Page 43 of Blood Moon

Forcibly, he released the tension in his muscles. He angled himself back. Her eyes, wide with shock, were the color of the bourbon he’d been drinking and just as intoxicating. He fixed on them and focused on bringing himself under control.

He didn’t quite succeed, though. Strictly by willing it, he couldn’t regain control over everything. He couldn’t rule the fever infusing his blood, or where it was funneling, or the volume of it that filled him, swelled him, made him hard. He had no dominion over a desperate craving to draw her against his straining body and take her mouth with his.

Christ.

Speaking in a low rumble, he said, “Move away from me, Beth. Now. And don’t ever accuse me again of being unfeeling. I’ll show you different.”

Chapter 11

Monday March 10

As he jogged along the pathway that encircled the park, he refused to acknowledge the occasional raindrops landing on his shoulders. Nevertheless, with every step, he cursed the whimsy of Mother Nature.

Never had it been so merciless as on the night of November 7, 2022. When said aloud, that date had an upbeat cadence, like that of a marching song in a victory parade. Which had been befitting. That night, on the occurrence of the last blood moon, he was to have had the penultimate spiritual experience.

However, Mother Nature had intervened with rain, fog, and impenetrable cloud cover. He hadn’t gotten even a glimpse of that glorious red moon. He’d felt like a groom having waited lustfully for his wedding night, only to be blinded before getting to see his bride’s nakedness.

Perhaps he should have regarded the inclement weather as an omen and called off his purpose. But it wasn’t like adental cleaning that could be rescheduled for the following week. No. The date of that total lunar eclipse had been ordained in the instant of the Big Bang.

He’d memorized the timetable, had known precisely when the eclipse would begin, at what time it would be in totality, when it would end. He hadn’t been fool enough to write down all that information, or to circle the date in red on his calendar. But it had been etched on his mind. Underlined. Stars drawn around it.

During the weeks leading up to it, he’d willed each day, each hour, to go by faster, to move him closer to exaltation and acceptance. One act, and they amounted to one and the same.

In a perpetual daze of expectancy, he hadn’t paid much attention to the weather forecast, although it had been inclement for days. Heavy rains had caused local flooding and all the inherent hazards. But it was Louisiana, after all. He had reasoned that the low pressure system responsible would pass soon enough.

On the afternoon of November seventh, he’d sipped a pre-dinner glass of wine with his wife while dinner was baking in the oven. A roast chicken, he remembered. He’d lent a sympathetic ear to his son’s complaints about his algebra teacher’s unfair grading curve and had encouraged him to apply himself and soon the solutions that were evading him would click.

But while in that nest of normalcy, anticipation had been fizzing inside him.

Dusk came early in November. By the time dinner was over and the kitchen cleaned, it had become evident to him that conditions outside were worsening, not improving.

That unforeseen handicap had given him pause. For anhour or so, he’d wavered. But ultimately he had decided that he couldn’t squander that blood moon. The next one wouldn’t occur for twenty-seven months. He would go mad. Besides, he couldn’t let all his preparations for this night go to waste.

So, banishing his apprehension, he’d given his wife the plausible excuse he’d devised months earlier and had left his house to cruise the streets until he’d spotted an available female within the required age range. When he found her, he’d taken her. That part had been remarkably easy.

Although why wouldn’t it be? It was no accident that she’d been there when she was required. Her fate had been sealed just as his had been. Who would dream of questioning the orchestrators of Destiny?

The following day, he’d learned her name from the media coverage of her disappearance. Crissy Mellin.

He remembered the moment he’d pushed back the hood of her zip-up and had seen that her strawberry-blond hair was the same orangish shade as a blood moon. He’d taken that as a clear sign that his choice had been sanctioned. But he’d been wrong. Devastatingly, horrifically wrong. The experience hadn’t been the thrill ride he’d counted on. Rather, it had been fraught with difficulties he hadn’t made contingencies for, most of them brought about by Crissy herself.

She had fought him.Foughthim. Fought him with all her might, stupid girl. What should have been bliss for both of them had turned ugly, awful, undignified, untenable.

He’d gotten through the ordeal unscathed, but he had been denied the exhilarating experience he’d yearned for. His disappointment had been crushing and demoralizing. Worse, it hadn’t earned him the honor he coveted with his entire being.

The long, tedious wait for his next opportunity began. He’d had to behave normally, go about the mundane routines of an ordinary life, while he’d felt the restless fury of a Thoroughbred, born to run, who’d been hobbled and penned. But now, the opportunity was upon him! The night of March thirteenth–fourteenth. This Thursday. His excitement was superseded only by his determination to be more discriminating in his choice of sacrifice. She had to be a young woman who understood how special she was to have been selected, who would be compliant and accept with humility and gratitude her reason for being born.

To her eternal damnation, the significance of the rite had escaped Crissy Mellin.

By now, he’d made the loop around the park, completing his daily two-mile jog. He used the app on his watch to check the statistics of this morning’s workout and was satisfied. Even though his mind had been preoccupied, his body had performed well.

He cooled down as he walked to where he’d parked his car. He was about to get in when he noticed that the windshield was wet. He looked skyward and despaired over feeling a heavy mist settling like a mourning veil over his face.

He was now convinced that had the heavens been visible that night in ’22, had the ritual been consummated in the glow of the blood moon, things would have gone seamlessly. There would have been no call for violence.

He’d had more than eight hundred days to wonder why Mother Nature had jinxed him that night. He now had two days to worry if that meteorological mischief-maker would taint the ecstasy this time.

Chapter 12

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