Flying Into the Flame
by
Rooks
E-Mail: njdingle@undergrad.math.uwaterloo.ca
Disclaimer: These characters are loosely based on Xena the warrior princess and Gabrielle, who are owned by MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures.
Warning: This story does contain explicit sex between two women, but I hope that most of the arousal is psychological.
Other Note: This story is also posted at the 101 Aurellian Nights anthology page. Check out the cool cover Felioness did for the story there!
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When I opened my apartment door, the headline on the front of the Saturday morning paper read "Police Vexed by Thunderstorm Killer" in large black letters across the top of the page. There was an unfocused picture of some detectives crouching near some old buildings and gawking bystanders. I unfolded the paper as I sat down for my cup of coffee, and read the story.
The article was intriguing in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that the police were at a complete loss. Yesterday morning, the body of a girl had been discovered in an alley, in a state of half dress. She had been stabbed multiple times in the chest and throat, and was lying face down in a puddle from the previous night's storm. On her body, they found a scrap of paper with a single verse of poetry written on it.
What was interesting about the case were the similarities to another body that had been found only four days earlier. Both were young, blonde girls, both found with a verse of poetry on their corpses, and both had been found the day after a thunderstorm...hence the nickname the police were now dubbing the killer.
The forensic psychologist was reluctant to use the much-abused title 'serial killer' after only two victims, but the signs all seemed to be there. On top of all the similarities between the two deaths, autopsies revealed signs of recent...sexual encounters in both bodies. No semen had been found, but female fluids and stretching of various muscles seemed to indicate that the victims had both died while in the throes of passion, or at least shortly thereafter.
It was the kind of story that you only heard about in mysteries. I set the paper down with a mixture of disbelief and appreciation when I had finished reading. I made a mental note to myself not to go out after dark for the next little while. Those stabbed girls had been found in walking distance from where I lived.
It was a brutally hot August day. Not even noon yet, and the air already tasted like it was coming out of an oven. Still beams of sunlight glared into my small apartment, filtering past the dust mites to the paintings and drawings that lay propped over the baseboards.
I suppose I should say that my name is Tracy Graham, and I make my living as a writer and an artist; at least, a modest living up to this point. I survive from week to week on the stories that I manage to publish, or the drawings that I manage to sell. Sometimes it's hard, sometimes it's not. I don't do it for the money. When the muse strikes me, I have to let what's inside out. It's like an emotion. When an emotion tells you do something, you do it. You don't ask questions.
This morning when I read the article in the paper, it plucked a cord. The more I thought about the Thunderstorm Killer, the more I couldn't think of anything else. I honestly can't say what it was about the story that impressed me, but a sudden inspiration hit me like a bolt of lightning. I grabbed my sketchbook and my pencils and began to draw.
The image that formed under my fingers in the next few hours flowed out of me the way a good poem or story would on days when I was feeling eloquent. I had no preconceived notion of what the drawing would look like as I worked. I just let it come. When I finally sat back and looked at the finished product, I was immensely proud of myself. I felt it was one of the best drawings I had ever done.
The picture was of a woman, dressed in a silk robe, standing at a sink. She was drying her hands with a towel, or perhaps cleaning them. She was tall, with long arms and fingers. A thick mane of black hair fell down her back and away from her face. She had high cheekbones and full lips. The expression on her face was very subtle; a sort of grim satisfaction was hinted at by the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth.
I don't know why it was that I drew a woman. The article hadn't been gender-biased, but anyone who read it would undoubtedly assume that the killer was a man. I'll attribute the reason as being my own subconscious trying to tell me something. Regardless, I've always had an active imagination, and this woman was an artist's dream. She was gorgeous and statuesque. What I wouldn't have given to see the live model!
But, not wanting to seem pathetic, I folded up the drawing and stuck it in my pocket. The woman was beautiful, sure, but I had read Pygmalion in school too. I may have even laughed to myself a little.
It was mid afternoon now, and my apartment felt hot and stuffy. I decided to go for a walk through the university campus while it was still light. Outside, the sky was overcast with dark gray clouds and smog, and the heat seemed to radiate out of the ground, making the pavement shimmer like the air above a candle. I stopped at Antonio's for a slice of pizza on my way. The best pizza in the city, and it was only three buildings down from mine. One of the reasons I had moved into the neighbourhood.
The buildings of the university were beautiful, with intricate stonework and gargoyles perching atop ledges. The campus was pretty much deserted because of both the summer and the weekend. It felt strangely ominous.
Soon, I left the campus and found myself strolling down Spadina, through an area of old, tightly-packed houses. Two-story houses, with creaking porches, cracked windows and drooping shutters. Some of the buildings had been converted into small shops run by old ladies with cats sitting on the window sills. Dusty bookstores with tomes piled up the walls and small arts and crafts stores with lots of china and stained glass.
I asked an old couple the time; it was six thirty. I had been walking longer than I had realized. The clouds had darkened over the course of the afternoon. Now the air seemed to be filled with electricity. Looking up, I saw I was standing in front of a small crafts shop with an intricate wooden sign at the front reading "Valerie Stone: Artisan." I entered the store. There was no one inside, but it was filled with all sorts of crafted woodworking. Polished wooden birds perched on carved branches. Wooden bookends of remarkable detail. I looked around again for the owner but the store was empty. I did hear what sounded to be sawing coming from the back hallway.
A carved piece on the wall caught my attention. It was a wooden board with a peg at the top and a pad of paper – the kind of thing you keep on your kitchen wall to take phone messages or make lists. In fact, there were a few sample names written on the pad for customers to see. It was these names that I stared at. They read:
Kate Becker
Sarah Solomon
Tracy Graham
I stared at the pad in silence for a moment, mouth open, thinking I had read wrong. I shook my head. I had never been inside this store before in my life. There were no other Tracy Grahams in the city.
Finally, I took the board off the wall, and crept hesitantly towards the back of the store from where I could hear the intermittent sawing.
The hallway led through an old laundry room and out to the back porch of the house. There I saw the source of the sound. In the back yard was a woman...Valerie Stone I guessed. She was bent over a piece of wood clamped in a vice. The saw pumped back and forth in her hand. I could see the muscle in her shoulder flex with each stroke of her long arm. She was wearing a white tank top, and sweat glistened on her bare skin. Long black hair tumbled down her back. Her face was turned away from me.
"Excuse me?" I ventured tentatively. She looked up with surprise, and I was taken aback.
It was the woman from my drawing.
She was identical...and just as beautiful. And as she rose to her feet, I could see she was just as tall as I had imagined. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and wiped her forehead with her arm. Her eyes were blue, and they flickered over me with brief surprise.
"Sorry. I didn't hear you come out here," she said.
I found that my tongue was completely tied.
"Hi. I'm Val. Sorry, but I don't get too many customers this time of day. Would you like to buy that?" she asked, gesturing at the board in my numb hands.
"Uh yes...I mean no," I stammered. "I just...wanted to ask you about it."
"Yeah?" She walked towards me. I was standing on the porch, so she had to look up at me. She had a very direct gaze. When she got closer, I could smell the scent that was steaming off her...hot from working in the sun. I suddenly remembered my attraction to the imaginary woman in the drawing and blushed.
I cleared my throat. "Where did you see these names that you put on here?" I asked her, showing her the list. She took it from me and looked down briefly, then back up.
"Nowhere," she said, with a low chuckle. "I just made them up. The first ones that popped into my head. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's a funny coincidence," I said nervously, "but that last name happens to be mine."
Her eyebrows rose and she looked at the list again. My eyes took the opportunity to trace the contours of her body. She was extraordinarily attractive. Her tank top was clinging to her muscled abdomen and perfectly shaped breasts. She was in shorts, and her legs were long and tan. There seemed to be a lot of power contained in her limbs. She was like a coiled spring. I let my breath out slowly so that she wouldn't hear me exhale.
"I don't know what to tell you," she said and held out the list to me. She watched me keenly.
"There's more," I blurted before I meant to. What was I doing? I reached into my pocket and pulled out the drawing. I quietly unfolded it and handed it to her.
She let out a low whistle when she saw it, and nodded her head slowly.
"You drew this?" she asked me.
I nodded.
"It's very good," she said casually.
I didn't want to, but I smiled at the praise. I felt uneasy talking to her, and I wasn't sure why.
"What gave you the inspiration to draw this?" she asked with a sharp look.
"Uh...an article in the newspaper."
"Not the one about the Thunderstorm Killer," she said half-jokingly. But then she noticed my face had gone pale. "The Thunderstorm Killer?"
I nodded, and cleared my throat, which was suddenly dry. "You read the article?" I asked her.
"I skimmed it."
"I ah...I don't know why I drew you. Maybe I saw you walking one day and my subconscious remembered you?"
"Where do you live?" she asked me.
I hesitated for a moment, then told her.
"No, I've never been around that neighbourhood."
"Well how do you explain this? Or my name on this list you wrote?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "Maybe I've heard your name before. Interesting."
I had to admit it was possible.
We stood in an awkward silence while we both thought to ourselves. My mind was racing. What was more, my pulse was racing. I wasn't sure how much longer I could stand next to this gorgeous but physically intimidating creature. Her redolent aura was leaving me breathless. In this oppressive heat.
She looked up at me with eyes that were half-closed, cocking her eyebrow in a very appealing way. "I'd like to talk about this some more with you. Would you like to have dinner with me?"
The way she was looking at me set alarm bells off in my gut. I was feeling very conflicting emotions that were telling me to both run towards her and run away. Despite my attraction, I couldn't forget the reason why I had drawn the picture. Not that I actually thought she was the Thunderstorm Killer. No, that was ridiculous. But it felt like something supernatural was in the air. It was hard to ignore. My brain was telling me to thank her politely, excuse myself, and try to stay away from this shop from now on. That would be the logical thing to do. Definitely.
"Sure, I'd love to have dinner, " I said.
She flashed me a breathtaking smile. "Great. Come on upstairs with me. I just want to change out of this sweaty shirt."
She strode up the porch stairs quickly and glided past me. I was swept with a wave of scent that fired a kiss of arousal in my belly. I turned anxiously to follow her. As we were walking through the store to the staircase that led up to her apartment, I happened to notice the wastebasket that was next to the cash desk. In it, there was a paper plate, with the logo "Antonio's Pizza".
I picked it up. My eyes were wide. "I thought you said you had never been in my neighbourhood," I called to her.
She turned around and saw what I had in my hands. "What is that? Is that garbage? I guess a customer must have put that there."
"Oh," I said quietly.
"Something wrong?" she asked. A small frown creased her brow.
"Uh. No."
"Good. Come on up."
The staircase was narrow and tight, and it led up to the studio apartment where Val lived above her shop. I wasn't sure I wanted to be up there with her, alone. It wasn't what I had had in mind when I had agreed to have dinner, but decorum prevented me from leaving now. A swell of excited anxiety had lit in my stomach...like the feeling I would get before standing up in front of people to give a speech. This was the same, only laced with an undercurrent of stimulation that made my skin tingle.
Val's apartment was only a little larger than mine, but it was much more open. The entire upper floor was one big room that served as her bedroom, kitchen and living room. Her bed was in a corner, and next to it was an old fashioned grindstone that I guess she used to fix up her tools. The floor was hard wood and bare except for a white sheepskin rug next to a leather couch and a glass coffee table. On the table was a bunch of mail, some books and a letter opener.
My eyes settled on this last item. The letter opener was long and gleamed silver. It looked very sharp. I felt a chill.
"I'm just going to change clothes. Make yourself at home," Val told me. She went to a closet near her bed for a shirt and then headed to the washroom.
Left alone in the room, I swallowed. I looked over to the washroom door and saw that it was open a crack. Inside, I could see Val's reflection in the mirror, as she pulled off her tank top, revealing her smooth strong back. I think my heart almost stopped.
Tearing my eyes away from the vision that was her, I forced myself to take in my surroundings. What had I gotten myself into? It was dreadfully hot in the apartment, and the sky was red outside the window. The sun was setting, lighting the clouds a deep blood crimson. I walked over to the kitchen counter. There was a hand towel lying in a pile next to the sink. I stared at it. Could it be the same towel as the one in my drawing? It was hard to tell. My eyes skittered to a knife lying next to it on the counter. It looked long. The handle was wooden...carved with intricate detail. It looked like a lot of attention had gone into making it. My heart was in my throat as I ran my fingers over it, touching the warm, sanded wood. There was power in that handle.
"That's nice, isn't it?" came a voice from behind me. I jumped, and gasped.
"Shit! You startled me," I said.
"Sorry. You know, I made that knife myself. Well, the handle, anyway."
"It's very nice," I said quickly, leaving the knife and moving away from the counter.
"Are you hot? You look flushed."
"I am a little hot," I admitted.
"Here, I'll get us some ice water. Why don't you have a seat on the couch?"
I sat down while she opened the fridge. The letter opener glared wickedly at me from on top of the coffee table. I shifted my gaze away from it to some of the books.
"Is this poetry?" I asked as she sat down next to me and handed me a glass of water filled with ice. She was wearing a black tank top now...it seemed that was the style she favoured. The skin of her throat and collarbone seemed to glow with heat. She riffled a hand through her hair.
"Yes. It's my favourite book of Walt Whitman." She looked into space, and said, "To die is different from what anyone supposes... and luckier."
She glanced at me. I didn't say anything. I thought it was a rather ironic choice of verse to recite, given the circumstances.
I sipped my water. She sipped hers. She crossed her legs, lazing sideways on the couch and looking straight at me. I noticed she had taken off her shoes. Her bare feet made her legs look longer. She practically radiated sexuality, smiling at me like that. I felt a stirring in my groin just watching her.
A long, low rumble echoed in the distance, and we both looked towards the window. The light was rapidly dying. From where I was sitting I could see the clouds churning. I put down my glass and stood up, stepping over the sheepskin rug towards the window.
"It looks like there's going to be a storm tonight," I said.
"It's a ways off yet," she whispered. I started. She was right behind me.
She stepped around to stand in front of me. The fading light from the window shone around her face like a corona. I could just barely make out her features. Her eyes were hooded. She was so much taller than me. I was overwhelmed by the musky scent that still clung to her. I couldn't disguise the arousal in my eyes.
"I have something to confess," she whispered. I could barely hear her above the beating of my heart. "I didn't bring you up here to have dinner with you."
"You didn't?" I squeaked, half in panic. She took a step closer to me, and reached up to touch my cheek. I gasped at her touch. A chill shot up my back, leaving me weak-kneed, and I wasn't sure whether it was from desire, or fear.
"I saw the way you were looking at me," she whispered, leaning down to breathe the words into my ear. "You want me. Don't you?"
Don't you?
"Yes!" I breathed, despite the logical part of my brain screaming at me to get the hell out of there.
She looked down at me and tilted my head back with her hands. She smiled, pleased. "Hmm. I thought so."
Her kiss was so intense, so deep, that it made me gasp and stumble against her, then sink to my knees. The soft sheepskin was warm against my shins. Then she was pushing me back...down...to lie on it. Her lips joined with mine. Her tongue slid into my mouth. I moaned and wrapped my arms around her back.
Her mouth tasted more delicious than I ever could have imagined. I sucked on her tongue, warm and wet. Her hands were on me suddenly, caressing down my sides. Her touch made me want to press against her, against the softness of her breasts. At her burning caress, a wetness suddenly slicked my thighs. The heat of the room pressed in at me.
Her hands slid under my shirt at my waist and then up my bare skin, pushing the material up my sides and over my face, to tangle my arms together as she stretched them above my head.
She smiled. It was more a shift of shadows than an actual expression...the sun had set. She left my arms tangled above my head and pushed my bra up over my breasts. Not removing it, just getting it out of the way.
"Mmm yes," she murmured appreciatively. "You are perfect."
I imagined a sinister undertone to her silken words, but my body had completely betrayed me. My nipples rose in the heated air, crying out to be touched. I could hear my own breath, husking with the rise and fall of my chest.
She squeezed my breast and closed her mouth over my nipple. I gasped out loud. I struggled to free my hands from above my head, but she slid her arm up and gripped both my wrists together in one palm, pinning them to the ground. She kissed my chest.
"Your heart is racing. What are you afraid of, Tracy Graham?"
"N-nothing..." I stammered. My skin prickled.
"I wonder. Did you come here looking for a thrill?"
Her free hand slid down my stomach. It slid past the waist band of my skirt and underwear. Oh God. My mouth opened with anticipation. Then her hand slid through my wetness to cup and hold my sex. She curled two fingers inside me.
"Oh!" I cried and the back of my head struck the floor. My back arched taut like a bow. "Oh, yes!"
"You wanted me more than I thought," she whispered with some surprise in my ear. Her fingers stroked and circled me until her hand was painted in my desire. She added a third finger, stretching my nether lips with delirious passion. I pressed my face into my shoulder to stifle my cries.
She found a rhythm and quickened it...touching deep inside me. Her teeth were white in the dimness, gritted and grinning. She whispered things I couldn't hear, like a sibilant chant that stimulated me with it's texture.
In the distance I heard thunder rumble, louder than before. The soft sheepskin under my back was damp with my perspiration. I rocked my body against it, bucking my hips with her rhythmic stroking. My arms twisted above my head, but her grip was like iron. Her palm found my sensitive clitoris, and massaged it. My face twisted in agonized pleasure.
At some point I became aware of her whispering to me. "Yes...yes, that's it..." Looking up into her eyes, I could see they were wide with – hunger? She leaned down to kiss my chest and I lifted my head to look down at her face, suckling me. Then past her...down my body to where her hand was disappearing beneath my skirt. My knees raised, thighs clenching recurrently with her strokes. My toes curling in the rug. Her fingers filling me. I couldn't believe this was happening...couldn't believe how incredible it felt. I threw my head back again and gasped. "Oh. my God!"
A heat was overtaking me, hotter than the air in the room, when I noticed her hand above me had left my wrists. I was moaning continuously, out of control, trying to keep my eyes open. With effort, I craned my neck to see. Her arm was reaching out, fingers outstretched. Reaching for the table.
My heart froze, then jumped erratically as her fingers plunged deeper inside me. Faster. Oh, my God. Oh, my God, she was reaching for the table. I knew what she was reaching for. I panted as feeling built inside me. Shards of fear and sensation shook me. My hips bucked faster.
Her hand disappeared above the edge of the table. Then returned. She had something clenched in her fist. I lifted my hips off the ground, pushing against her hand, gritting my teeth as I felt myself at the brink. Breathing in hard gasps, I closed my eyes.
I felt something cold touch my neck, and I screamed. Screamed out my ecstasy, stepping over the edge. My head snapped back as rapturous pleasure overtook me, rippling through me. So intense. I was falling, exploding into pieces. My eyes were squeezed shut so tightly I could see flashes of light. My heart raced with hysteria.
Oh...
It seemed like eternity until I came back to myself. I lay boneless on the rug, the vague feel of her hand caressing my inner thigh. A kiss lighted on my breast. And something cold touching and sliding over my throat.
It was an ice cube.
I shivered hard, so hard that it shook me, and I realized I had been holding my breath. I heaved a sigh of contentment and relief. Her moist tongue licked up a frigid drop of water that ran down my neck.
"Does that feel good?" she asked huskily. "I almost tipped the glass over getting it."
"It feels...incredible," I breathed.
"You screamed," she said with dry amusement. "It was almost as though you were scared of letting go."
"Maybe I was," I said guardedly.
She smirked and then slipped her arms beneath my legs and my back, hefting me into her arms as easily as if I were a feather. She walked towards her bed.
Inside, realizing I was still actually here, my mind let go a breathless sigh. I was beginning to understand what a powerful tool the imagination really was. That had been the most intense orgasm I had ever had.
"Where are we going?" I asked, a bit playfully.
"You know where we're going," she said hungrily. "The night is still young."
I grinned and tangled my hand in her hair.
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I'm lying in her bed now, naked, wrapped in the sheet, watching her walk away towards her grindstone. She probably thinks I'm asleep. Outside the rain is driving against the window. The thunder claps above the roof. It's right over top of us.
She takes a seat at her grindstone. I call to her, "What you doing, lover?"
She looks back at me. "Oh. I thought you were resting. I have some work to do for tomorrow. You don't mind if I fix up these tools, do you?"
"Who could sleep with this noise?" I say, pointing at the ceiling.
"Yeah," she smirks. "Why don't you stay here until the rain lets up? You don't want to walk home wet."
I figure that the rain might go on all night long. That arrangement works for me.
"Sure! Thanks. And please...go ahead and fix up your tools. I'd like to see you work. It would give me more confidence that you really are just an artisan."
"Just an artisan?" She cocks an eyebrow at me.
I blush. "Uh...well...when I first met you, and you looked exactly like my drawing...I was kind of afraid that you..."
"That I was the Thunderstorm Killer."
"Yeah."
I expect her to laugh, but she just nods her head.
"After I read about those two girls getting stabbed...and then I saw that letter opener on your coffee table...and my name on your list..."
I stop myself before I can dig my hole any deeper. Now that I actually put voice to it, I realize how ludicrous my fears were. How all the little things seemed to amount to something bigger.
"...I guess I have a pretty vivid imagination, don't I?" I say sheepishly.
"Nah. No big deal," she says in a low voice.
I smile at her. "I'm glad you understand."
"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," she says. "I read the article too. The victims weren't stabbed with something sharp like a letter opener. The cuts were ragged...like they were made with something blunt. So you really didn't need to worry about it."
She continues to look straight at me, her eyes a piercing blue in an emotionless face. I swallow, feeling a chill despite the heat. "Yeah. You're right," I say.
Strange, though. I don't remember the newspaper saying anything about the girls' wounds.
She glances out the window and adjusts her silk robe about her shoulders. A brief flash of lightning illuminates her face, casting her nose and cheekbones into high relief, but leaving her eyes in shadow.
"These storms are always over quickly," she says. "You won't have to wait much longer."
She looks at me once more. Then she turns back to her wheel and begins sharpening her chisel.
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(c) 1999, Rooks