Friday, August 19, 2011


Jonathon waited until Sarah came home. They were lodging in an eighteenth century villa just outside the walls of the Old City. Zorro could have lived in the place. It had that much Mediterranean charm. You know what I mean, all hand-laid tiles and stucco. The witch who owned it (she claims descent from a certain practitioner from Endor, once named in the Bible) took out all the electricity, so no light bulbs...only candles, big, fat, buttery, beeswax candles. I guess witches look better by candle light...vampires too.

He met her out in the patio. It was cool. You know how it gets right before dawn. The breeze picks up. A few itchy birds begin to sing. She saw him sitting in the shadows and stopped. He could smell the guilt. He held out his hand. She sat down next to him and took it. Her mind raced. She whispered something. He said - Don't...Don't...It is not necessary.....,.And he kissed her hand. She began to cry. He held her. She sobbed. He soothed her. He kissed her. She trembled and kissed him back. Then he got up, scooped her into his arms and carried her down to their chamber. The old witch chuckled with delight, as she fastened all the doors, securing the place against the daylight.

They slept in a deep, cool vault, once used to store spices traded via caravan to desert shieks far to the south. A rich, heady fragrance seeped out from the thick, rough plastered walls. He carefully put her down atop a nest of soft, silken feather beds, and undressed her in preparation for pleasures yet to come. The smell of the Frenchman rose up from her skin, but he ignored it, nibbling away at its essence, as he kissed her most hidden, sensative  places.

And the old witch danced and cackled naughtily, as she watched it all unfold upon the reflective surface of an old, broken blue tile, taken from the tomb of a lesser known prophet. Did they know of her intrusion?...Did they care? 

He rocked her gently with a slow, sure strength gained from years (mortal ones, that is) on horseback. And she held him tight, bestowing wondrous gifts of her own. His 'eighteen year old body' against her 'twenty nine year old body.' His thousand year old soul melding with her much younger one.

But the witch was a crafty old thing and she 'whispered' news of this coupling to the Chevalier Jean-Michel, as he lay cold and alone in his own crypt. Lurid images crept into his dreams. And a hunger for revenge began to build. 

The ersatz 'jinns' flitting about the Divine enclosure laughed sharp, metallic laughs, as they kissed the lips of the demented witch, carrying away her purloined secrets and then breathing them into other ears..... 

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