Midnight 01 - Luisa's Desire

and ahead.
     
    "See," he said. "Lamas here!"
     
    As she rounded the scarp, the path widened into a table of land as flat as if it had been carved. Beyond this small plateau the mountain rose again, craggy and sharp, a final heavenward thrust of stone. Shisharovar nestled at its base. The lamasery was bigger than she had expected, many floors of white-limed walls and narrow, defensive windows. Lines of prayer flags fluttered against the sky. The jewel is in the lotus, she deciphered, the sum of what Tibetan she could read. A flash of silver drew her eye to men standing on the roof, tall brown men in flowing russet robes. She squinted. They held what appeared to be long trumpets. The low bleating the instruments made a moment later confirmed the guess.
     
    "Oé!" Dorje exclaimed. With a sigh of resignation, he and his companions dropped their packs. "Lamas pray now. We wait."
     
    He gestured for her to sit but she could not. Within those walls lay darkness and warmth and quite possibly an end to her travails. She was walking before she even knew she meant to, crossing the trampled snow like a woman in a trance.
     
    "Wait!" Dorje cried. "No can go. Lama here very holy. Very big power. Luisa make naljorpa angry. Luisa be sorry."
     
    He had her arm and was trying to drag her back. Anger rising, she spun around. Dorje's jaw dropped. Her hood had fallen with the movement and the light shone clearly through her veil. She caught a glimpse of how she looked through his eyes: pale, porcelain skin and hair as gold as new-minted florins. Her expression was startled, even innocent. But she was too perfect, her eyes too vividly green, her mouth too carnally red.
     
    Beauty like hers was dangerous.
     
    His interest shimmered in the air between them. A sound filled her head: his heart pumping harder with desire, forcing the life-giving fluid through it, forcing his sex to rise. For a moment she felt faint. Blood, she thought, seeing it, tasting it. She closed her eyes at the power of her hunger—not just for food but to destroy.
     
    She didn't realize she had moved. When her eyes snapped open, her hand was wrapped behind his neck, already pulling him into biting range. Her gums were stinging where her teeth had broken through. She shook herself, then shook him.
     
    He seemed not to notice the unfeminine force with which she did it.
     
    "You go," she said, sternly, huskily. "You no stop me."
     
    He stared at her, still under the spell of her foreign beauty. He licked his lips and she knew she'd done the same. Her mouth was watering, her eyeteeth razor sharp.
     
    "You go," she repeated. "Me no want hurt you."
     
    He grinned at that, as if he did not believe she could. "Haha," he laughed with a Tibetan's unpredictable humor. "No wonder you wear veil. You show face, you get too many husband!"
     
    Her own laugh was weak but it allowed her to uncurl her fingers from his neck. His countrymen, she had learned, were polyandrists.
     
    "Yes," she agreed. "Me no want too many husband."
     
    She backed away, gesturing him to stay. He looked worried but this time he did not try to stop her. Perhaps he judged her a match for the terrible naljorpa, whatever in Creation that was. Steps led to the lamasery entrance, stone beneath the snow. She climbed them—one dozen, two… her eyes holding Dorje in his place.
     
    At last she reached the top. Two large rings hung from the iron that bound the double door. Wincing at the bite of the frozen metal, she set her heels on the step and pulled. The hinges groaned. The door was too heavy for human hands, but impatience prevented her from pretending she could not move it. She was going in. Nothing, not prayers, not fears, not even her failing strength, was going to stop her now.
     
    With a last grunt of effort, she heaved it open and slipped inside.
     
    The shadows folded around her like a blessing, smoky and sweet and warm. Butter lamps, the ubiquitous Tibetan illumination, flickered on various altars along the walls. She had entered a towering hall, its roof supported by heavy columns, its walls hung with banners of colored silk. Through clouds of incense she made out the hazy forms of many Buddhas praying, teaching, and looking much like those she had encountered in Calcutta.
     
    A group of monks, young and old, were crossing the passage as she came in—presumably headed to their worship. As one, they turned to gape. Luisa did not care. She was too elated to be inside. Her head was