Ellen Datlow - Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

Her breath shuddered out in a last wave and she felt control return. She smelled pungent and dug out her bottle of perfume. A few minutes later she walked over the grass to the gravel driveway to the marble entrance, the music growing louder, now mingled with laughter. She thought as she walked into the storm of revelers, I’ve made a mistake.

Then she took a glass of champagne from someone and entered the beast. Hands, hips, elbows, and knees all touched her, seeming to caress her as she passed along, deeper into the antic folds of expensive clothes and cigarette smoke bluing the air. Everyone seemed on display, but crammed together so no one could get a clear look. Conny drank her champagne and made greeting noises, searching idly for a familiar face, one with a name that she could talk to. The faces all looked so earnest about being casual that they lost all legitimacy and their smiles seemed overburdened with meaning. She recognized no one. It was pleasant, though, to be stroked and petted through the careless gauntlet. She missed it, touching and being touched by flesh. It would, she thought, be pleasant not to miss it. She finished her drink and found another before she made it to the far side of the room.

A bar had been set up, tended by three men in short white jackets. She caught herself on the edge and watched them busily mixing drinks for a space. She stared at their hands, at the quick efficiency of them working with bottles and ice and glasses. She finished her second glass and set it down with a solid click.

“I’d like a Manhattan, please,” she said. “Something from home.” She laughed.

“Conny! Glad you made it! Where’s William?”

Brian stood at her side, grinning, his face a bit red.

“Home,” she said. “Working.”

“Ah. Dedication. Admirable.” He glanced to the side. “I’ll have a gin tonic.” He smiled at her again. “Any trouble finding the place?”

Conny lifted the glass to her lips and shook her head. Brian picked up his own drink as people jostled against him. Fluid sloshed over his hand and he glared around.

“Crowded here.” He gestured with his head that she should follow him, then took her hand and led her through the labyrinth of people. His touch was moist and too warm, but she was reluctant to let go.

She lost her bearings quickly. It was as if the room had suddenly grown larger now that she was nearing its center. All she saw were people pressed close to her or the ceiling beyond the brilliant chandelier. There was a second floor and more people standing along the railing looking down. She imagined that they watched her, making quiet bets on whether she would reach the exit of the maze before being eaten…

A clarinet screamed against the steady, frantic rhythms, but she could not see the band. Conny saw people bobbing in place, unconsciously following the beat, their bodies drawn into the pulse. She knew that feeling and for a moment it seemed right that she was here.

She bumped against Brian. He had stopped to talk to someone. She heard him introduce her briefly—something about “his writer’s wife”—and saw a bright face smile at her. She made herself smile back. She could not hear their conversation, not as words. Except for the surreal sharpness of the music, sounds seemed muffled, blended into a steady drone, like water. She liked the effect. The anonymity of the noise made everyone appear smarter, more sophisticated. They all had something to say to each other and they all appreciated what was being said.

She could hide within it, say nothing, and pretend along with the rest of them…

She felt warm. She raised her glass and noticed a faint tremor in her hand. He’s working again… She licked her lips and filled her mouth with cold liquid.

“Conny?”

She looked up and saw Brian staring at her, a faint crease of worry between his eyebrows.

“Warm,” she said. She finished her drink. How many did that make? “I think… is there somewhere I could lie down?”

His smile widened almost imperceptibly and the crease vanished.

“Of course,” he said.

He pulled her through the crowd until they reached a curved stair that went up to the second floor. She sensed people staring at her—or maybe they stared at Brian and only wondered who she was—and imagined what they might think. She realized that they would be right, too. He took her elbow and helped her up the stairs.

When she reached the top she looked down into the mosaic of people, still unable to locate the band, and tried to picture herself as part of them, one frantically bland face out of hundreds.

Brian tugged her away and suddenly they were in a long hallway and the music seemed abruptly tamer, more distant. Brian knocked on doors and listened. At the fourth he grinned and they entered a room.

She found the shape of the bed by the light from the hallway. Her legs felt uncertain as she stumbled toward it. She reached it just as he closed the door. She sprawled across the soft surface in the darkness and drew her legs up against her breasts.

“I’m sorry…” she said. “Just need a little time…”

“Of course. I quite understand.”

Through the insistent sensations growing inside her, along her thighs, through her stomach, she felt the bed shift. Then someone stroked her shoulder, touched her face. She flinched away and rolled onto her stomach.

“Here now,” a voice said, “let me help.”

She felt her skirt lifted, a hand against the back of her calf, up to her knee. She began to laugh. He pushed at her shoulder, trying to roll her over again.

Then lips brushed the side of her face, her neck, her ear. She laughed louder, and turned her face away.

“Here… now…”

His hands took hold of her hips and began rocking her. She let herself be moved, over onto her back, still laughing. She buried her hands between her legs.

He kissed her. His tongue prodded at her lips. She thought, I should be polite and let him, this is why I came, but she could not stop laughing.

“Damnit,” he hissed. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry…” She tugged at her skirt, pulling it up, and spread her legs.

After a few moments, she felt his hand against her, fingers tangling her hair, thumb searching for entrance. It tickled and she jerked. He rubbed at her, but did not quite manage to find the right places, the right pressure. Finally she sat up and grabbed his wrist.

“No, like this,” she said, moving his hand away. She ran her index finger through her hair. Then she laughed, realizing that it was too dark for him to see. She fell back against the pillows.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I appreciate the gesture… just let me rest.”

She sensed him, sitting nearby in the darkness, rigid and frustrated. She could almost feel him weighing his options. He tried to kiss her again, one hand on her breast, squeezing. But she rolled away. She did not know when he left. She remembered the light from the door again, the sound of the door closing. Then she was alone. She pulled up her skirt, jammed her fingers in deep, and rolled over onto her side, coiling around the orgasm, again… again…

“Would you like me to drive you home?”

Conny opened her eyes to the yellowed light of the bedside lamp across a pillow. She blinked and rolled onto her back. Geoffrey’s face hovered above her; the glow spilled across his scar, leaving half his face in shadow.

Her head pounded and her right arm had fallen asleep. She tried to sit up. Geoffrey helped her. She bent forward and gazed down at her bare thighs. She tried to tug her skirt down, then gave up and fell back onto the bed.

“Conny?”

“Mmm?”

“You should go home. I’ll take you.”