Chapter 9
IX
ABA?
The hinges screech in protest as I cast the door shut behind Astaire. Never—not in all the weary ages of my existence—have I encountered such a vexing human.
I pace about my chamber with restless agitation, as if to release the disquiet gripping my marrow.
The fire mocks me with its unattainable heat; the bed taunts me with the scent of the one I desire yet cannot touch. Even the stones are steeped in the rancid essence of my tormentor.
Yet, Astaire…Astaire’s fearlessness is bewildering. That a mortal should stand before me without shrinking in terror is both an affront and a revelation. Driven by curiosity, I pried into him. The emptiness I glimpsed inside was perplexing.
He ought to be as full of life as he is of blood, yet he is like a living corpse: drained, pallid, facsimile. Neither alive nor dead. An anomaly. Perhaps that is what draws me to him so ardently.
I have known his kind for too long to mistake his nature.
Humans are always preoccupied, whether with trivial anxieties, idle preparations, or demands of the flesh.
Yet never in all my years have I encountered one whose mind did not recoil from me in terror.
Even before intellect forms thought, their instinct senses what I am, knows to fear me.
The bitterness of their terror coats my tongue.
I strike the fire into a roaring flame, attempting to absorb its warmth. My steps hasten, fists clenched at my sides as the hunger stirs within me. Strangely, though Astaire’s presence ought to have deepened it, I found that his nearness dulled it instead. If only for a time.
Only two nights have passed since I last fed, yet now the hunger flares more fiercely than before. It seems that, as time passes, my thirst is deepening, growing ever more voracious and insatiable. I want to enjoin my creator for more, but I know that decrep—
I cut the thought before it can take hold.
I know, thinking about him is always ill-advised.
I would rather recollect the exquisite way Astaire’s throat suffused with colour the more aroused he became.
The way his eyes rolled back when I constricted his breath.
Right then, I wanted to touch his delicate skin more than anything, but I was afraid of what could—no, would—happen if I were to let myself go that far.
I have never spent much time among humans.
Save for Bayard, but he, that snivelling oaf, barely merits the title.
Even in the fleeting days when I was one myself, mortals never held an interest for me.
Yet Bayard…Bayard was the most pathetic of them all.
How he clung to the belief the master might one day turn him. How witless. How utterly na?ve!
I approach my chamber’s door, and with my power, it opens before me.
“Bayard!”
When there is no answer, I call out once more, louder this time. Soon enough, I hear his shuffling ascending the stairs. I turn back and sink into my armchair, wrapping my banyan tightly around my chest.
“Yes, young master,” he quavers in his thin voice. How I despise the title he insists on using on me.
“Have you arranged the new feeding yet?” I ask.
“No, young master. I never do until three days before.”
He quakes like a terrified rodent. I growl in disappointment, my patience fraying.
I know not from whence this inquisitive impulse came, as the knowledge of his pitiful answer had already been clear to me before he crossed my threshold.
Perhaps I merely wished to bring my ire upon someone, anyone.
But there is no satisfaction in scolding this imbecile, for his weakness is inadequate to my anger.
“Prepare the carriage. I shall go out,” I command.
“But has the master approved of this?” he presumes to ask.
“How dare you question me?”
I storm toward him just before I feel my brain setting aflame.
My hands fly to my head, clutching my hair as though I might dig the pain from my skull.
The agonised groans wrenched from my throat stifle any sounds from Bayard’s running feet.
The world around me fades to nothingness until only torment is left.
“Please,” I manage to grind out through gritted teeth. With just this one word, I taste the rancour of my own flesh.
The acrimonious voice of my maker speaks. “You wish that I should cease, you mewling gentis?” “How dare you take a single step unbidden?”
His words cut every artery, slowly—savagely—slicing through each muscle and tendon. I sink to the ground, panting with the effort not to rip my hairs out by their roots.
“I hunger,” I gasp.
“What does your hunger mean to me?” he says with a voice only I can hear.
“You deserve nothing but the dregs I deign to grant thee. You should be grateful that I let you consume the drops I deem beneath myself.”
“I do not know if I can control myself any longer,” I plead.
“You have endured centuries on less. Do not be greedy. Ask this of me again, and I shall allow you nothing for the span of a decade.”
“I shall perish.” My voice is but a whisper.
“Only if I will it so. Until then, you shall suffer. You shall wither till naught remains but a dry husk, a wretched form, made only for torment and writhing.”
“Please,” I beg. I will his words to stop cutting me, stop etching themselves into my being, to no avail.
“You shall be grateful for that which I bestow upon you, sandio,” my creator shouts.
Abruptly, his voice softens. “Who else would grant you such kindness? All others deem you an abomination. Behold thyself: cowering, hideous, deformed. I alone took you in, and I alone gave you succour. Remember?” he says gently, almost kindly.
I do not want to remember the past. I refuse to. My frame involuntarily tenses with the threat of it.
“Come hither, that I may whisper of my boundless love for you,” his sickly sweet voice murmurs.
“No!” I shout, pushing my maker out of my head.
I remain there, crumpled on the floor, until the heat of the fire leeches from my body and I am left chilled and empty.
I stay like this longer than I would admit, like a wretched creature trapped in purgatory.
Eventually, I rise on weakened legs and glance at the place where Astaire sat mere moments ago.
Or had it been hours? Perhaps even days?
I approach the bed, sliding my fingers over the familiar threads of the counterpane.
His sticky seed is there, still damp and faintly warm.
I lift my hand, where it glistens on my skin, then I lap every single drop off my fingers, savouring his sweet and salty essence, drawing from them even after it has been consumed, trying desperately to gather more.
There I crouch, sucking as greedily as he looked at me when stroking himself.
I fall to my knees, burying my face in the fabric, inhaling his scent.
I can almost see his unnaturally coloured eyes scintillating in the gloom of my chamber—blazing amber like autumn leaves left too long in the sun.
I inhale deeply, imagining the cloth of the linens to be the silky softness of his skin.
I remain thus until darkness grants me release from my tormented mind, lingering till dreams claim me with their restless embrace.