Arom, a vampire short short story - Vampire Novelist Jayne Waggoner
The goose raced across the water, wing’s flapped while its feet slapped the deep river. Overhead the sky displayed its night’s complexion. Off in the distance, a dog barked, a child cried, and the sound of a gun echoed. Shym walked along in elusive consciousness of the circumstances around him. His thoughts were too far in depth to register beyond a subtle knowledge life continued.
He longed to have the ability to cry for his heart ached. She’d left him without a goodbye during the daylight hours. An empty bed on which they swore their eternal love remained the solitary remnant to testify of their coupling. He’d ripped it apart, no longer able to bear its presence, at midnight.
Crystal clear eyes gazed across the city beyond. Morning’s arrival would be imminent. Shoulders sagged with the thought of going home to an empty den. She could be anywhere. The enormous metropolis spread never ending. Her fragrance was unrecognizable within the vast array of other scents, a gift of concealment that did her justice.
Shym hadn’t realized a presence stood behind him until she’d spoken the first night they’d met.
“Hey baby. Want some company?”
He stopped in the alley surprised someone snuck up on him. Shym considered himself a specialist, after all, in the art of search to destroy. She’d been too exquisite to be real. Her hair didn’t appear just blonde but shone with a golden glimmer. Eyes of emerald green glowed above lush lips formed in an impish grin. The body shaped like an hourglass below a long red gown.
“I’m not sure.” He frowned. “What are you?”
“Maybe a dream.” She flowed over to place her body next to his.
Instinct warned caution. Before him lurked a hunter, he the prey. The unnatural power held a snare. Shym tightened his muscles to cast her away. An odor compelled him to bring her closer instead. An intoxicated aroma of blood filtered from every fiber of her body to capture with the bath it offered. Drinking from her essence without fangs, ecstasy never felt so enjoyable.
Their lovemaking became surreal. The alley fell away to be replaced by a room then another. The excursion ended in cold liquid. Shym believed himself transported physically to a different place, yet as they finished, he found himself in the alley knee deep in trash. Once more he questioned the reason for the embrace until his gaze connected with hers. All suspicion evaporated.
She asked to be called Arom, not her real name she admitted. No excuse for the alias was offered. Why did he accept her words without hesitation?
She’d gone home with him. The sole request she made for a change to the lair was a bed. Since two couldn’t fit in his casket, he conceded. However, she maintained he rest beside her. Suffering sleepless days, Shym adulation made the frequent absence of the coffin bearable.
They were inseparable except when on a hunt. Arom insisted they go at separate times. Her trips, she declared, had to be solo in the day or in the twilight hours. A warning signal might have sounded though his ears were too deaf to hear.
Three weeks passed without incident. Shym’s returns found her either in wait with open arms or out. The times he come home to find her gone; he’d rest in his casket until he heard her enter. Always she’d lure him to their bed.
The twenty second of February brought change to their bliss. Shym arrived to find the air foul with the stink of liquor. Arom lay in a deep sleep, vomit beside the bed. He slept in his box. The night after, she must have bathed in lavender water for the room reeked of it. Her sexual thirst bordered on insanity. The following night, she rested on the top of the blanket, her nude body spotted with water while the area around her was saturated. A foreboding intensified.
