For Anna. Always.
ENTHRALL ME WITH YOUR ACUMEN
Clarice banged her shoulder against Hannibal's as they walked down the street. "Hey, why'd you tell him you'll see him again? You're not seriously entertaining his proposal, are you?"
Hannibal returned the gentle shoulder bump and reached for her hand as they walked, hooking her pinky with his as they strolled down the street. He noticed moments of recognition—heads turning and the hiss of whispers as they passed, but it meant little to him. What moved him, truly, was Clarice's reaction— maintaining eye contact with every scandalmonger who dared to wag their chins as they passed.
"I love that about you, Dearest," he commented with a wink.
By her look, she didn't seem to understand him. "Love what, H?"
He stopped her on the street (in full view of every gossip taking the time to comment on their life together or his so-called crimes) wrapped his arms around her and kissed her more passionately than was his habit in public. Hannibal lingered on her bottom lip as she returned the kiss, paying special attention as he bit down lightly, tugging backward until it slipped from his affectionate grip. He'd torn flesh from bodies with the same teeth he used to show his love to her. That fact wasn't wasted on him. Likely she was as aware of it as he, but she'd never mention it. Not because he'd feel badly about it, he thought. More likely because she'd recognize it would be a point of pride for him, and she'd never give him that. She was no easy win, his Clarice, and she didn't offer prideful moments to feed his ego. She was hard work, and worth every moment of it.
He then bowed toward her, touching his forehead to hers. As they parted, looking into his eyes, she whispered, "H…"
By the uptick in her hormones he sensed she'd been moved by his tenderness. Emboldened by her nonplussed response, Hannibal began placing tender bites along her jawline, working his way along the maxilla to her neck. He dragged his tongue along the curve where her neck and shoulder met, sucking the pulse point at her jugular before moving on to her shoulder. Biting down on the muscle, he sucked hard. He raised a mark as quickly as he had her heartbeat, and, near-breathless from the intensity of the moment, she moaned. It was a quiet keening—imperceptible to anyone but him. Regardless, several onlookers craned their necks for a look. Hannibal could hear the rough gasps of several nosey bystanders, reminding him of the hissing of the ventilator in Popil's apartment.
Popil's apartment.
He's alone.
In the grips of a thought he couldn't ignore, Hannibal separated from his wife. With his arms still wrapped loosely around her, Hannibal pronounced, "She's gone, Clarice."
Clarice, as struck by the comment as he'd been, stepped back—the pair disconnecting from their passion as if he'd yanked a plug from the wall, draining the light from a room. "What do you mean she's gone? Are you talking about Popil's wife? She was on the other side of the wall."
"Was she? Perhaps, but I believe he has an ulterior motive for inviting my participation in his life, and I'm quite sure it has nothing to do with me expediting the death of his wife. It's just come to me now. I couldn't place it then, but from the scents emanating from her bedroom, that process is well underway."
Hannibal watched Clarice's eyes tick off to the side. She was thinking— processing what she'd seen and heard as if replaying each moment in her mind. She'd catalogued the sights and sounds as surely as he had, of that Hannibal was certain. The answer was there. She'd need only filter out the irrelevant stimuli, a simple enough task for one as gifted as his Clarice.
She began sorting through the facts as she understood them. This wouldn't take her long. "I heard the hiss of the ventilator. She's not dead…not yet, anyway."
Hannibal nudged her along, noting the facts might not be as they seemed. Not on the surface, anyway. "A ventilator makes a very distinctive sound…one that can't be easily replicated unless the machine was in full use. Think back to our own experiences. Do you know the sound to which I'm referring?"
They turned as if they'd been subconsciously commanded to do so, and without discussion or conscious thought of the decision, the couple began walking toward their hotel. They didn't speak for several minutes. They simply walked as if going for an evening stroll. Hannibal, hands clasped firmly behind his back, slowly dropped back, following one half-step behind his wife, watching. She needed physical space and the time to process the facts of the case. And it had become that for her, he was certain of that. A case— her own personal investigation. And it was personal, wasn't it? She'd want to protect him, and she missed the chase. Any proper hunter would, and she was just that— a lioness on the hunt. An old lion himself, he understood that feeling. That need. He saw it in her eyes as she sorted through the evidence. He'd not only allow for that need in her, he'd encourage it. When it was obvious by her body language she'd found some fact in her mind, Hannibal hurried the now-two or three steps ahead to catch up with her.
"You've come to something, haven't you, my Love?"
"The sound that was missing. The one that's difficult to replicate. It's the sound of the chest filling with air…the ribs expanding and contracting with each mechanical breath."
Hannibal's eyes lit with pride. "Precisely! Did you hear it? I myself did not."
She shook her head. "No. No, I didn't hear that. I'm sure of it."
"And that's not all, is it, Clarice? What did your other senses tell you?" He stood silently across from her, not more than twenty feet from some of the most spectacular sights in Paris, and all they could imagine, the pair of them, was the patient in the next room. Supposedly.
"There was a scent…it was very strong in the air. I thought it might have been coming from the kitchen, but now my mind is telling me something very different. It was a sweet smell, but I couldn't place it."
"I thought the same. Follow it, Clarice. You've stored that scent in your memories, so access it. You're reminded of the kitchen when you think of the scent. Imagine that room. Perhaps that will give you a different perspective."
Her eyebrows knitted together as she tried to imagine the visit. "It's there, but I can't get to it. It's taunting me with its presence, but I can't focus it. It's a blur in my mind."
"You can place it, Clarice, you're just having trouble because the scent was coming from a place it didn't belong, so your mind hasn't made the connection between the circumstances and the context. Think of Li Shizhen. Think of the ancient Assyrians. Come, my Love…enthrall me with your acumen."
He could she her eyes darting back and forth as her mind chased the circumstances of the day. Slowly, she reached for his arm. "Was it…was it honey?"
"Yes. Honey. Probably clover…local. But tell me, Clarice. Why would the scent of honey be emanating so strongly from a sick room that it entered your sense memory without you realizing it until now? Make an effort to answer, my Love. You know why. You need only connect the dots."
"Oh my God," she gasped as her mouth dropped open. "Mellification?"
"Long term ingestion. Years, perhaps. I'd bet on it." He clapped his hands, rubbing his palms together as if grinding something between them. "Shall I wait until the morning, or return after midnight?"
They'd reached the hotel. She tugged his jacket, pulling him through the doors.
"You're not going anywhere right now. If he's internally glazing his wife like a mint-basted lamb it's no concern of ours. He can dip her in dog shit for all I care— you're not going back there, H."
They reached the elevator. As the doors closed he moved on her, backing her into the corner. He pressed his chest to hers, feeling the quickening of her heartbeat. She breathed slowly as he whispered alongside her cheek. "My brilliant girl…aren't you the least bit curious what he's up to?"
She grinded her hips against his, pressing her body so close to his he was sure she felt his arousal.
"Aren't you the least bit curious what I'm up to?"
"Curiously, no. I'm ever your servant in that area, my Love. Lead. I'll happily follow."
They entered their suite, left quiet since the children were off exploring with Logan and Ardelia. He closed the door. She reopened it, hooking the DO NOT DISTURB sign to the outside of the door. She then flipped the internal lock so housekeeping (or some curious voyeur with a death wish) wouldn't find their way into the room.
"Time for a tubby, H?" Clarice joked, referring to what Angel would announce at bath time.
"Tubby time it is." He laughed to himself at the parental adaptations to his means of discourse.
He crossed the room, undressing himself as he approached. She did the same, hurrying to lift her dress over her head with crossed arms as he wrapped his arms around her and gathered her to him. They helped each other off with their undergarments, then strode toward the bathroom, arms hanging loosely around each other's hips. Hannibal opened the shower door and turned on the water. Clarice and he then stood beside one another, brushing their teeth as the water warmed. He'd look at her in the mirror occasionally. Each time she'd catch a glimpse of him checking her reflection, she'd bump her hip against his.
"See anything y' like?" Clarice asked in that drawl she'd shaken from her tone long ago.
"I like everything I see, though that accent could use a little polish," he teased with a wink."After all, your station has improved." He rinsed his mouth, and when the steam rose to the point the mirrors were fogging, held out his hand.
"Bring the Harpy…" she said in a lustful tone.
"It's with my clothing in the next room."
"So? Get it."
His heart skipped a beat. He opened the door to the shower, allowing her to enter. "I'll return in a moment."
"I'll be waiting."
Hannibal slipped out of the bathroom, searched his clothing, tossed haphazardly on a chair, and found the Harpy. He hurried back and stepped into the shower. Clarice had been washing herself. She turned from him, and placed her palms on the wall of the shower. Hannibal sidled behind her, thumbing the blade open as he passed beneath the fall of water. He grabbed a bar of soap and using his thumb and forefinger as a guide, began shaving chips of soap from the bar. He then took the blade of the knife, now spackled with soap, and dragged it along her body is wide swaths as if icing a cake with the suds. As the soap formed tracks of tiny bubbles, Hannibal used the sharp flat of the Harpy to shave the soap from her skin, tracking the knife downward to add the soap, then skimming it upward to remove it once she'd been cleaned. Occasionally he'd angle the knife slightly, pricking her flesh enough for her to wince, but not enough to break the skin. Pressed against the warm marble-walled shower, Clarice wrapped her arms around Hannibal's neck. He pressed his cheek to hers, whispering, "Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur michi."
"I'm no god, and I'm certainly not powerful…you're the strong one, H."
"Physically, perhaps…" She turned within his arms and wrapped hers around his neck. Resting her head on his shoulders, she sighed. After the scent…no, the very taste of her, the sounds she made were the most intoxicating thing about their lovemaking. He growled low as he lifted her, wrapping her legs around him as he pressed her to the wall of the shower. "I'm strong in that I can hold you in my arms and lift your body…you're strong in that you hold my very life in the palm of your hand. Without you, Dearest, I am nothing. With a single word, you can end me. I don't possess that same power over you."
She cupped his face with her hands and looking deeply into his eyes asked, "What word, H…what word would end you?"
"Goodbye…"
He spoke the word low— as if giving that thought voice, as if speaking it, might somehow manifest it. It was likely she didn't realize how that thought tore at him late at night. He had a habit of watching her sleep. He blinked back the thought. Did she notice the tear that escaped him, tracing along his cheek with the stream from the shower? He thought not, but knew she could sense the stress hormones he'd been forced to suppress at the thought of losing her. She began kissing his face, remaining at the spot the tear had tracked down his cheek. She could taste the salt, he thought. She knew.
"I love you, H. I couldn't leave you any more than I could stop my heart from beating or my lungs from taking their next breath. If, for some untold reason, I had to walk away, I'd spend the rest of my life seeking you out— if it took eternity, I swear on all that is holy in this world that I'd find my way back into your arms once more…"
"Perhaps not," he countered, "but if you did you know what I'd do, don't you?"
She instinctively reached for his right hand, searching for the Harpy, he thought.
"You'd kill me?" she asked, a hint of surprise mixed with melancholy, if he had to guess.
"Kill you? Heaven forbid, Clarice. No, I die. Of a broken heart, I suspect."
"You're killing the mood, Hannibal…seriously. Is this about Helena, Lady Murasaki, or me, because I'm the only one naked in the shower with you right now."
"Point taken."
She reached for the Harpy, held loosely in his hand at his side. She lifted his hand and pressed the flat of the blade against her breast. It reminded him of the night in Paul Krendler's home when she, then-Agent Clarice Starling, reached her cupped hand within her gown, freeing her breast. He recalled how very quickly it peaked in the open air. "You don't have to give up this one," she'd said to him, referring to him giving up his mother's breast for Mischa. As bold as brass, staring as deeply into his eyes now as she had then, with her trigger finger, she pressed the hook of the Harpy around her nipple, curving the blade around that tightened bud of flesh as if she'd meant to carve that coral gem from its creamy mound. His mind focused on the a thick sweet drop Chateau d'Yquem, trembling on her nipple with each trembled breath. This time, it was he whose breath trembled.
He came swiftly to her, went on a knee to the floor of the shower, and bent to her coral and cream his dark sleek head. He flicked his tongue against her nipple, reaching between her legs even as she moved that blade from her breast to his back. He was gentle at first, but became more persistent, taking her hint to bite harder when she'd turned the point of the blade onto his back each time he let go of that hardened pearl of flesh. His back arched against the thin drags of the knife's point, he was surely being marked. He'd leave his mark on her as well. He stood quickly, whipped his head backward to flip his hair from his face, then grabbed the wrist that held the Harpy. He didn't try to take it. Rather, he pinned that wrist to the wall, kicked her legs apart and drove himself as deeply inside her as he could with a single thrust. She gasped, and dropping the Harpy, gripped his shoulders and forced herself downward, taking him in as fully as either of their bodies could handle.
Using his body as a wedge, he pinned her against the shower wall, driving his hips upward with the same motion and intensity that she'd been riding him. They grasped and tugged at one another, Hannibal taking her as surely as she'd taken him that night at Paul Krendler's house. Soon her breath was ragged, her body trembling in his arms as he chased the orgasm she so greedily held back. No easy win, she made him work for her passion and he loved her the more for it. As always, when she could hold back no longer, Clarice's body began the convulsive dance of orgasm, pulsing and gripping him from within. Hannibal grasped her shoulders, driving her down, as he pressed upward. She gasped her release as he groaned his. The stayed in this position until his body, spent with satisfaction, slipped from hers. Neither spoke. They held onto each other, the quickening of their orgasms sending aftershocks they would ride out together.
When the water ran cold and their passions quelled, he opened the shower door, wrapped her in a towel, and took her to bed. She curled alongside him, drifting off to sleep long before he'd be able to find rest.
The Harpy remained on the floor of the shower— Hannibal reminding himself he had to retrieve it before housekeeping discovered it in the morning. He'd bled on the towel. His lioness had left her mark on his back as surely as she'd marked his very soul. He was her protector, her passion. She was, indeed, his redemption. His soul.
Until the next chapter, my friends!
L.H.
