Page 22 of Blood Lovers

CHAPTER EIGHT - PAUL

It’s always about the bliss.

Zecharyet Wagner is having a very bad day.

I find him at the funeral.

He is late twenties, married—widowed now—and the goodness emanating from him is strong enough to taste. His heart is pure, and I do love the pure ones.

My own heart shriveled up and died a dozen generations ago, at least. So this goodness, along with his beauty, is his downfall.

It’s not just that I crave him, though I do. And it’s not just that I must possess him, though I will. It’s just… all of it.

He’s the one.

He is the kind of man with morals and ethics. He goes to church on Sundays and after the service he teaches his religion to the smaller children of the parish, while his wife, Jane, teaches the older ones.

They have three children of their own. Charlie, seven. Nancy, six. And the new edition, baby Susan.

They were married on Jane’s eighteenth birthday and she wasn’t even pregnant. I was there watching from the back of the church and even though it was a modest wedding—both of their families were lower-middle-class—she looked stunning. They honeymooned in the Poconos.

And when they came home, they moved into a brand-new three-bedroom house at the edge of town and started making babies immediately. Fucking every night. Sometimes twice.

To say I was enthralled is an understatement. This man of morals is a fuck monster. He takes her from behind, he takes her on top, he takes her on the bottom, he sucks her pussy and watches her masturbate.

They are like a porno. And if they were born six decades later, they would set up a webcam in their bedroom and make millions of dollars letting people watch them.

Or... probably not.

No one calls him Ryet. It is Zecharyet all the time. Even Jane adheres to this preference when she’s moaning his name during sex.

He is, quite simply, the American Dream and despite how horny he is, his belief in God is absolute.

I must possess him.

But he must choose me first.

The only way to possess a man like Zecharyet is to make sure he has no other options. To make sure that I am his saving grace.

So that’s what I did.

He does not cry at the graveside of his wife and three children. He simply stands there, stoic. I think he is mad at his God, which is delightful in and of itself. Because we have the same god and He makes me angry as well.

Ryet’s suit is too big. He’s a hard worker, a mechanic, but the only suit he owns is the one he got married in and his chest and shoulders have filled out since he was eighteen, so this one is borrowed.

There isn’t much left of his little family as far as remains go. They were burnt up in the fire, crispy and black, so all four caskets are closed.

They are small, as well. His cute wife was a mere five feet tall. A casket for a baby—oh, that baby. Even I can admit that it’s all quite sad.

He goes back to his modest home afterward. The people—and there are many—follow him. There is a party of sorts. Food is served and people start drinking even though it’s Tuesday and barely three o’clock in the afternoon.

Ryet has a fifth of Jack Daniels in his hand as he stands solemnly in the middle of his tiny living room, surrounded by pictures of his former love and offspring. He pretends to listen to his friends and family as they go on and on about the virtuous woman he was attached to and his disgustingly gorgeous children.

It will take time for him to get over the woman and the offspring, but get over them he will.

I’m here to make sure he does.

I bide my time. I spend the afternoon wandering the tiny Ohio downtown. I browse the five-and-dime. I get a milkshake and look out the window of the diner. I wander over to the car lot across the street and sweep my hand down the side of the brand new 1957 Ford Thunderbird. It is a beauty in Inca Gold.