Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

Danny let the car idle for a moment, then began easing it forward, taking up the slack between him and his new prey.

She'd started getting out of the car, thought better of it, was slamming doors and locking them, rolling up windows on both sides. He heard the engine grind and flood out.

He pulled in behind the Camaro.

She whirled around, looking back at him through the rear glass:

Like she'd stared at him that day at school, that day he'd finally gotten up the courage to ask her for a date, stared at him sitting at the wheel of this car and he'd known she was his for the taking, always known she could be his for the price of a Coke and a great set of wheels —

Except it hadn't worked out that way, instead she'd turned and begun walking off laughing with her friends, and when he'd called her back, he asked her if she'd like to go for a spin in the Jag, not believing she'd say no, not believing it! She'd laughed in his face — LAUGHED IN HIS FACE! — and made some comment about a great car with a geek at the wheel.

The heat of that memory pumped new energy through him, surging from his gut like bile. He put the car in park, pulled up the emergency brake, got out. The Jag thrummed softly behind him, cheering him on.

He approached from Brad's side, never taking his eyes off her, watching her trace his progress around the side of the car, up to the door. He wrenched it open.

She screamed, 'No. No, Danny, you can't be here. You can't be here, Danny.'

He grinned again, remembering how he'd felt as he peeled rubber out of the school yard that day, remembering how he'd felt as he raced away from the laughter, the hurt:

Remembering the bridge.

The crash…

Wind sang through the moment, telling him go on, go on, now, she's yours, yours for the asking price, yours for the car and the pain and the night. .

He reached for her — and the skin on his arms was patchy dark and oozing; the flesh was beginning to rot, shrink back from his nails. They looked like claws.

She shrank against the far door, hands scrabbling behind her, searching for the handle, the lock, anything to get away!

Little animal sounds whimpered from her, and he savored them. He'd always known she'd sound like that.

He grabbed her arm, pulled her shrieking, struggling body from the Camaro, dragged her over to the Jag. This time he wasn't going to take no for an answer. This time they were going to go for that ride.

Smiling, Danny opened the door to the back seat.

132

DREAM ON ME Mick Garris

It's not my fault!' he said through the chill that dried his sweat.

'Of course it isn't your fault. It happens sometimes. I understand.'

He was startled to look up into Martika's eyes as she cradled his head in her lap. He expected to see Linda, though he should have known better.

Martika, of course, didn't understand. This wasn't about detumescence defeating penetration. The blood that had pounded through his veins had stalled out, defusing any active organs. The passion had been sapped by Linda, who had invaded their lovemaking even from the grave.

He looked up, crushed by guilt and nausea, past Martika's breasts and into Linda's face. It was Martika who continued to speak, but Linda who stared. And Linda who understood… and tried to blame him.

But he was the Blameless Man. He couldn't bear the guilt, never had. Not only over Linda. Ever. He couldn't bear fault and was expert at rationalization that relinquished him from responsibility. He was unable to shoulder hurt feelings or pride, and unwilling to accept fault for pain.

Martika leaned over him, the brown nipple of one newly drooping breast brushing his cheek. 'You're shivering. You cold?' She stroked his face, which broke out again in a chilly sweat. He wanted to open his mouth and nurse away the pain, let it draw out a lust that would overpower his memories with carnal bullets, to pull her legs open and part the red sea with his Moses.

But Linda sat on his shoulder.

He was back in the Mazda; Linda had insisted on driving the new car. Bob's Big Boy and a drive-in movie: Let's play teenager. He honestly didn't care. 'Whatever you want' was the refrain. It had become a joke to him. He meant it; when it didn't matter, he said it: 'whatever you want,' even though he knew it made her defensive, as if she were a spoiled little princess being indulged, getting her way. He could tell that this night it pissed her off. They sped down Ventura as he hid in the movie section.

'What do you want to see?'

'Whatever you want…'

'Don't you have an opinion? Doesn't anything matter to you?'

But he didn't have time to answer. He saw the pipe truck before she did; his scream made her crush the brake pedal to the floor, and the car made a screaming doughnut before righting itself just in time to slam head-on into the flag-tipped pipes jutting out of the back of the truck.

Miraculously, they missed him; predictably, she had been impaled. The half-inch aluminum javelins made webs of the windshield and a pincushion of the bucket seats. She was spiked to her velour seat like a butterfly pinned to its velvet showcase, the anger still gripping her face. Her blood watered the asphalt through the feeding tube that pierced her heart, first in beating gushes, soon in a weakening, dribbling flow.

She was still looking at him, her eyes sightless but filled with blame and fury, her hand a claw, digging into his thigh so hard that blood was drawn: his only injury from the accident.

And then…

'It's not my fault.'

'I can't do this anymore. I'm not going to share you with a ghost.'

He could see Martika with sudden clarity, as if the camera operator had suddenly racked focus. And what he saw shook him. She could see through him, see the deceit, the wicked core he'd gone to such lengths to keep secret under a hide of humanity. His heart of guilt was laid bare to her.

'I'm sorry,' he said, feeling doubly naked as she watched with the lidless brown eyes that suddenly saw all. It was all he could say.

'So am I. If I'm going to be with you, I want to be with you. I mean, I know you don't want to hear this, but I love you, Andy. I really do care about you. But Linda is dead! Get her out of my bedroom!'

Or he'd lose her. As he'd lost them all since Linda.

Martika was the first who really mattered. Her sweetness was genuine, deeply rooted, not a ruse to be dropped when he'd been captured, only to be replaced by ball-snipping PMS madness. Her temperament was steady, intelligent, nurturing; she forgave easily, and without battle, and seldom considered the imagined hidden agenda. And she never sought out the hidden dark side; she seemed blissfully oblivious to shadows.

But now, allowing herself to look beyond the shell, she saw that he was agonized by Linda's spirit. He couldn't bear it if Linda pulled them apart. He had never told her, but he probably loved Martika even more than he had loved the dead one. And now she'd found him out. He couldn't let her leave him.

Martika watched him; he seemed so weak and vulnerable, hardly the man most people saw. He needed her so much, and — she had to admit — she needed him. But even as she held him, she felt his skin go clammy, and prickle into goosebumps. The conjoining of their flesh had been more than physically rewarding; she loved the feeling of being entered by his warmth as she wrapped him in a blanket of her arms and legs. They were a flesh