Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

— and I saw her.

Or better, I saw the constellation of Lucy — a dusting of brilliant red points of light, defining her thighs — and then turning, and more along her midriff; a burst of blue stipple, shaping her breasts, the backs of her arms. I kicked toward her as she turned in the water, my own arms held straight ahead, to lay hold of that fine, if I may say, celestial body.

But she anticipated me, and kicked deeper, and I’d reached my lungs’ limits so I broke surface, gasping at the night air. She was beside me an instant later, spitting and laughing. No funny lights this time; just Lucy, soaking wet and treading water beside me.

“We don’t have towels,” she said. “I just thought of that. We’re going to freeze.”

“We won’t freeze,” I said.

“It’s colder than you think.”

“Oh, I know it’s cold. We just won’t freeze.”

She splashed me and laughed again and wondered what I meant by that, but we both knew what I meant by that, and after we’d not-quite tired ourselves out in the surf, we made back for the shore.

I wonder how things went for you, right then? I know that you always fancied Jonathan; I know what happened later. I hope you don’t think I’m being bitter or ironic when I say I hope you had a good time with him. If he misbehaved — well, I trust you did too.

Shall I tell you how we misbehaved?

Well—

In some ways, it was as you might expect; nothing you haven’t seen, nothing you haven’t felt, my dear.

In others…

Through the whole of it, Lucy muttered.

“He is,” she would say as I pressed against her breasts and nibbled on her earlobe; and “Quiet!” as I ran my tongue along the rim of her aureole… “I said no,” as I thrust into her, and I paused, and then she continued: “Why are you stopping, Tommy?”

This went on through the whole of it. As I buried my face between her legs, and she commented, “Isn’t he, though?”, I thought again of Lucy on the shore, under the water. “Too bright,” she moaned, and I remembered my visions of the sky, on her skin.

And as I thought of these things, my hands went exploring: along her thighs, across her breasts — along her belly…

She gasped and giggled as I ran my thumb across her navel… and she said, “Tommy?” as my forefinger touched her navel again… and “What are you doing?” as the palm of my hand, making its way along the ridge of her hip-bone… found her navel once more.

I lifted my head and moved my hand slowly aside. For an instant, there was a flash of dim red light — reflecting off my palm like a candle-flame. But only an instant. I moved my hand aside and ran the edge of my thumb over the flesh there. It was smooth. “Tom?” she said sharply, and started on about unfinished business. “Shh,” I said, and lowered my face — to the ridge of her hip-bone, or rather the smooth flesh inward of it. And slowly, paying minute attention, I licked her salted skin.

I would not have found it with my crude, calloused fingertips; my tongue was better attuned the task. I came upon it first as a small bump in the smooth flesh: like a pimple, a cyst. As I circled it, I sensed movement, as though a hard thing were rolling inside. Running across the tiny peak of it, I sensed a line — like a slit in the flesh, pushed tightly closed. Encouraged, I surrounded it with my lips and began to suck, as I kept probing it with my tongue. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then, “Oh!” as my tongue pushed through. It touched a cool, wet thing — rolling on my tongue like an unripened berry.

And then… I was airborne… it was though I were flying up, and falling deep. And I landed hard on my side and it all resolved, the world once more. Icy water lapped against me. And Lucy was swearing at me.

I looked at her, unbelieving. She looked back.

She, and a multitude.

For now I could see that what I’d first thought were star-points, were nothing of the sort. Her flesh was pocked with eyes. They were small, and reflective, like a cat’s.

Nocturnal eyes.

In her shoulders — the swell of her breasts — along the line of her throat… They blinked — some individually, some in pairs, and on her belly, six points of cobalt blue, formed into a nearly perfect hexagon. Tiny slits of pupils widened to take in the sight of me. The whole of her flesh seemed to writhe with their squinting.

It didn’t seem to cause her discomfort. Far from it; Lucy’s own eyes — the ones in her head — narrowed to slits, and her mouth perked in a little smile. “He is that,” she said, “yes, you’re right.” And it struck me then: those strange things she was saying weren’t intended for me or anyone else.

She was talking to the eyes.

“He can’t have known,” she continued, her hand creeping down to her groin, “and if he did, well now he knows better.”

I drew my legs to my chest and my own hands moved instinctively to my privates, as the implications of all these eyes, of her words, came together.

These weren’t her eyes; they were from another creature, or many creatures. And they were all looking upon me: naked, sea-shrivelled, crouching in the dirt.

Turning away from her, I got to my feet, ran up the beach and gathered my shirt and trousers, and clutching them to my chest, fairly bolted for the stairs. I pulled on my shirt and trousers, hunted around for my shoes, and made my way up the stairs. At the top, I looked back for the glow of Lucy. But the beach was dark.

The eyes were shut.

You and Jonathan were gone by the time I came back to the house.

I wasn’t surprised; Len had switched to his Sarah Vaughan / Etta James play-list, and I remember how fond you are of those two. And it was late. The party had waxed and waned during my excursion with Lucy on the beach and those who remained were the die-hards: Ben and Dru, sprawled on the sectional, finishing off a bottle of Shiraz; Dennis, holding court in the kitchen with Emile and Prabh and the dates they’d not thought to introduce — at least not to me; maybe a half-dozen others that neither of us wouldn’t recognize if we met them on the street. Len’s party had proceeded without me.

I wasn’t surprised, and I wasn’t unhappy about it. Skinny dipping on the ocean and fucking on the beach are two activities that hardly leave one presentable to polite company. Best then to wait until the polite company had moved along, leaving only the depraved ones.

I made for the bathroom — the second floor bath, which yes, I know, was a faux-pas at Len’s parties, particularly late into the evening. But there was a small crowd around the two-piece off the kitchen, and I needed to tidy up sooner, so I slipped upstairs and made for the master bath. Which, happily, was vacant. The lights flickered on as I stepped inside and I slid the pocket door shut, and confronted myself in the long mirror opposite the showers.

I didn’t think I took that long; just splashed water in my face, ran a wet comb through my hair, shook the sand out of my shirt and tucked it in properly before giving myself another inspection. By my own reckoning, it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. But the hammering on the door said otherwise.

It was Kimi, Len’s Kimi.

In a week, she’d be on a plane back to New York, done with all of us, gone from Len’s circle for good. That party, she was on the verge of it. I slid open the door and apologized. “You shouldn’t be up here,” she said, “not this time of night,” and I agreed.

“Ask forgiveness not permission? That it, Tommy?” she said and brushed past me. She had been spending time in Len’s rooms, and it had gone about as badly as it did toward the end. You could tell. Do you remember that time Len had us all on that boat he’d hired for the summer? And she came hammering on our cabin door — with that fish-hook stuck in just below the collar-bone? And when you opened it, she was so quiet, asking if you knew where they kept the first-aid kit on the boat because “Len isn’t sure.” You knew something awful had happened, I knew something awful had happened. We talked about it after we got the hook out and the wound cleaned and bandaged and Kimi, smiling brightly, had excused herself and skipped back to the cabin she and Len were sharing. What did you say? “One day, that armour of hers is going to crack. When it does, she’ll either leave or she’ll die.”