, and smell of masculine sex, and I focus my attention on two very well built men across from me. Both are shirtless, one with a hairy chest and a tattoo of a panther on his upper arm. His partner is smooth-chested with no tattoos. The hairy one kneels before his friend and takes hold of the hard dick in front of his face, opening his mouth and swallowing it down, quick and fast. The hairless one leans back and opens his mouth in a silent gasp. Goddamn but I am hard. Pre-cum soaks through my jock and into my suit pants. I drain my drink and imagine myself stepping up to get involved in the action going on across from me. I have almost convinced myself to just do it, to let myself go and indulge in the touch of another man, when I glance down the length of the room and feel a jolt of recognition. The tall, pale stranger from the Rambler’s Roost sits at the other end of the bench. He stares back at me, his face serious and his eyes dusted with shadows. I nod to him and he unfolds his legs. He gets to his feet and walks toward me, his body poised and fluid. I can feel a power humming within him. It draws me in, jacks up my heightened sexual state even higher. He is wearing a leather coat, black silk shirt, black jeans, and black motorcycle boots. From what I can see of his shadowed face, I estimate his age to be late thirties and he is even more beautiful than I had thought last night. “Well, this is a nice place to catch your breath,” he says in a low, soft voice that I immediately want to hear again. There is a hint of an accent, something European and smooth, like well-worn flannel. I nod and try to look away, but I am caught by his gaze. “It does take the edge off.” He smiles, his eyes steady. “Yes, I’m sure it does. I’ve never been here before,” he turns to look back along the room. “Is it always like this?”

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I shrug. “It used to be just a dance bar, but they added this room several years ago.” I am silent a moment, then say, “I saw you last night at the Rambler’s Roost.” He smiles. “Yes, you did. You left soon after you noticed me, however. I was disappointed.” I am intrigued that he remembers me well enough to have tracked when I left. I shrug as casually as I can and say, “Well, you know, gotta get up early for work and all that.” “Ah, yes, work: the illness of the middle class.” He looks back at the groping and gasping couples. “Tell me, have you ever engaged in such forward activity here?” He gives me an assessing look. I grin. “Why? You looking for a date?” He grins back. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” My heart jumps in my chest. I am in dire need of someone to be with, someone to help me realize that I am alive, not dead, not lying on a cold steel table at the county morgue like Barry Turner. This man attracts and terrifies me all at once. I feel caught on a narrow ledge, wind tearing at my limbs as I try to keep my grip. What am I afraid of? Why can’t I relax and let someone get close to me? He seems to sense my need and takes my chin in his hand. I jump a little at the cold touch of his fingers and he smiles in the darkness as he leans toward me. “Sorry, I just came in from outside.” His kiss is soft but insistent, his tongue sliding in and out of my mouth as if he is fucking my lips. His hands drop to my chest and shoulders, squeezing the muscles, and he groans quietly into my throat as he presses an open palm against the bulge in my pants. “Oh my, you’re a big one,” he says, drawing back. “What’s your name, my friend?” “Decker,” I reply, my voice thick with lust. “Just Decker?” “John Decker.” I reach out and slide the leather coat off his broad shoulders. “And your name?” “Alexander Holt,” he says and leans down to kiss my neck. I think of Barry’s torn out throat and shudder slightly at the touch of his lips. He raises his head and gives me an inquisitive look. “Is there a problem, John?” I look around the room. “I don’t want to do this here. Why don’t we go back to my place?” He smiles and nods. “I like that idea.” I drive us to my apartment, a strange buzz filling my head. It isn’t painful, just distracting, like light interference on a radio station. My thoughts are unfocused by the sound and tend to drift off into nothingness. When I step through my apartment door Alexander remains in the hall until I wave my hand and say, “Please come in.” A small, private smile touches his lips and he steps over the threshold with a sigh. “Thank you,” he says. I get us a couple of beers and we sit close on the couch, kissing and touching until Alexander starts to unbutton my shirt. His hand slides down along my hairy chest, cool fingers pinching my nipples into hard, ripe points. His mouth covers mine, his tongue sweeping back and forth across my own. I unbutton his black silk shirt and slide it from his shoulders then sit back to look him over. He is well built, solid muscle beneath smooth, pale skin. I bend to suckle at his nipples and he sighs. I place my hand in his lap and squeeze the long, hard length of his cock through his jeans. I want him so badly it is frightening. I never let myself go this far this fast; I always hold back.

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But with Alexander, I felt an instant attraction at the Rambler’s Roost the night before, a magnetism that has carried over into my living room this evening. He stands and drops his jeans to expose his pale, curved dick and I do the same. My cock springs out from beneath the jock strap, the head slick with pre-cum. Alexander crouches before me, the muscles in his legs lean and firm, and sucks my entire length down his throat. I groan and place my hands on top of his head as a shudder ripples through my body. Oh, God, how I have longed for this kind of closeness. Alexander sucks me slow and hard for several minutes, his mouth and tongue falling into a steadily building rhythm, his hands cupping my buttocks as his long, thin fingers probe my eager anus. It’s been a long time since a man has fucked me, but I want him inside me, deep inside me, and I never want him to leave. I pull him off my cock and lift him to his feet so I can kiss him hard, moving into him and pulling his body against mine. Our cocks grind together, his slightly longer than my own. I reach down to grasp him then fall to my knees and take his cool, pulsing member into my mouth. I run my tongue around the ridge of the fat head before I gulp as much as I can into my throat. “Oh, John,” he sighs. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this.” I suck him harder and faster until, just before I think I have him ready to shoot, he pulls out of my mouth and holds me back with his hands on my shoulders. His gaze is hot and intense as he looks down at me. “Not yet. I want to do more things with you.” He helps me up then eases me down on the couch, stretching me out on my back as he kisses me. His hands are all over my body, pinching my nipples, stroking my cock, squeezing my balls and massaging my muscles. He moves his mouth down along my torso to my cock, pausing to lick and suck lightly at the shaft and head as I writhe beneath him. He moves lower, taking each of my balls into his mouth and running his tongue across the surfaces. Then he moves lower still, his tongue darting around and into my shuddering asshole, his hands lifting my legs to expose me. I clasp my hands behind my knees and hold my legs up, eyes closed as he rims me slow and deep. His fingers slide into me, probing the depths of my ass as he moves his mouth back up to my balls. I groan and whisper encouragement to him, letting go and opening myself up to him. When he mounts me, I let out a gasp at the moment of penetration. His dick is cold inside me, so cold. It’s as if he’s made of ice, not muscle and sinew and bone. With a firm push, he is beyond my sphincter and inside me. My body quickly grows accustomed to his presence. He pushes steadily forward, piercing me slowly and fully with his arms propped beside my chest and his head hanging above me. I open my eyes and stare up at him as his hips begin to piston faster, his cock driving into me and filling my brain with sensations I had thought long dead. I feel his mouth on my neck as I start to come and turn my head to more fully expose the fragile skin to him. I do not worry about having a hickey for work tomorrow or if he is wearing a condom. I don’t care about anything. I just know I have never felt like this before and I don’t want it to end. **** I wake up the next morning on the couch, naked and cold. Alexander is gone and I lie huddled beneath my mother’s old quilt. I feel off, not sick really, but tired, and the light coming in the window hurts my eyes. I decide it is the start of the flu and call in sick to work then close all the blinds in my apartment and crawl naked into bed. As I fall asleep, I recall the feeling of

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Alexander’s cock pounding into me and my dick hardens within seconds. I am too tired to do anything about it, but it is comforting to know I still have the juice left for a morning after fuck if he had spent the night. Later that day the phone awakens me and I pull it beneath the covers to groggily mutter, “What?” “Hey, it’s Mark. Your boss told me I’d find you at home. I thought you would want to hear this right away.” Mark Morris is the county coroner, someone I’ve worked with for years. I roll onto my back and croak, “Yeah? What’s up?” “It was a slow night here at the morgue and I was able to autopsy your corpse from yesterday. I found what looks like a bite mark just below the torn skin of the kid’s throat.” I sit up in bed and the covers fall away, exposing me to the dim, gray light coming in through the closed mini blinds. I wince at a sudden pain in my head and turn away from the windows. “What do you mean a bite mark?” “A single puncture wound.” A cramp seizes my gut and I stifle a moan. “Um, Mark, I’m going to have to call you back, okay? Write it all up and leave it on my desk. Sorry, but this flu is killing me.” Another cramp grips me and I slam down the phone as I rush to the bathroom. As I sit nude on the toilet, thankful the room has no window, I recall the feel of Alexander’s mouth on my neck the night before and how I didn’t want it to end. When I wash my hands, I avoid inspecting my neck in the mirror and withdraw beneath the covers once again. **** That night I dream about Alexander. He appears at my bedside without any explanation as to how he got in, quickly shedding his clothes and sliding beneath the covers with me. His mouth is insistent, kissing me, sucking my nipples, devouring my cock and balls. His tongue feels like it is everywhere at once, slipping into my asshole at the same time it is running along the shaft of my painfully hard cock. “Oh, John Decker,” Alexander whispers, wrapping his cool fingers around the shaft of my solid cock. “This prick of yours intrigues me so.” “I want to fuck you,” I moan and he smiles. “Then you shall.” The dream is so realistic I can feel the bed shift beneath me as he straddles my hips and lowers himself onto me. The head of my cock parts the tight lips of his anus and I gasp at the shock of his cold embrace. “You’re cold,” I say. “Well, it is February,” he replies. “And your apartment is not insulated to code.” I laugh and think to myself how amazingly realistic this dream feels as his cold, tight ass swallows more and more of my cock. I am incredibly hard, harder than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Not even as a teenager could my dick have drawn this much blood from my body. My cock feels so thick I fear I may split Alexander apart, but he takes my full length at last, settling his cool ass cheeks on my pelvis and grinding himself down a little more until he has taken as much of me into him as possible. Then he sighs and sits still for a moment, his muscles clenching and releasing around my pole. “Oh, fuck,” I gasp. “You’re so fucking tight.”

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“And you’re so fucking big,” he replies, adjusting his position. “You weren’t this big last night.” “I wasn’t stuffed up your ass last night,” I say. “True.” He takes my hands in his and holds them up over my head, his grip strong and a little frightening. His eyes, so deep, so intense, stare down into mine and I start to lose myself in them. His hips begin to rise and fall and I commence a counter thrust, pulling back when he lifts and lifting when he pushes down. “Oh, yeah,” I moan and close my eyes as I pump up into him. “That’s it, John,” he whispers, his lips next to my ear, and I start. When had he leaned down beside me? “Fill me with yourself. Press yourself into me like I did to you last night.” In the dream I smile and then turn my head to the side as I fuck him, exposing my throat because, somehow, I know this is what he wants. His tongue circles my ear then traces a cool track down my jaw to the steady pulse in my neck. He presses his lips to my skin and there is a second—brief and terrifying—when a voice in my mind screams for me to throw him off and roll away, to get out and not look back. But then a tiny, liquid sound reaches my ear, like someone biting into a ripe plum, and I groan as I come inside him. **** When I awake the next morning, my crotch is sticky with semen and a dull ache throbs in my neck. Jesus, how long has it been since I’ve had a wet dream? The light coming in the tightly closed blinds hurts my eyes even more than the day before and I think this is worst case of flu I’ve ever encountered. I call in sick to work again and bury myself beneath the covers. Later that afternoon, I find the strength to go to the convenience store across the street for flu medicine. The day is overcast, the sun cloaked behind great, gray sheets of clouds, but I keep my face down as I cross the street. After buying what I need, I step out of the store and a shrill voice begins to scream. "The Dark Master has bitten you!" I turn to find the crazy old man from outside the Rambler's Roost standing in the middle of the sidewalk. His right arm is extended, index finger aimed directly at me. Panic flares through my system and I look around quickly, body ready to defend myself should I be attacked. But no one is paying attention to him; he is just a nutcase who sleeps in the park and talks to the statues. "Go away, old man," I grumble and turn to head for my apartment. He follows, peppering my hunched back with accusations: I am tainted; the Dark Master has marked me for his own; my soul is damned. At my building I take the front steps two at a time, my keys out and ready. I want to be away from him, from his unbelievable, horrifying claims. At the top step I turn and glare down at him on the sidewalk, his wild eyes turned up to me. "You must resist him," the old man says in a calmer voice. Somehow this statement wields much more power than his shouting rants and I feel a sliver of ice work its way into my heart. "Your soul is damned if you do not." I turn my back and let myself into the building, closing my eyes in the elevator to catch my breath. Inside my apartment, I take two flu tablets and fall naked into bed, burying myself beneath the covers to fall into an uneasy sleep. I awake with a jolt several hours later, a scream barely held in check. My body is shaking, covered in sweat. I realize now what Alexander is and understand my tenuous position. I do not

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want to die, or un-die, or whatever it's called. I want to live, see my life unfold in whatever time I have left and then die, peacefully, and be buried in my family's plot. I do not want to be a monster prowling the darkness, thriving on blood and converting others to my cause. I must resist. With shaking legs I get up and cross the bedroom, hissing at the touch of light that sneaks in through the blinds. It does not burn, but I can feel it trying to wound me. From the small bookcase in the corner I grab the Holy Bible. The book thrums in my hand, powerful, unsure of my worth. I carry the Bible back to bed and burrow beneath the covers, clutching the book to my chest. Moments later, I fall into an uneasy sleep, my senses alert for any sound of entry. Late afternoon, a scratching at the door awakens me. I stagger out of bed, the Bible left forgotten beneath the covers, throw on a robe and lurch into the hall. My muscles feel as if they are coated in a thick layer of ice. I pause a moment to listen at the door then take a breath and yank it open. The crazy homeless guy kneels on the carpet before me, his hand still holding a string of garlic cloves he was attempting to drape around my doorknob. He gasps and moves away, pressing his back against the wall opposite my door. I cringe at the smell of the garlic and turn away, my eyes burning. “What the fuck are you doing? Get that shit off my door!” I stagger back and the old man scurries inside, quick on his feet, I think, for an old drunk. He closes the door and leans back against it, the garlic left in the hallway. “You’re in danger,” he says. “Closer to death than you know.” “You said that earlier,” I moan. “Get the fuck out of here.” “To save you we will have to kill the Dark Master,” the old man continues as though I haven’t ordered him out of my apartment. “That is the only way. We can save you and all those he has converted before you.” “What the hell are you babbling about? Who are you?” I sit in a chair and rub my aching neck. The sun is sinking fast and, as the night approaches, I find I am feeling a little better and it frightens me. “My name is Martin. I know where the Dark Master lies during the day.” The old man nods, his eyes wide. “He did not kill the young man in the alley; that was the work of his brood. They were too eager, too hungry, and tore out his throat.” I sit up straight as the old man rambles on. “Wait a minute.” I hold up my hand and push myself out of the chair. “What did you say? About the young kid with his throat torn out?” The old man’s smile exposes several gaps in his teeth. “It was the brood who took him; chased him down the alley where I was looking for food. They didn’t see me as one of them started on him, biting. The others got anxious at the smell of blood and jumped on him as well. In the confusion, the boy was killed. The Dark Master arrived right after and punished them by sending them back to their soiled sleeping place still hungry. I followed as they left and found where the Dark Master sleeps. I can help you, but we must leave now; the day is fading. He will come back for you tonight, the third visit, and then you will be lost.” My heart jumps. “Jesus Christ,” I whisper as the room spins around me. “This can’t be happening.” “Come, you must come with me,” Martin says and opens the door. “When you see, then you will believe.” I clench my teeth and nod. “All right, all right. I’ll go with you.” I dress in jeans and a sweatshirt, pull on my insulated hiking boots, grab my gun and coat and, after a moment, the Bible. I tell myself I’m crazy as I follow the old man out the door. We

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get in my car and I try not to breathe too deep as his body odor permeates even the lingering fast food aroma of my cultured detective life. “Where to?” I ask, rubbing my neck. The ache is back but not as bad as it had been during the day. “The Dale Projects,” Martin says. “The Gardendale building.” “Fuck. Of course.” I take a breath and start the car. The drive to the Dale Projects takes twenty minutes and by the time we arrive, the light is graying fast, stealing the color from the day. There are four condemned buildings that make up the Dale Projects: Gardendale, Flowerdale, Heatherdale, and Meadowdale. Bright, happy names for low-income housing; someone’s sick idea of welfare encouragement. The Dales, hulking, dilapidated monstrosities, have become home to hundreds of homeless people and drug addicts. More than a few junkies have overdosed within these walls, and there are at least eight dozen people all jonesing for a fix and ready to kill you for the change in your pocket at any time of the day. I pull out my gun, tuck the Bible in the waist of my jeans, and step in front of Martin to cautiously enter the Gardendale building. We ease along the vacant, echoing main hallway to an open door leading to the basement. The steps descend into an inky blackness that somehow feels wrong, as if the air itself has been injected with evil. I pull out my flashlight and move carefully down the steps to the bottom. Behind me, I hear Martin step off the last riser as I sweep the bright beam around the basement. The long, cinderblock and concrete slab room is filled with old furniture, mattresses, and the remains of many small fires the homeless had built for warmth. There is no sign of life, not even rats or mice; every living thing has vacated this place. The Bible thrums against my belly. Off in a corner, behind an immense, old-fashioned oil furnace, I see a shadow shiver. Martin gasps and raises his cross of taped together wood pieces, but I hold my hand up for him to stay back. I flick the safety off my gun and edge toward the furnace, giving it a wide berth as I angle around to look behind. A trio of young, well built men stand in the shadows, broad shoulders slumped, heads down, eyes on the floor. As I move the light over them the three raise their heads as one and open their mouths to hiss, exposing sharp fangs that glisten in the beam. I swallow hard and glance back at Martin, see the cross trembling in his pale fist. “They’re awake,” he cries and turns to run but the men are faster, ignoring me as their hands grasp him. His crude cross is knocked to the floor and breaks apart. I raise my gun, but they are moving too fast. Before I can react, they drag the old man off into the darkness, his legs kicking and his screams echoing off the cement walls, pleading with me to kill him. “Ah, impetuous youth. They’ll never learn to slow down and chew their food.” The smooth, accented voice slides into my ear and I shudder, closing my eyes at the memory of his strong, thick cock pounding into me, filling me, completing me. It is Alexander, standing close behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders. The Bible begins to sear into my skin, heat radiating through me. I turn and lose myself in the depths of his dark, ancient eyes. His lips part to reveal slim, pointed teeth and I suck in a breath at the sight of them, my heart jumping in terror. He takes my hand and says, “John, you don’t need that Bible. I won’t hurt you, I promise. Don’t you still find me attractive?” “Yes,” I whisper, the fever that began in my groin at the sound of his voice has blossomed throughout my body even though my mind screams for me to flee, to run from this cursed place.

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Hank Edwards

KINDRED SPIRITS

But I ache for him; I want him, need him inside me. I am so tired of being alone. All I want is to rest, finally, in his embrace. I barely register the liquid sounds and tortured moans drifting over us from the corner where they dragged Martin as I pull the Bible from my jeans and toss it across the room. Alexander flinches at the sight of the book, then smiles as it slides across the floor into cold darkness. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” Alexander begins to unbutton his shirt, his eyes locked on mine. “Do you want me inside you right now?” “Yes,” I say and start to strip as well, ignoring the cold air that bites hungrily at my exposed skin. “I thought you might,” Alexander says and soon stands nude before me. His cock juts out strong and thick from the wiry dark patch of pubic hair and I crouch to take him in my mouth. His skin is cold, colder than the floor beneath my knees, but I suck him deep into my throat. “Oh, John,” Alexander says. “You make me feel so young.” “I love you,” I blurt, coming up for air and burying my face in the bush of his pubic hair. He smiles down at me. “I know you do.” Alexander turns me around and pulls me up against him, my back against his cold, muscular chest. I can feel the impatient throb of his cock along the crack of my ass and I groan. He presses me slowly forward and down until I am on my hands and knees, gasping at the touch of cold concrete, then he kneels between my trembling shins and I shudder at the brush of his lips along the ridges of my spine. A moment later, the hard, round coldness of the head of his cock pushes into me. I throw my head back and cry out as he slides his full length inside me, parting my rectal muscles with ease. I catch my breath and grit my teeth, clenching my guts to embrace his invading cock. “Oh, yes, John. Tighten yourself around me, hold me fast inside of you.” Alexander grabs my hair in his fist and lets out a deep, animal growl as he begins to ride me, fast and deep. His cock takes control of my body, fills me with his essence. My hard dick spits pre-cum as it bounces up against my hairy belly, throbbing with each thrust of Alexander’s dick. All at once, he pulls me up by my hair to lean against him, his cock buried inside me. My neck throbs where he has bitten me before, aching for him to do it again. Just as I think I will lose my mind with wanting it, his hot breath finally touches my neck and I break out in gooseflesh. I feel the wet slide of his tongue over my skin and then the exquisite prick of his bite. I close my eyes and ride my orgasm, come surging out of my cock to spray across the floor as he pumps his own spunk inside me. His seed is cold and it spreads fast, filling my stomach, groin, and legs with ice as his bite sucks the heat from the upper part of my body. I fall to my hands and knees, gagging hard as if my body is giving up what life is left within me. There is a brief, horrifying moment of suffocation and then ... peace. I breathe deep through my nose, my head filling with a flood of information. I can separate the smell of Martin's blood from the lingering scents of each homeless person who has lived in this room. My vision sharpens, images crisply defined even in the darkest corners of the room where I see an elaborate coffin lined with silk. Outside I can hear the frantic scurry of rats pursued by a stray cat. Alexander leans down to kiss me on the mouth and I lick traces of my blood off his lips, swallowing down its sweetness as a roaring hunger awakens inside me. “Welcome, John,” Alexander whispers.

THE END 10

Hank Edwards

KINDRED SPIRITS

About the Author Hank Edwards

Hank Edwards’ humorous erotic novel, Fluffers, Inc., is available from Alyson Publications, and over two dozen of his stories have appeared in various erotic magazines including American Bear, 100% Beef, and Honcho, as well as a number of anthologies. He lives in a suburb of Detroit with his very patient partner of many years and their orange tabby cat who believes he is a dog. To feed and clothe himself, he organizes software testing for an impersonal multi-national corporation. Visit his website at www.hankedwardsbooks.com.

Our authors love to hear from their readers! You can write to Hank here: Hank Edwards c/o Chippewa Publishing LLC P.O. Box 662 Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin 54729

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Hank Edwards

KINDRED SPIRITS

Lady Aibell Press http://www.ladyaibell.com a division of Chippewa Publishing LLC Catching Your Dreams of Fiction!

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