A Nighttime Visitor

Dexter found me alone, at home, or what I was calling home at the time. I was living and studying in London, taking full advantage of the school-sanctioned vacation that is a study abroad program. London was everything I wanted it to be and a hundred things I had never expected. There were more museums and art galleries than I could get through in six months, and the streets themselves were historical relics, with statues and churches and cobblestones that were vastly older than, I realized with humility, the country of my birth. It was zen to sit for hours in a tea room, reading, sipping Earl Gray, watching the February rain saturate the city. And at night, the pubs and pulsing nightclubs in Picadilly and Oxford Circle and New Cross fed my appetite for pleasures of the flesh. A bit decadent at times, perhaps, but glorious even for that.

My rooms were in a block of student housing, and my personal quarters looked out over the train tracks, leading both the Tube and the British Rail trains in and out of New Gross Gate station. When the sun set, this ravine became a gaping expanse of blackness, blending into the outlines of buildings on the other side of its bank until finally giving way to the stars above, when they showed through the clouds. The rhythmic click of the trains going by at regular intervals was eerie and romantic, and I smiled whenever I heard them.

We had just gotten in from a late night at the club, a venue close to campus that stayed open late even by American standards – four in the morning and busy to the last minute. There were no trains running so late, and the dark valley outside my window was silent and deserted. I dropped my bag onto the bed and went in to wash off my make-up. I was aware of a breeze from the window; I often left it open to listen to the trains. Still, it hadn’t been windy, and I wondered that a gust had made it all the way into the other room.

He was there, sitting on the edge of the desk when I came back into the bedroom. I froze, limbs seized with adrenaline at the strange, abrupt change in my surroundings. But even in that first moment of fear, I remarked at his beauty. His dark hair was short and clipped, his hard skin was just a shade too pale to be human, and his broad, square shoulders carried the navy blue shirt with shameless perfection.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

“So you’re the writer? Charming.”

I stood where I was, trying to control my panic. I was confused, his knowledge of me was unsettling. I’d never seen him before, but there was something in his carriage that reminded me of something, something I’d dreamt of.

“I’m not going to hurt you, darling. I want your help.”

He got down off the desk and came towards me. The room wasn’t large; even still, he was in front of me faster than he should have been. His fingers were like cool marble brushing down my cheek.

“You can’t lie to me. I know you want this,” he whispered.

My eyes fluttered closed.

He was right.

Doing Scene Work

After spending some quality time with Dexter's novel, I have realized that the scenes I've been writing and putting together, while good on their own, form a rather disjointed whole. So I'm taking the weekend to add some sense to them all. I need to flesh out some of these characters and give them more interaction with one another, so far it is just pieces of things. I'm thinking my end of August deadline will come and go, but having it has at least pushed me to do some real work on this thing so far. Here's a brief excerpt, one of my favorite Dexter scenes:


She took a mouthful of scalding tea to fortify herself, and almost choked. Dexter chuckled.
"No, you're enjoying your pseudo-freedom, aren't you? The silk sheets, the delicious food. Nevermind that you'll never see the surface again, nor feel the sun on your face. But what is the sun to Lord Valens' attentions, eh? What is your life to his love? A small price to pay, I'm sure. Has he made you any promises yet? Has he professed his intentions? No? Pity. I'm sure he will. I'm sure he'll promise you the moon, the stars, all the riches in this world. Perhaps even eternal youth if you're lucky. Because you're special, aren't you? You're not like the others that he's kept, the humans he found so beguiling when they first arrived. You're his favorite now, aren't you?"
Michele had stopped eating and was watching his face as he spoke. Her bravado had melted away during his speech, as the truth of his words forced its way through. She was still a prisoner here, regardless of the luxuries she was provided; a prisoner to a monster, who very recently had ordered his previous harem slaughtered.
"Lost your appetite, darling? Tsk tsk tsk."
She had lost her voice, too, managing only a breathless whisper.
"You… you can't…"
"Oh but I can, pet. Words leave precious few bruises, you know."