Stephen Leather - Once bitten

He grinned evilly and said something to her, also in Spanish. The knife wavered but not enough to make it worth my while trying to grab it, besides, he looked a hell of a lot stronger than me and I doubted that I'd be able to overpower him, with or without the knife. His grin changed into a leer and he said something else to her, his voice softer this time, and she cursed him. He laughed and he took the knife away from my face and moved towards her.

"Leave her alone!" I yelled and I grabbed for the knife. He swore and pulled it away and then slashed it across my arm. It was razor sharp and it sliced through the leather sleeve and I felt it cut into my flesh. As he pulled the knife away pain seared through my arm and I cried out and he drew back and then plunged the knife forward towards my chest. I thought I was going to die. I really did. But when the knife was an inch from my chest there was a blur and before I knew what had happened his arm had stopped moving and Terry had hold of his wrist. It was weird. One moment she was standing there, her arms by her side, the next she was reaching across my chest and was gripping his wrist, her eyes fixed on his. She seemed calm and relaxed, there was even a hint of a smile on her lips. He grunted and cursed and the veins on his neck stuck out as he pushed against her, but the knife moved no closer. I looked down and saw her nails digging deep into his flesh.

She spoke to him, quietly this time, still in Spanish but I could feel the menace in her voice. I was as hypnotised as he was and I stood there immobile, no longer feeling the pain in my arm.

He pushed harder but made no progress and then she moved, so quickly that later I couldn't remember how she'd done it, but one moment his arm was outstretched, the next it was bent back into an unnatural angle and there was a splintering crack that made my blood run cold. He didn't scream, he passed out almost immediately and slumped to the ground as the knife clattered onto the sidewalk.

"Come on Jamie," she said, taking me by the arm. "I don't want us to have to explain this to the cops. We're, like, not on the best of terms at the moment."

We ran to the car and she insisted that I drove a mile or so before I checked the damage to my arm. When she was satisfied that we were far enough away from the would-be mugger did she tell me to pull to the side and take off my jacket. It was only a small cut, the thick leather had saved me from serious harm, and I doubted that it would even need a stitch. Terry took my hand and drew my arm up to her lips. She slowly licked along the skin until she came to the cut and then kissed the blood away. I could feel her tongue testing the edges of the wound, then a gentle sucking sensation.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I asked her.

She stopped sucking and lifted her head. There was blood on her lips and I was reminded of the first time I'd seen her, at the police station. "You don't know what he'd been doing with that blade," she said. "I'm cleaning the wound."

"What about AIDS?"

"Jamie, I hardly think you'll catch AIDS from a switchblade."

"Not me, you. You should be careful with blood."

She looked at me sternly. "Dr Beaverbrook, are you telling me that you're HIV positive?"

"No, of course not, it's just…"

She went back to licking the wound, her eyes on mine. It didn't hurt, far from it, it was soothing and, to be honest, downright sexy. I could see from her eyes that she was smiling and I reached over with my other arm and stroked her hair.

"You should be careful," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Tackling that guy. God, he could have so easily killed you."

She snorted contemptuously. "Huh, in your dreams," she said. "There's nothing someone like him can do to hurt me. There's nothing anyone can do to hurt me, Jamie. Trust me."

"Everyone feels like that when they're young, Terry. You feel like you can live forever, that nothing can damage you. I used to feel the same, we all did. You feel that you'll walk away from any car crash, that a plane can explode and you'll be the only survivor, that you'll never get seriously sick, that you'll live forever. You feel like you're immortal."

She nodded, her eyes wide and I put the back of my hand against her cheek. She felt cool and dry, like bone china, but soft.

"It's an illusion, Terry, take it from someone who's been there. As you get older you realise how short a time we have and how precious life is. You've got to learn not to take risks. All it takes is some nutter with a switchblade and it's all over."

She shook her head firmly. "No, I don't believe that, Jamie."

"The morgues are full of youngsters who didn't believe it. Trust me on this one," I said. "You'll change. Everyone does."

She put her head up close to mine, our noses almost touching. "Nothing can hurt me, Jamie.

And as long as you're with me, nothing will be able to hurt you either."

I tried to lift up my arm to show her the cut, but she pushed it away and pressed her lips against mine, kissing me hard and watching me at the same time. I tried to tell her that she was wrong, that you grew out of the immortality complex, that when you hit thirty you became all too well aware of the body's failings and you can't sleep at night for the sound of your heart ticking off the seconds, but then I lost myself in the kiss and when I raised my hand it was to caress the back of her neck and not to show her the blood. Eventually she broke away and asked me to drive back to my house.

While I drove she asked me about my work, about my time at university, my research. She didn't ask about Deborah and I didn't explain.

When I opened the front door I was hit by a wave of guilt as if Deborah was waiting there with an arsenal of sarcasm and bitterness but of course there was nothing, and maybe that was worse.

Terry was the first girl I'd taken back since Deborah had left. I reached for the light switch but Terry's hand covered mine and she whispered "no, leave it" and then put her arms around me and kicked the door shut with her heel as she kissed me. I put my arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet so that her head was level with mine. I couldn't see because it was pitch dark in the hall but I felt that she still had her eyes open, watching me. How old was she? Twenty five, she'd said.

Or thereabouts. God, I could barely remember what it felt liked to be twenty five years old and to feel that I'd live forever. When I was twenty five she'd have been fourteen with nothing more to worry about than which boy she had a crush on and whether or not she'd make the cheerleading team.

"You're drifting," she said.

"I'm what?"

"Drifting. Your mind has gone walkabout and I want you to concentrate on me, Jamie. OK?"

"OK," I said, and kissed her again.

"Bedroom," she said.

"Bedroom?"

"Carry me to the bedroom," she said, lifting her legs and hooking them around my waist. She felt light, hardly any weight at all, though I could feel the tight strength of her young thighs.

"I can't see where I'm going," I complained.

"It's not that dark," she said. It was pitch black. I stumbled towards the bedroom, hitting the walls a few times and once banging my shins against one of the innumerable coffee tables which made her laugh out loud.

I reached the bedroom in one piece, just about, and put her on the bed. The blinds were open so the first time I good actually see her in the light of the big, white moon that hung in the middle of the Californian night sky. She threw off her jacket kicked up her legs and undid the belt of her trousers, wriggling to slip them off. "Come on Jamie," she giggled. "Get naked."

The zip on the motorcycle jacket made a ripping sound as took it off and I pulled the t-shirt over my head and then I took off my jeans to the pitter-patter of hundreds of grains of rice raining down onto the carpet.