Free Lilith by J. R. Salamanca

into her walk, and, hearing my steps, she turned, clutching the heavy earthenware pot against her apron, staring at me with a look of growing bewilderment.
    “Vincent, what on earth has happened to you?” she whispered.
    “I killed my horse, Laura.”
    “Oh, my goodness. You’re covered with blood.”
    “I know. I had to kill my horse,” I said. “She fell down and got terribly hurt, and I had to kill her, because she was screaming.”
    She set the pot down on the steps and came a little toward me down the walk. “I don’t know what to do. I guess you’d better come in and get washed off. Do you feel all right?”
    “I guess so. I feel kind of trembly, though.”
    “Do you want some brandy? We have some brandy that Daddy takes.”
    “I don’t know. I never had any.”
    “Well, come on in the house.”
    “All right.”
    I followed her in through the front door and up the stairs toward the bathroom.
    “Don’t touch the banisters.”
    “No.”
    In the bathroom I closed the toilet and sat down on it with my head in my hands.
    “You look awfully pale,” Laura said.
    “I know. My hands are all cold. I feel kind of sick.”
    “Well, just wait a minute, and I’ll get you some brandy. I think it’ll make you feel better.”
    “All right. Thank you.”
    I sat with my face in my hands, fighting to suppress the waves of nausea that swept over me, until Laura returned. She brought me in a moment a clean cotton shirt and a tumbler of brandy which I held in trembling hands and drank without pausing. It made me gasp.
    “Do you feel any better?” Laura said.
    “I think so, yes. It certainly is hot.”
    “I brought you one of Father’s shirts. You’d better take that one off; it’s all spattered with blood.”
    “All right. Thank you.”
    I unbuttoned and removed the blood-soaked shirt, which she dropped into the bathtub.
    “I’ll wash it out and you can get it the next time you come,” she said.
    “No, I don’t want it. Just throw it away, Laura.”
    “All right. Let me wash you off a little. It’s all in your hair and everything. You’d better lean over the basin.”
    She soaked a washcloth in hot water and, while I leaned over the white enamel bowl, bathed my arms, neck and shoulders gently, squeezing the cloth sometimes to let the water run in warm rivulets across my flesh. She bent a little over me while she did so, speaking with a softness that I had never heard in her voice before, her hands, when they touched me, expressing an intense and unfamiliar gentleness. I sat leaning across the basin, my arms resting on its edge, my eyes closed, drowsy with comfort, infinitely soothed by the cleanliness and coolness of the sparkling white enamel, the steam, the hot cloth upon my skin, the strong and tender touch of her hands and the nearness of her body. I had never felt such a physical attraction for her before. I was intensely aware of her loose fragrant hair and the warm redolence of her white flesh beneath her clean cotton dress. This idle, languorous sense of comfort grew slowly, then more swiftly, then with startling fierceness, into a passion such as I had never known. I was suddenly possessed with a flaming, trembling, almost demented desire for Laura that made my whole body ache, as if with fever, for contact with her. I raised my head from the basin and took her arm in my hand, pressing my face against the cool white flesh of her forearm. She stood very still.
    “Do you feel any better?”
    “Yes. It feels wonderful.”
    “Do you want any more brandy?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Vincent, what’s the matter?”
    “Nothing. I just want to hold you. You feel so wonderful, Laura.”
    I put my arms around her waist and drew her body against me. She yielded stilly for a moment, and then I felt her lean away from me, her body tensing in withdrawal.
    “You’re all wet, Vincent. It’ll ruin my dress.”
    “Please, let me just hold you for a minute.” I clenched her suddenly close in my arms