Castro Immortal Pleasures

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-83541-025-7
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 352 Seiten

In this seductive dark fantasy from the author of The Haunting of Alejandra, an ancient Aztec vampire roams modern Dublin in search of vengeance and love. Hundreds of years ago, she was known as La Malinche: a Nahua woman who translated for the conquistador Cortés. In the centuries since, her name has gone down in infamy as a traitor. But no one ever found out what happened to La Malinche after Cortés destroyed her people. In the ashes of the empire, she was reborn as Malinalli, an immortal vampire. And she has become an avenger of conquered peoples, traveling the world to reclaim their stolen artifacts and return them to their homelands. But she has also been in search of something more, for this ancient vampire still has deeply human longings for pleasure and for love. When she arrives in Dublin in search of a pair of Aztec skulls-artifacts intimately connected to her own dark history-she finds something else: two men who satisfy her cravings in very different ways. For the first time she meets a mortal man-a horror novelist-who is not repelled by her strange condition but attracted by it. But there is also another man, an immortal like herself, who shares the darkness in her heart. Now Malinalli is on the most perilous adventure of all: a journey into her own desires.

V. Castro is a Mexican American writer from San Antonio, Texas now residing in the UK. As a full-time mother she dedicates her time to her family and writing Latinx narratives in horror, speculative fiction, and science fiction. Her most recent releases include The Queen of the Cicadas from Flame Tree Press and Goddess of Filth from Creature Publishing. Connect with Violet via Instagram and Twitter @vlatinalondon or www.vcastrostories.com.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Castro, V.

Leseproben

TWO

Later that night, I am on my final stop on a pub crawl and my third glass of sparkling water with a wedge of lime. What a great way to end the evening: “Big Love” by Fleetwood Mac playing on speakers mounted on the front of the bar. The paunchy bartender wearing a rugby jersey bellowing “Last call” over the din of the bar. People guzzling whatever they’re drinking and shuffling toward the door. Through the thinning herd, I can now see the corner booth.

And there he is, sitting with his mates at a table covered in Stella Artois bottles and pint glasses. His blue eyes flash with the same allure as his smile surrounded by a light stubble. The sleeves of his T-shirt creep over defined biceps. Candy for the eyes and body. A box of new books rests at his feet. The covers are all dark with red titles. One has a skeleton key and skull with what look like fangs. I chuckle to myself. He has a thing for vampires. I wonder if he is selling the books. Or did he write them? Doesn’t matter. I want the pleasure of his company, or at the very least the comfort of his body.

During my human life, romance and sex for pleasure had not been options for me. I had gone from being a teenage handmaiden serving the Tabascan royalty to being owned by the Spanish colonizer known as Hernán Cortés. Not only did I translate for him, we Indigenous women could not say no to any “advances” made toward us. First, he’d given me to one of his captains, Alonso Puertocarerro, then to himself, and finally to my Spanish husband, Juan Jarmillo, before my human death.

When I was reborn, I relished my newfound freedom, but I had much healing to do after the trauma of witnessing the conquest in all its horror—and the horrors inflicted on me. My history had left me with deep scars, one of them the fear of being used. There was the lingering paranoia that once my use was over so would be my worth, my life.

But after some time, I began to allow myself the luxury of physical pleasure even though I still was not able to give my heart freely. My experience of not being accepted, respected, or loved as a Brown woman by colonizer men made me self-conscious, about myself and also my vampire nature. Not all vampires felt like this, as I found out centuries later, when I finally befriended one.

“Mortals only want one thing,” that vampire had once told me, shouting over pulsating disco at a nightclub in New York City in the 1970s. White light refracted across our faces from the spinning disco ball in the center of the dance floor. The vampire’s name was Catherine, and she was older than me by a few hundred years. She wore the best clothing in the current fashion and the brightest red lipstick, with a shine as blinding as the nail polish on the talons she filed to sharp points. Her life was a constant party; she was never not planning another wild bash, and she was never alone for long. If not planning that next party, she hopped from shop to shop for the best her money could buy. So I was curious about her thoughts about life as a vampire.

“And what is that? A chance at immortal life?”

With her hot-blooded gaze, she flicked her feathered, bouncy honey-blond hair and scoffed, “No, no. Very few mortals have the courage for that. Most really can’t stomach the idea of being a blood drinker day in and day out. They want to feel close enough to life after death to not feel afraid of death itself. Humans are so full of doubt and fear of the unknown. They can’t see the divine unless the signs hit them like battle axes and draw blood. And vampires tell them that death is an illusion.”

Her bright lips spread to a sinister smile. “But also vampires do not deny ourselves pleasure. And pleasure is everyone’s drug of choice.”

She raised a finger and motioned for someone behind me. A young woman slid next to her, exposing her bare shoulder blade as she continued to move to the music. Catherine laid a sticky lipstick kiss on the woman’s shoulder before pulling out a small velvet pouch from her metal clutch. The young woman giggled and purred with delight. From inside Catherine plucked a small white pill and placed it into the woman’s mouth. Catherine didn’t take her eyes off me as she bit deep into the shoulder blade of the young woman. Blood and lipstick stuck to her skin. The woman moaned and writhed in Catherine’s embrace. Catherine still had crimson beads clinging to her lipstick when she pulled away from the young woman.

“All the lords and masters are dead, Malinalli. It is our turn to celebrate in the streets. We are not dead. I hope they are all burning in hell while feeling the constraints of the tight corsets some of us were forced to wear. Let them choke on sulfur for a change.”

Catherine became a vampire during the thirteenth century in France. She had seen the evolution of Europe. As an aristocrat, she was by no means deprived or underprivileged in material wealth; however, her only worth was to be wed to create more of it. Her words hit me in the center of my chest even harder than the bass from the music. My wounds opened for a moment as the faces of my many owners flashed before my eyes. I couldn’t argue with that sentiment. I hoped in death they knew intimately the pain they had inflicted. Part of me wanted to embrace the carefree nature Catherine had adopted, but my resentment still glowed a little too brightly. More time, something I had plenty of, was still needed.

She let out a wicked giggle before shouting, “I fucking love the seventies!” Her hand slid beneath the low-cut collar of the young woman’s thin pink polyester wraparound dress to massage her breast. The young woman tugged at the fabric to expose her nipple. Catherine used the tip of her nail to flick the erect pink flesh. One swift swipe drew a bloom of blood, causing the woman to groan. Catherine bit her lip before lapping up the red liquid jewel.

Catherine hadn’t cared about being inconspicuous. That was her way of getting vengeance against her former masters. And now, so many years later, I was slowly reaching the same point. I had once kept my true vampire self in shadows, and now it was rising to the surface.

The longer I am far from home, the more open I feel to wanting my vampire half and human half to be equally free. I have left my past in Mexico and I have traveled across the waters that brought the many colonizers to my world. It is time to confront their world. My work requires me to seem human. And I have kept my sexual relationships superficial so as not to reveal I am a blood drinker by nature. There was a time in my life when the thirst and the hunt gave me immeasurable pleasure, the only pleasure, as I had retreated into hiding as the last of my people attempted to fight off the invaders. I orgasmed in the throes of draining a soldier dry and tossing his corpse where I knew the Spanish sent scouts. Every part of me let go in blinding surrender. The look of horror when they saw the new me, the vampire me, let me know this was a side of me humans would never understand.

Yet the lack of intimacy in my life had only become another wound. My heart feels tied in ropes of thorn. I had tried to place a vast distance between me and others, as vast as the depth and length of the ocean between the New World and the Old. All the while I ached for real connection, for a profound love to blow away the profound hurt I was still healing from. But now I was resolved: I did not come this far or live this long to become a captive again. I want a lover to love all of me, the woman and the vampire.

But I don’t believe we find our true soul’s desire, or purpose—it finds us. Perhaps, when you meet a soulmate, it is a sign that all those long-lost particles blown to bits at the beginning of time have found their way to one another again—stardust finding itself in another body. Until we reunite with those parts of ourselves, our thoughts and desires will burn like meteors scalding skin, brain, bone, and soul. And that’s how we end up choosing the wrong people, feeling the kind of heartbreak that teaches us lessons. After centuries alone, I hoped to find my soulmate as I did the treasures that made me my fortune. My soul’s aching desire was to discover real love, to feel true equilibrium with my match. To make up for when I had been passed hand to hand in my youth without choice. At that time, I was merely a treasure to be taken.

As I look at the stranger, I can’t tell yet how deep an encounter might be with him, but fate is somehow telling me I’m not going back to my room anytime soon. The question is: Will he notice the only Brown woman in the place, the one with the leather jacket, dress too short to bend over, large hoop earrings, and lips tinted so red they’d leave a ring around his cock?

The bartender shouts “Last call” again with a grumpy look on his face for those of us who remain. I drink the dregs of my water, waiting for a glance from the stranger. He’s wearing a tweed newsboy cap, jeans, and a black T-shirt that reveals one tightly sculpted arm with a sleeve of tattoos. Is he strong? It makes me want both of his arms holding me against a wall with him inside of me. I watch him take the beer bottle into his mouth, then lick his lips with a slight pout. Perfect for nibbling bare skin. His physical allure was apparent, but I also liked that he was giving his friends his full attention. He didn’t talk over them nor was he too obnoxious from alcohol. He had a sense of self-control and intensity when he didn’t speak. Now I’m even more convinced I want to take him home. Just one last souvenir from my time in Dublin. Stardust or dark matter, in...