Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD Gary Brandner

In the sixteen years of their marriage, sex with Lilian had never been this good.

Harry Crofft held her close, savoring the satiny feel of her flesh against his. It was hard not to cry out, but Harry knew he must not. He clamped his lower lip between his teeth and moaned deep in his chest.

Sweat ran in rivulets from his body, soaking through the sheet beneath them and the mattress under that. Harry used all his willpower to sustain the moment, to hold off the thumping climax.

Think of something else. That was how you did it, delayed the orgasm. Think of something depressing.

Harry Crofft did not have to dig too deep for a melancholy thought. He had only to go back to that terrible night a month ago. The night of the horror downstairs, right under the room in which he now lay with his wife. What a cruel irony, he thought. Only after that unspeakable tragedy did he and Lilian find fulfillment in their bed. Sometimes Harry allowed himself to wonder if it was so good now not in spite of what happened but because of it. At least the children would never again walk in to interrupt them in the act.

Shuddering, he pushed that unworthy thought away, ashamed of himself. Even in his mounting passion tears blurred his eyes. Lilian, supine beneath his pounding need, was so innocent, so unaware of what had happened to her. To all of them. Seeing her bland, guiltless face, how could he possibly blame her for what happened? It was not her fault. She could not possibly have understood what she was doing. And now… now she was like an innocent child. And yet, very much a woman. A much different woman than she had been before. So receptive to his needs. So compliant, so eager to please him. The catharsis of tragedy had left them freely animalistic in their coupling.

The doorbell.

"Damn!" he growled through clenched teeth.

Lilian stared up at him, her mouth slightly open, as he pulled away. Harry put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Poor Lilian did not understand the danger.

He waited. Maybe it was just a salesman or one of those fresh-faced young idiots peddling their religion. Maybe they would go away. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will them to go away. But no, they would not give up. When the doorbell got no response they knocked. Persistent devils. How could they know he was home? With a little snort of disgust he remembered his car was parked out in plain sight in the driveway.

Carefully he withdrew from Lilian. "Stay here," he said, "and be quiet."

An unnecessary precaution. Lilian had not spoken an intelligible word in a month, only strange little sounds. Not since that frightful night when the children…

In a perverse way, Harry could almost enjoy her newfound silence. Since the day they were married it seemed that Lilian had almost never shut up. She had babbled on incessantly about the most trivial matters. Privately, Harry had to admit that it was a relief now not having to pretend to listen. There were distinct advantages in being married to a mute.

Still, there were times when he would not have minded a little friendly conversation. The physical communication they had now was great, but a guy had to stop screwing once in a while. It wouldn't matter what they talked about. Naturally, he would stay off the bad business of a month ago, even though it had to be uppermost in their minds.

Quickly he pulled on pants and shirt and stepped into his slippers. He smoothed back his hair and left the bedroom.

Descending the stairs he pulled in deep, controlled breaths, composing himself to face whoever was at the door. The persistence of the knock gave him a pretty good indication of who it would be.

He pulled open the door and nodded to the two men who stood outside.

"Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Croflft, but we were wondering if you'd heard anything at all from your wife." Sergeant Verick's eyes were the color of pewter — cold and steady.

"I haven't heard a thing from Lilian," Harry said. "I would have called you if I did."

"I hope that's true," Verick said. "You do realize that you could be in danger."

"Me? From Lilian? I hardly think so."

"Mr. Crofft, are you forgetting what she —?"

"You understand that we're just doing our job," Detective Ash put in. He was ten years younger than Verick and had a kinder, more sensitive face.

"I thought your job was to find my wife. Keep her from hurting herself. Or anyone else."

"It's also our job to protect you. There is no way of knowing what your wife's mental state might be today."

"I'm sorry," Harry said, relaxing his stiff posture. "I'm sure you're doing your best. This is just… difficult for me."

"Of course it is," said Ash. "Please understand that we don't like to intrude on your grief. But it's frustrating for us to run into dead ends everywhere. We've checked all your wife's friends and what family she has left. No one has seen or heard anything of her since… since the night it happened."

Harry shook his head. "After this long… maybe we should all just give it up."

"The police will never give up on this one," Verick said. He shuddered. "Those children… we're not going to rest until we find her. I'm sorry if we have to invade on your privacy, but this isn't just a personal matter for you, it's a crime of the ugliest kind."

Detective Ash touched the sergeant's arm and gave him the tiniest head shake.

Verick coughed into his fist. "Don't think we're unsympathetic, Mr. Crofft. I have children of my own, and I can imagine how this must tear you apart. I just want to assure you that we won't rest until we locate Mrs. Crofft and… see that she gets whatever treatment is necessary."

"Yes, thank you," Harry said.

What was that? A noise from the bedroom? Did the policemen hear?

"We'll be in touch, Mr. Crofft," Ash said. He looked as though he wanted to take Harry's hand, but he did not. The two detectives walked back to the street where their car was parked.

Harry closed the door and stood for a moment with his back against the cold wooden panel. His eyes ranged over the neat, comfortable living room. For a heart-stopping moment he saw the room as it had been on that dreadful night. The beige carpet soaked scarlet with blood. Twelve-year-old Justin, partly on the floor and partly across the big chair facing the television set. And little Kimberly at the foot of the stairs, her tiny hand across her face in a pitiful attempt to ward off the fatal attack. And Lilian. Oh, God, Lilian staring at him with that innocent, uncomprehending look. The bloodied ax lying at her feet.

Harry squeezed his eyes closed and let the pain subside. When he looked again the blood and the ax were gone, the walls repainted, the carpets new, the big chair replaced. The living room was empty. No one was standing on the stairs. He hurried up to his wife.

Lilian welcomed him back into their bed. The cool, moist touch of her flesh instantly revived the passion that had been damped by the visit of the policemen. Treatment, Sergeant Verick had said. Harry knew what that meant. It meant they would take Lilian away and lock her up where he would see her maybe once a month. And he would never, never be allowed to hold her like this again. He could not allow that to happen. Not now when they had found the perfect physical expression of their love.

The past month had been difficult, there was no denying that. The police were all over the place, of course, right after it happened. They were efficient, businesslike, and sympathetic, while trying hard to hide their real emotions. And there were the reporters. The media loves a story of nauseating violence. People were horrified at the thought that a mother could do such a thing to her own children. But they loved hearing about it and reading the details and watching Harry's stricken face on their television screens. It was a rough time, but after a couple of weeks there was a new horrifying crime to take the public's attention.

Some well-meaning people, seeing Harry's distress, tried to make excuses for Lilian. She was a "sick woman," they told him. She "needed help." Well, she had help now. She had Harry's help. Even that first night, as the police and the reporters prowled through the house, Lilian was right upstairs, hidden in their bedroom, not making a sound. Harry was proud of her for being so quiet. That was before he discovered she no longer spoke.

On that first night he had yet to appreciate the good part of all this. Then, much later, after everyone had finally left him alone and he had declined all offers to stay somewhere else, the sex with Lilian had been sensational. So often in the past she had pleaded the traditional headache or had performed in a perfunctory manner, the better to get it over with as soon as possible. Now, suddenly, she was insatiable. As often as Harry wanted to do it, she was receptive and ready.

No, there was no way he would let anyone take Lilian from him now. Not after the month he had enjoyed with her.

There had been the one close call with his mother a week ago. Right from the start she and Lilian had never gotten along. There's something wrong with that woman, his mother had said prophetically. She just isn't right for you. On her last visit, Harry's mother had sniffed the air and looked around the empty living room as though it were filled with garbage.

"You really should come and stay at home," she said. "I've got plenty of room. This can't be healthy for you, living here alone like this."

"I'm fine, Mother. Really." He had glanced up the stairs and caught his breath when he saw the bedroom door was open. The full-length mirror on the inside of the door reflected Lilian's naked body as she lay on the bed. On her lips was the slight, taunting smile.

He had quickly moved in front of his mother to cut off her view, and he hustled her out of the house as soon as possible. He sent her away with false promises to visit her. When he returned to Lilian he intended to scold her for taking the chance that his mother might see her. But as always, the proximity of her soft white body and the ineffable look of innocence in her eyes fired him with desire, and all else was forgotten.

Now, so urgent was his ache that Harry did not take the time to undress. He fumbled to unzip his pants and push them down on his thighs. With a little moan he dropped on top of his wife.

While Lilian's naked body flopped around beneath him, he thrashed and pumped and rolled from side to side on the king-size bed. With his eyes tightly closed he felt as though he could lose himself entirely in the mysterious inner darkness of the woman. The scent of her was sharp in his nostrils. The little sounds she made teased his ears.

The climax crashed around him like a towering wave over a solitary beachcomber. In his right hand he squeezed her breast as though holding on for his life. His emotions boiled over and out in a screaming, jabbering orgasm.

It was a full minute before he became aware of the sound. Door chimes, followed by an urgent pounding downstairs.

"Mr. Crofft!" Sergeant Verick's voice.

What were they doing back here? Harry pushed himself up and off Lilian and saw the open bedroom window. Damn, that was careless. He disengaged himself from Lilian, took a moment to calm himself, and walked downstairs.

The two policemen stood outside, their eyes watchful, muscles tense under their rumpled suits.

"Are you all right?" Verick said, his cold eyes probing Harry's.

"We heard someone shouting from the bedroom," Ash said, glancing toward the stairway.

"I'm fine," Harry said, pleased with the steadiness of his voice. "You must have heard the television. When I turned it on the volume was way up. Everything's all right. Really."

But the two policemen were not listening to him. They were staring down at his hand. His clenched right hand.

Harry followed their eyes and saw the shriveled tissue in his fist. A crusted brown nipple peeked out between his knuckles. His fingers loosened. The withered breast of a woman, thirty days dead, dropped softly to the floor.