Chapter 25
XXV
“Teach me,” I say, as Lazarus lathers my back in soap.
“Teach you what?” he asks softly.
I let my head fall back, enjoying the feeling of his soapy hand on my skin. He takes it as an invitation and begins rinsing the blood from every strand of my hair.
“Astaire,” he whispers into my ear.
I answer with a quiet mmmhh of delight.
“You were saying, almenara?” He nudges me.
“Oh,” I reply, dazed.
His hands feel so good, I can hardly focus on coherent thoughts. I close my eyes, enjoying his fingers massaging my scalp. The hot water warms me to the core, and the dim light of the room is too soothing, lulling me half to sleep.
Lazarus starts to soap my chest, then my legs, and the feeling of his fingers around my cock makes me hum.
I want to turn around and face him, but my clumsy movements make the water splash over the rim of the tub, making a mess on the floor.
I have to squish my body tightly so I can fit between his legs.
He lifts a curl and twirls it around his fingers.
“Auric tresses, made of molten or,” he whispers.
I look down at my hair. I still haven’t gotten used to the new colour, but I kind of like it.
It’s still unusual, only less human now, and much shinier.
Just like Lazarus’. I run my wet hands through his still dry hair, mussing it up.
Had his been a different colour before he turned, or was it always this black?
“Teach me how to live.” I cup his cheek.
“How can I?” he asks sadly. “I have never lived, myself.”
I look at him; his gaze is lowered, as if he’s hiding his true emotions.
Seeing his features this close is almost too much, but I can’t stop looking at them.
I brush my finger over each of his eyebrows, paying close attention to smooth the furrow between them.
I draw my hand over his nose, following each line and bump.
I trace his cheekbones and the hollow under his jaw.
And then I see his lips.
From the first time I noticed them, I couldn’t look away. I’m drawn to them like flowers to the sun. I slide a finger over his newly formed mustache. It feels much softer than expected.
“Where did this come from?” I ask.
“There was no time for shaving,” he says, shyly rubbing his hand over his face. “I shall remove it at once.”
“Please, don’t.” I take his hand and pull it down. Behind it, is a face filled with doubt. “I like it. It really suits you.”
His eyebrows draw together in scepticism. “Truly,” he asks.
“Truly.”
I trace it again until I reach his jaw. I linger there, stroking his throat with my thumb. His mouth parts, silently beckoning. I lean in and brush my lips over his, gently tasting them with my tongue.
“Ah,” he says, touching a finger to his mouth. When he pulls it back, there is a drop of blood on the tip.
“What happened?” I ask, confused, but the moment I speak, my tongue catches on something sharp.
Lazarus lifts my upper lip and smiles a strange smile.
I run my tongue over my teeth and feel a small fang where my not-at-all sharp canine once was.
I let out a quiet gasp and pull his finger into my mouth, lightly sucking on the tip.
Then I drape myself over his chest and lick the blood off his lips.
He welcomes me with a sigh, pulling me even closer.
We kiss tenderly and slowly, as if there was nothing more important in this world.
“Do I have to kill to eat?” I ask, settling myself on his chest.
“Does that trouble you?”
“I don’t know. It just seems pretty brutal.”
“Do animals not die for your nourishment?”
“I guess, but I don’t kill them myself. Besides, I don’t really enjoy meat, honestly. It always seemed so unnecessary.”
“There might be ways. I do not require much blood to live—perhaps an amount small enough not to harm a mortal.”
“Maybe from animals?”
“We can try. Or perhaps during sleep?”
“You know, there’s all sorts of people. Maybe they would volunteer?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, a kink?” I say, but he only draws his eyebrows together. “Uhm, like a fetish? Like volunteers…”
“Seriously?” he asks, and I nod. “How strange this world has become,” he says, drawing his arms tightly around my chest. “You are shaking.” He pulls me from the basin with one big hand and wraps me in a large blanket.
“Your body will get cold quickly now,” he explains as he places me close to the fire.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” I say, leaning against his chest.
“What?”
“You know, about being like this now.” I wave my hand over my body.
“Which way?”
“Why are you being so obtuse all of a sudden? You know I’m like you now, right?”
“I’m not obtuse!” he says, sounding as petulant as a man much younger than his considerable age.
“I’m sure you’ve always been extremely obtuse, but that’s not the point now,” I say, with a smirk.
The moment the corners of my lips lift, his face changes, and he pulls me back into his arms.
“You are so vexing,” he whispers as he nuzzles my wet hair. “I will teach you what I know, but do not raise your expectations.”
“Why not?”
“My maker kept things from me…lied about much. I do not know the extent of it.”
“He did?”
“He said I would die if he was to perish. But that cannot be.” He lifts his hand in front of the fire like it’s proof of his existence. “I am still here, and strangely, I feel stronger than before.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m unsure,” he says, but after a moment’s pause he continues. “It feels as though he took something from me…and now, I have it once more. As though I am at last made whole.”
“I don’t feel stronger. I feel like I could sleep a thousand years.”
I stretch long and slow like a cat. Lazarus picks me up in one swoop and carries me next door to his room.
“And a thousand years you shall sleep, almenara,” he says, before plopping me on his bed.
I let out a sound of satisfaction, feeling small and weightless in his arms.
“You keep calling me that. What does it mean?” I ask, stretching languidly between the sheets.
He smiles. “Do you mean ‘almenara’?”
I nod.
“It is a word from my youth. Non te twelga? de mibe, almenara.” He lays a thick blanket over my legs. “It translates to: don’t take yourself from me, my beacon of light.”
He gets more blankets, stacks them on top of the other, then sits at the edge looking at me softly.
“You light the path back to myself. And I shall watch over you until you are ready to return to me.” He trails a finger over my cheek before sitting in his armchair.
I hardly noticed falling asleep because suddenly the scent of morning hangs in the air. Birds—no, crows—caw near the window.
I feel fresher and more rested than I ever have before.
I yawn loudly, letting my feet stick out from the blankets.
In the dim light of the room, I make out Lazarus’ form sitting on his armchair and reading a book.
I turn upside down, placing my head at the foot of the bed, letting it dangle down the edge.
I feel amazing. Completely new. I had no idea sleeping well could make such a difference in a person.
“How long did I sleep?” I ask.
He drops the book to his lap, finger still between the pages. “Nearly four days.”
“That’s a lot. Is that normal?” I guess that explains why I feel so rested.
“I do not know.” He only shrugs.
“Read to me,” I say, trying to make sense of the upside-down world.
He smiles shyly but finally clears his throat and reads me a passage. “‘I shall collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch who would create such another as I have been.’”
“Why am I not surprised this is the kind of stuff you read,” I tease.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks confused.
“You know…well, it doesn’t really matter,” I say finally.
“Do you dislike it?” he asks quietly.
I suppress a chuckle at the thought of how much I do actually like it.
Lazarus draws his eyebrows together. “Please, do not shout so loudly.” He puts his hands up to his ears.
“I didn’t say anything.” I sit back up. The world shifts into its usual perspective.
“You shouted how much you like it,” he says, letting his hands fall back down. “I hadn’t realised you loved Shelley so much.”
“I…wait, you heard that?” I ask.
At first, he stares at me blankly, a little like I’ve lost my mind. Then his face changes.
“Think something once more,” he commands.
I don’t particularly like his tone, but he seems curious more than anything, so I decide to try. I can’t come up with anything, of course, but wasn’t all of this already thinking?
“I heard nothing,” he says. “Try harder.”
How is one supposed to think harder, exactly? I try to picture an apple in minute detail—roundish shape, smooth skin—but all that comes to mind is Lazarus’ fingers covered in tart cherry juice and his hands on my—
“Ah, that was loud,” he says, eyes scrunched together.
I try it again, gentler this time. I close my eyes and imagine the way he looked so lost the first time he spoke to me in the study. The rage in his eyes when he kicked me out of his room again and again. How he held my throat shut without being near me. How tenderly he stroked my jaw.
When I open my eyes again, I see Lazarus staring at me with an odd look on his face.
His eyes are bright red, and the vulnerability in them takes my breath away.
I get off the bed and climb on his lap, then put my arms around him, nuzzling my face into the crook of his neck.
His shirt is open halfway down his chest, and I put my cheek on his bare skin.
I hear breath entering his lungs, the slow beating of his heart.
His skin is strangely warm, and he smells so good, I can’t stop inhaling his scent.
Can you hear me? a voice whispers so quietly I almost didn’t notice it. Astaire? My name, pronounced in that strange accent of his: fluid, round, yet rough around the edges.
Yes, I whisper back in the same secret way.
“Read more to me,” I say, aloud this time.
He picks up the book he had dropped when I climbed on him, opens to the first page, and starts to read.