CHAPTER 6
Eron
In all my years of the seduction, I have never felt so uneasy. Last night was a lesson in frustration. Everything I explained to the boy was greeted with “But why?” or a snide remark. If he had been one of Mama’s stepchildren, she would have already taken a belt to his rear countless times. Tonight I expect much of the same torture, but worse. Tonight the agenda calls for me to introduce him to every one of our charges.
I bring him to Evangeline’s window first. He follows me with a decidedly human masculine swagger, and I wonder if he will ever assume the graceful floating typical of our people. Evangeline is what many would call an attractive woman, though she is a bit too modern for my taste. It is obvious that Mr. Colburn finds her appealing, as he leers at her with human longing while she changes into her satin negligee.
I’m ashamed for him. “You might show some respect and avert your eyes,” I suggest.
He looks at me as though I’ve grown another head. “Why? She can’t see me.”
“Even so …,” I begin, but realize it’s pointless to argue. I try to convince myself that in another few weeks it won’t be my concern.
“Whoa. She has some rack,” he says with a grin. “So, she’s the slut?”
I bite my tongue. I never said that. I simply said that she wasn’t one to sleep in her own bed. Most nights, I’d have to track her down in one strange bedroom or another. Silliness; one would think that by now she’d realize that I do my best work in a familiar bedroom. But I suppose he’s right; many humans do not hold their slumber as sacred as we Sleepbringers do, and Evangeline is one of them. She prefers to dabble in other, less healthful pursuits. As much as I hate to agree with him, she is a woman with loose morals.
She slides into bed next to her latest conquest. A slight man with dark, wiry hair wraps his arms around her as the sheet falls over them. Then she reaches up and turns out the light on her night table. I turn to the boy and say, “This is where we come in.” I move toward the window, and he stops me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. How do you know they’re not going to get it on?”
“Get it …?” I begin, but then shake my head. Another vile new turn of phrase I’ll need to learn before I become human. “You will learn to know your charges intimately. She is clearly tired and ready for me.” He moves to follow me, so I quickly hold my hand out. “Stay here. Watch this one from outside.”
He narrows his eyes, but I ignore him. I suppose I could have him follow me, as it’s not as if Evangeline can see us, but I simply must have a few minutes’ peace. I pass quietly into the room and stop at her bedside. One foot, toenails painted red, is peeking from beneath the sheet. This is her usual way of sleeping. Leaning over, I whisper sweet nothings into her ear, then take the sand from my pocket and sprinkle it on her head. I begin to run my hand along her body, over the curves but never touching them. Her heavily lashed eyes flutter and then go still. In another moment, she is asleep, dreaming of the farm where she grew up. I rise and quickly pass through the window.
“See how simple it can—” I begin, but then I hear a girlish giggle coming from the branches above. Mr. Colburn is leaning against a tree limb, facing completely away from the window. He’s smiling up at a young woman I’ve never seen before. She is wearing a long, formal dress and is enraptured by my student. She’s obviously one of our people. “Mr. Colburn, have you been watching?”
He looks at me lazily. “Sorry, I’ll catch the next one. This lovely woman—” He turns to her. “What did you say your name was, again?”
She blushes. “Genevieve.”
“Genevieve was just telling me a great story about a dude who fell asleep at dinner and ended up with a beard of spaghetti,” he says, and then a short laugh that sounds a bit like the honk of a goose erupts from his throat. “You guys know how to live it up.”
I glare at the girl. Seducing someone to sleep when they’re clearly not ready is strictly forbidden; however, sometimes it is necessary when a charge ignores the call of exhaustion for too long. Still, this unpleasant task is not something to brag of, and certainly not something to laugh about. “What are you doing here? Where are your charges?”
She points at the window. “That man—Bruno—is mine.”
I nod and say as pleasantly as I can, “Well, I have much to teach my trainee, as I’m sure you’ll understand, so …”
She nods sadly, gives the boy a doe-eyed look, and disappears.
He grins. “Thought you said this was solitary work, old man.”
“If you are doing it well, it is solitary work,” I return, business like, drawing the chain of my pocket watch from my vest. I check it; it’s after ten. “We’ll need to get to Vicki soon. She’ll be going to bed shortly. And you must be careful with her. You have to be sure she is deeply asleep. She tends to walk in her slumber.”
He follows me down the street, to the wet grass outside Vicki’s home. It’s fortunate that she lives in a one-story house, as she often trips and bruises herself during her sleepwalks. Sometimes I can guide her back to bed, but other times she will swat me away. She’s over fifty and has lived alone since she left her parents’ home as a teenager; she is used to doing things her own way.
My student peeks through her window. Vicki is sitting up in bed, bifocals on, reading a book. A cigarette is burning in the ashtray at her bedside. In the light, her hair is the unnatural color of a vibrant sunset, and the shadows and smoke bury themselves in the wrinkles of her face, making her look older. “Holy mother …,” he breathes, then turns to me. “You’re not serious.”
“About?”
He points a thumb toward the window. “That. That broad is older than you are.”
“And?” Clearly I no longer have the patience to reply in full sentences.
“And I’m not going to do a lady who’s old enough to be my grandmother,” he chokes out. “That’s repulsive.”
I sigh. “Mr. Colburn, you seem to think that you’re having a romantic relationship with your charges, and that is not the case. You are simply soothing her to sleep.” Vicki reaches over, lays her book on her bedside table, and turns off the lamp. I pass halfway through the window and realize he’s not watching, again. He’s concentrating on the busy street outside, where a trio of tan girls with white-blond hair is strolling and giggling. I snap my fingers at him. “Perhaps you’d better come with me.”
“Yeah?”
“Close your eyes, imagine yourself weightless, sliding through the window as if it is air.”
He does as he is told and follows me through, tentatively. One’s first time can be a little frightening and thrilling, as the feeling of passing through solid matter tends to send shivers up and down the length of one’s body, as if every inch of skin is alive. “Whoa,” he whispers, blinking, when we’re standing in Vicki’s bedroom. “I need to try that again.”
“Later,” I say. “And you don’t have to whisper. She cannot see or hear us unless she’s asleep. And even then she’ll think she’s dreaming.”
For the first time, he’s silent. It’s as if he enjoys doing the opposite of what I tell him. I pad on the lush shag carpeting to Vicki’s flowered comforter and pull a handful of sand from the pocket of my jacket. “Take only a handful, no more.” He watches as I sprinkle it over her and it dissipates in the moonlight, casting her skin in a powdery glow. I whisper sweet nothings again and begin to move my hand gently above her, a hair’s distance away from her skin. “You see,” I say to my student as I work, “I’m not touching her, not at all. Never touch them.”
He leans in closely and observes. “No touching? What would happen if—”