Chapter 20
XX
LAZARUS
“What took you so long, boy?” My maker’s voice slips between my thoughts before I can lift my hand to open doom’s door.
Scarcely had I crossed the threshold when my feet were wrenched from beneath me. The cruel cracking of my skull against the unyielding rock splits through my ears. Only then do I feel the warmth trickling through my orifices.
“Come hither, my sweet,” he drawls. “Your father wishes to gaze upon thy lying face.”
I attempt to rise, but torpor weighs down my limbs. They lay inert, refusing to obey my will.
“I will not repeat myself,” and at these words, sudden agony sears through my core.
Though I have endured such tortures a thousand times over, the pain seizes me anew as if it were my first. It’s only for a moment, yet a hoarse cry is wrenched from me as my frame contorts and twists upon the ground.
Through invisible fetters, forged of my creator’s will to imprison me, I am dragged toward him, slowly, inexorably, by a force against which no mortal or immortal strength can prevail.
Even in this state, I refuse to be dragged on my knees like a beaten cur.
Summoning the last dregs of my battered strength, I propel myself forward upon my hands and knees until I dare go no closer.
There, I lie gasping, rough-cut rock scoring my palms, refusing to lift my gaze to the abomination who gave me this cursed existence.
His stench envelops me: the fetid reek of a countless corpses, piled in a forgotten cavern and left to rot for a thousand years. His corroded feet, grotesque and crumbling, are mere inches from me, only seven toes still intact, and of these, but one lone nail yet clings precariously to life.
“Come hither, my inchoate bele?,” he coos, “for I must lavish you with a father’s love.”
I suppress the sickening impulse to retch, for I know well the cost of disobedience. I know, should I falter but a single instant, his wrath will seize my frame once more.
Clasping his fossilised hands, I drag myself over his hardened limbs as I’ve done countless times before.
He exults in my abasement. He relishes each pitiful embrace, every putrid exhale that I am compelled to endure as though I adore him.
I was but fourteen when my stature exceeded his, yet he still forced me upon his lap, revelling in my false adoration.
With utmost care, I arrange myself upon his thighs, striving to minimise the contact with his petrified flesh.
“Give me a kiss, my son,” he whispers like a serpent luring its prey.
I avert my gaze, unwilling to behold the visage that has haunted me since boyhood. Reluctantly, I press my mouth to the tear across his cheek, where the muscles of his jaw gape through ruined remnants of his teeth.
“You reek of a filthy human,” he says.
I am not deceived by the calmness of his tone, thus fear clasps my throat tightly shut. Could he know?
“I…contemplated…” I press out as simply as I can. “There is a new human in the castle. He might have wandered into my chamber and…”
“You treacherous beast!” he shrieks. “You dare lie to me? You believe me so daft as to be blind to what mine own eyes behold?”
I dare not stir, wanting to give nothing through my reaction. My mind clings to simple thoughts, innocent thoughts, as I am exceedingly aware of what could happen if I reveal too much. Could my maker reach him? I dare not imagine.
“Sire Aba?, how might I please you?” I summon what adoration my broken spirit can feign. “I shall do anything you wish.”
“Is that your heart’s desire?”
“My…deepest desire.” I force sincerity into my words, closing my eyes to press my mouth on his bony face once more.
“This pleases me so, for I have conceived a wish—a most special wish. Will you grant me such a boon?” he asks sweetly.
At last, I feel the force, though poorly, seep back into my body.
Even in this weakened state, I withdraw from his lap, kneeling before him, conscious of every gesture that might soothe the dreadful vanity of his soul.
I bow my head low, as once the lords of my youth did, awaiting to be knighted.
I feel his spectral touch glide over my bowed head.
I lift my eyes to his ossified hand still unmoving upon the carved arm of his throne.
Even ravaged by the moth and hollowed by the decay of time, he is still more mighty than I could ever strive for.
“My most precious gentis,” he draws out each syllable longer with languid delight, “fetch me a mortal upon whom to feast.”
I can scarcely protest, about to offer Bayard for the task, when he adds, with malicious prescience, “Tonight!”
“But master…I have not hunted for mortals in centuries. Bayard has warned me that it is most perilous in this age.”
“Bayard knows naught,” he exclaims, his voice rising into a vicious cackle, so loud and vile that the tomb’s thick walls can scarcely contain its corruption.
“That drivelling churl truly believes I shall turn him one day. How long has he lingered at death’s door, awaiting a salvation that shall never be granted? ”
I remain silent, filled with dread, my chest tightening as if unseen hands sought to crush the breath from my body. I dare not follow the thought. Not here. Not now.
“Mortals are naught but vermin,” he says dismissively. “To bring me one wretched soul is but child’s play. Nay, less even! And yet, it would please me greatly.”
“I shall do as you command, bu?ikei.” I bow lower as I say this, aware that no path of refusal lies open to me.
The rank scent of dampness and putrefaction seeps up from the ground below, stifling my breath. Once more, I feel my maker’s ghostly fingers, this time upon my cheek.
“Do you feel my tender caress, vellido? Do you see how greatly you shall please me with thine humble offering?”
“Yes, Master Aba?.” I press my forehead against his feet. I know too well the unholy pleasure he derives from me using that title.
“Begone,” he commands, “and bring me a man—nay, a boy. Young and fresh and plump,” he purrs, the hunger in his voice thick and obscene. “As you well know my desires.”
I finally rise and praise my unearthly strength, for at last my legs obey me fully, and I flee this accursed tomb with all the swiftness my body can command.
The life I am to take does not weigh upon me; it’s never their lives that matter. Yet, I do not tarry at my chambers to fetch a surtout, nor do I dare waste a single instance. To delay is to invite doom, for the terror that grips me—I dare not finish the thought.
Corridors warp and blur before me as I race through them with blind desperation. When at last I reach the grounds, a bleak realisation seizes me. It has been so long since I left the castle, that I no longer know which century governs the realm of man.
The moment I plunge into the forest, the dread I had repressed crushes my bones.
The stars themselves seem to mock me, their cold, distant light shining upon my wretched form.
What am I but a forsaken shadow, punished for daring to harbour a single forbidden desire?
How far did my creator’s putrid claws extend beyond the tomb wherein he lay?
He could not know.
He must not know. I have been so very cautious.
I run, run until the trees themselves turn into black gossamer whorls, their branches lashing at my skin, tearing at my hair; yet I heed them not, for I feel nothing.
For my mind is consumed by a single thought, a single name:
Astaire, Astaire.